The road widened beneath Aaryan's feet, giving way to paved stone darkened by time and weather. The forest had long fallen away behind him, and the looming silhouette of Steel City stood stark against the dusky sky. Towering walls—built not of wood or crude stone, but reinforced with blacksteel laced with faintly glowing ore—rose ahead, catching the last scraps of fading light.

At the top of the gate, carved into a massive steel plaque set into the arch itself, were the city's name and pride: Steel City — Where Flame Shapes Fate.

Twin torch poles flanked the gate, their blue lanternfire flames bathing the waiting line in cold light. Most were traders and cultivators from nearby regions. There were a few merchant caravans with well-guarded carts—lavish, with thick curtains and the distinct scent of spirit beast pelts. Those carts didn't stop. The guards didn't question them either. Influence had a way of bypassing scrutiny.

But for commoners and lesser cultivators, things were more direct.

Aaryan stood near the back of the line, inconspicuous in black robes and bamboo hat, with Vedik curled in his bird form around his shoulder like a silvery plume. The line shuffled forward. Eventually, he reached the gate.

"Five spirit stones. Entry tax," one of the guards said, disinterested. He was armoured in dull iron-reinforced leather, holding a registration tablet in one hand.

Aaryan handed over the stones without hesitation.

The guard counted them, grunted, and stepped aside. No questions. No names.

And just like that, Aaryan crossed into Steel City.

The transition was immediate. Inside the gates, the stone underfoot was smoother, patterned with lines of copper and faint traces of etched runes—not for defence, but for guiding heat and stabilizing ambient energy. The air was different here. Heavy. Not with smog or filth, but with something purer—metallic and hot, like a forge that never slept.

The streets were wide, almost ceremonial in structure, with raised walkways on either side and channels in the centre to drain ash and slag. Torches lined every corner, many lit with lanternfire rather than common flame. Spirit beasts weren't uncommon, either. Tethered hounds, ironback mules, even a caged serpent with bronze scales and a jewelled crest.

And the people—everywhere he looked, there were cultivators.

Most had the firm build and stable steps of eighth or ninth stage Body Tempering. Some radiated subtle power—men and women with blades strapped to their backs, smiths in soot-smeared robes, merchants with guarded eyes.

A few gave off an even heavier pressure, though Aaryan couldn't judge how far into Qi Condensation they might be.

Then he looked up.

There it was.

A huge tower.

Rising high above the city centre, it was a marvel even from afar. Made of deep blackstone reinforced with spirit metal, the tower pulsed faintly with heat. Not a single flag or emblem marked its surface—none were needed. This was the beating heart of Steel City. It loomed like a silent titan, its surface alive with barely visible formation lines—flowing, interlocking, breathing.

At the top, a soft glow pulsed behind reinforced windows. The glow of active forges.

Aaryan watched it for a long moment, the crowd flowing around him like a river around stone.

"So this is it," he murmured under his breath.

Steel City.

The place where blades were born.

And, perhaps, where his own path would begin to take shape.

He stepped forward into the crowd, into the heat, into the living rhythm of steel.

By the time Aaryan found an inn tucked into one of the quieter streets branching off the main road, the city had fully surrendered to the night. Lamps flickered along the stone paths, their soft glow barely reaching the upper levels of the tall, ironwood buildings that lined the avenue. The innkeeper, a plump man with ink-stained sleeves and half-shut eyes, blinked when Aaryan requested a room. After a moment's pause and a glance at little silver bird on the young boy's shoulder, the man simply handed over the key and waved him off.

Aaryan didn't stay up long. He wasn't here to relax.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Morning came sharp and cool, a breeze sweeping down the wide streets that seemed built more for processions than passage. Aaryan stepped out early, slipping past the other guests who were only just beginning to stir. Vedik, still in his bird form, fluttered onto his shoulder, letting out a lazy chirp. The city looked different in the daylight—more alive, if also more crowded.

Stalls had appeared along the walkways, their owners shouting half-hearted bargains to the occasional passing cultivator. Aaryan caught glimpses of strange, glittering materials, odd-shaped fragments, and tightly wrapped objects that pulsed faintly with Qi. Some of the stalls bore symbols—simple etched crests or coloured banners—marking allegiance to a particular clan or forging guild. A few stall-owners eyed him warily, perhaps sizing up his clothes or the unusual creature perched at his side, but Aaryan didn't slow his steps.

He was here for one thing.

The Ember Spire Tower stood at the city's heart, tall and unbending, framed by low plazas and ringed with smaller structures like ministers before a throne. Even early in the morning, there was a line. Not of wagons or beasts, but people—cultivators, artisans, merchants with scrolls in hand or samples in cases—each waiting their turn to pass through the tower's blackstone archway.

Arms folded, Aaryan joined the queue, eyes quietly studying the flow of people ahead. Some handed slips of parchment to the guards. Others simply showed a pendant, or gestured toward someone already inside. The process moved smoothly—until it was his turn.

"Hold on," one of the guards barked, stepping forward with a hand raised. He wore a polished cuirass and the air of someone far too used to gatekeeping. "Which clan are you with?"

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"None," Aaryan replied calmly.

The guard raised an eyebrow. "Then do you have a letter of endorsement from the Forging Council?"

"No."

A pause. Then a snort.

"Well, I'll be. Another country bumpkin who wandered in hoping to play forgemaster," the guard muttered loudly, glancing toward the others for support. A few nearby cultivators chuckled. "You think we just let anyone into the Ember Spire? This place isn't a roadside smithy."

Behind him, someone muttered, "Probably thinks hammering iron makes you a spirit crafter."

Laughter rippled through the line. Vedik chirped irritably, his feathers puffing up, eyes flashing with something far more dangerous than birdlike annoyance. His talons gripped Aaryan's shoulder with rising tension.

But Aaryan gently lifted a hand and gave the little bird a slow pat.

He turned to the guard and offered a nod. "Apologies. I'll be back."

The mocking didn't stop, but he ignored it, walking away without another word. Vedik let out a frustrated squeak but didn't act, though he did flap twice as if itching to scorch someone.

As the laughter faded behind them, Aaryan's eyes stayed steady, focused not on the ground—but on the tower above. Not today, perhaps. But soon.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Aaryan kept his hands tucked inside his sleeves, his steps steady as he walked alongside the sloping path that curved out of Steel City's bustling core. Vedik fluttered beside him with faint clicks of annoyance. His feathers were ruffled—literally and emotionally.

"I know," Aaryan muttered under his breath, glancing at the sulking dragon. "But it's our fault for charging ahead without asking anyone."

Vedik chirped again, as if disagreeing on principle. He had wanted to burn the mocking guard's hair off, and Aaryan could still feel the lingering heat in the creature's body.

They passed stone buildings that grew rougher and less refined the farther they went from the Ember Spire's towering presence. The main streets faded into cracked alleys, and the glint of refined steel gave way to rusted iron and half-formed blades stuck into display racks like forgotten relics. The Outer Commons had a different scent—coal dust, burnt metal, and desperation.

He had spent an hour asking around before learning the truth: the Ember Spire was a fortress of exclusivity. Only clans, guilds, or those backed by the Forge Council could even touch the forges there. Everyone else? They were left to scavenge what scraps of flame and furnace they could find.

And the manual… Aaryan sighed.

He patted the scroll in his hand. "Beginner's Path to Spirit Crafting: 3rd Edition" was written in bold, almost theatrical strokes. It had cost him thirty spirit stones, which was, in his opinion, highway robbery. The man who sold it looked like he hadn't forged a spoon in years.

Still, knowledge was knowledge. And this was where his path started.

Finally, he reached a squat, crooked building nestled between a junk vendor and a smoky noodle shop. A faded wooden board creaked above the door, its paint long since peeled away. The front of the building was blackened by soot, and an old furnace chimney puffed weak smoke into the dusky sky.

Aaryan approached the withered-looking owner—an old woman missing most of her teeth, her skin like cracked bark. She barely looked up from her half-sleeping state, waved a hand vaguely toward the forge behind her, and croaked, "Five stones. Don't blow it up."

He paid the rent and stepped inside.

The forge room was small, windowless, and thick with the scent of burnt minerals and old smoke. Blackened walls bore the marks of countless fires, and the floor was scarred with faded scorch patterns and boot prints pressed deep into the soot.

At the centre sat its heart: the soul-forging cauldron.

It wasn't an ordinary blacksmith's tool. Squat and wide, the cauldron rested on four stone legs etched with crude soul runes—likely copied from some outdated manual. The lid was open, revealing a deep crucible-like bowl. Along its inner rim, weak inscriptions pulsed faintly, meant to stabilize incoming soul power.

At the base, three slits marked its key functions—draining waste, collecting essence, and fusing results into weapon frames.

Off to one side, an intake tube curved outward, clearly intended to channel soul power from the user's hands and feed it beneath the crucible. It would ignite an artificial Soul Fire—not with flame, but with will.

A faded spirit formation surrounded the cauldron's base, its lines chipped and cracked. It was supposed to regulate temperature and refine flow, but as it stood, he'd have to be careful.

Aaryan approached the cauldron and knelt, inspecting the interior closely. The last user hadn't cleaned it well. Scraping the tar-like residue with a dry cloth, he frowned. Functional, if nothing else

Turning to the nearby bench, he unrolled the thirty-stone manual, which now seemed even thinner than he remembered. The first page was smeared, but legible: "To birth a Spirit Weapon, one must first light the flame—not of fire, but of soul."

Vedik, perched on the upper rafter, tilted his head and watched with bright, curious eyes.

Aaryan exhaled slowly.

"Let's see what overpriced wisdom we bought," he murmured.

He placed both palms on the soul conduit inlet, just beneath the bowl. Circulating his soul power slowly, he let it flow into the tool's channelling lines. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the inner runes flickered.

A faint wisp of pale-blue flame shimmered to life beneath the crucible, forming a swirling cluster of artificial Soul Fire. It wasn't powerful—it lacked the pressure of true soul flame—but it was real. And it would be enough to begin.

Sparks danced within his mind's eye as he watched the flame settle.

He had no weapon base yet. No materials prepared. But now… now he understood how the flame was born.

Aaryan sat back and cracked his knuckles.

"So this is how it starts," he said, almost to himself.

And so began his true first step—not just into forging, but into crafting something of his own soul.

Aaryan flipped to the next section of the manual. The lettering was uneven, as if the writer had been in a hurry or barely literate—but it was legible enough:

"Begin with common ore to test heat control. Maintain a steady channel of soul power. Watch for impurities. Extract essence at peak glow. Overheat, and you'll lose everything. Underheat… and nothing happens."

He muttered under his breath, "Sounds simple when you write it like that."

From his ring, he retrieved three chunks of rough metal. They were dull, flawed, and cheap—meant for beginners to practice refining. Aaryan had bargained them down to a few spirit stones in the village, and he already suspected even that was too generous a price.

He carefully placed one of them into the cauldron's crucible through the side inlet, watching them settle over the flickering soul fire. The flame licked at the ore with a low, hollow sound, not quite fire but not quite silence either. It reacted weakly—flickering, resisting—but Aaryan slowly fed in his soul power to stabilize it.

A faint sheen rose across the metal surface. Impurities began separating into darker wisps, drawn toward the cauldron's waste channels.

"So far, so good," he murmured, fingers pressed lightly to the spirit-conducting plate.

Then he heard a faint chirp above him.

"Vedik," he said without looking up, "don't even think—"

A sharp fwoosh broke the air as Vedik, in his illusory bird form, spit a tiny arc of fire straight into the crucible—completely unprompted and clearly mischievous.

Aaryan barely had time to react.

BOOM!

The cauldron belched a column of smoke and ash. A shockwave knocked Aaryan back onto the dirt-covered floor, coughing as black soot filled the forge. Cursed heat surged across his skin, and by the time he staggered to his feet, he looked like someone who'd lost a fight with a chimney.

Vedik flapped above his head, completely untouched and far too pleased with himself for someone who just caused a minor explosion.

The front curtain slammed open.

"What in nine burning Hells did you do in there?!" the old woman screeched from the entrance, waving a broken ladle like a weapon.

Aaryan didn't wait for an answer. Grabbing his scroll and whatever scraps he could reach, he bolted. Vedik zipped after him, chirping apologies between laughter-like squeaks.

Behind them, a couple of ragged cultivators emerged coughing from nearby stalls, yelling curses and waving half-cooled weapons.

"Get back here, you ash-brained lunatic!"

Aaryan dove into a narrow alley, panting as he pressed himself against a crumbling wall.

Vedik landed beside him, feathers still neat and bright, clearly unaffected by the blast.

Aaryan glared. "You just had to poke your nose. Couldn't wait two minutes, could you?"

Vedik chirped again, not sounding the least bit sorry.

Just then, a voice rasped out from the darkness nearby.

"Well, that's one way to start your forging arc. Could've used more dramatic music, though."

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