High atop the northern hills, the Dravhal clan's hall overlooked all of Steel City—like a throne raised above the mouth of a roaring furnace. From the windows that lined its upper balconies, one could see the distant flicker of the Ember Spire, faint smoke plumes from hundreds of forges, and the glowing veins of molten metal that ran like lifeblood through the city's arteries.

Inside, however, the atmosphere was far from serene.

The grand hall was spacious, pillars rising like silent sentinels along the walls. The interior was trimmed with golden filigree, but the dominant colour was a deep, rich yellow—the signature of the Dravhal clan. Dozens of chairs lined both sides of the carpeted aisle, each occupied by an elder or senior figure. All of them sat in uneasy silence.

At the far end, seated on the elevated central throne, was Dravhal Varesh—the clan leader.

Broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, Varesh looked as if he were carved from the very rock their estate sat on. But today, there was a deep frown etched into his face, his fingers twitching against the golden lion heads that formed the arms of his throne.

One of the elders finally spoke, his voice careful.

"The Crimson Hell Sect's Inner Disciple selection is approaching. We've barely gathered half of what's needed… If this continues—"

THOOM!

The sound of Varesh's palm slamming into the throne's armrest echoed like thunder. "That," he growled, "is not going to happen."

The words silenced the entire hall. Even the crackling braziers seemed to quiet.

"I don't care if I have to sell every damn street of this city," Varesh said, his tone a furnace barely held back by steel. "He will be selected. We've come too far to turn back now."

No one dared speak. All eyes turned to the young man standing at the foot of the dais, just left of the throne.

Aran.

Dressed in yellow-trimmed robes, tall and composed, Aran's expression was placid, his posture straight. His features bore the same high cheekbones and piercing gaze as his father, though his demeanour was colder—quieter.

Varesh turned toward him, his voice losing a bit of its fury but not its edge.

"You claimed there was something—some item of interest in that backwater area. Did you find it?"

Aran's tone was even, almost indifferent.

"There was… something. Possibly a rare ore. But the villagers resisted. It was destroyed in the chaos."

A vein pulsed in Varesh's forehead.

"So, you returned empty-handed. Not only that—wasted resources, manpower, and time."

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a growl.

"Aran. You're not hiding anything from me, are you?"

The silence deepened. The elders watched closely.

Varesh's eyes narrowed. "Your talent is exceptional. Unmatched, even. But your brother—Rivan—is our future. Don't let ambition cloud your duty. If he becomes an Inner Disciple of the Crimson Hell Sect, the benefits will rain down on us all. You understand that, don't you?"

Aran bowed his head respectfully. "Rest assured, Father. I know exactly what's at stake."

The answer came swiftly, respectfully—but it lacked warmth. Varesh studied him for a beat longer before nodding slowly.

"Good."

He then turned to face the gathered elders.

"There's no other path forward. We seize the Ember Spire. Its forges, its revenue, its prestige. Once we control it, the other clans will kneel—or fall. If the Vermas resist, we crush them. The Kaleens and Meghs will follow our lead, or be swept aside."

The room fell still again.

No applause. No arguments.

Just quiet understanding.

Plans were already moving. Alliances, threats, trades, and bribes—all of it necessary to amass what they needed for the sect's favour.

Only Aran remained unmoving, still bowed.

But in his lowered gaze, a flicker of something passed. Disdain—not overt, but sharp as a hidden blade.

Was it for the clans?

For his father?

Or for the elder brother whose shadow he stood in?

Whatever it was, Aran gave no voice to it.

His fingers loosened at his sides—just slightly—before he straightened, as Varesh barked new orders to the rest of the hall.

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The sun had just begun to rise over Steel City, its soft orange glow bleeding through the narrow gaps between buildings like golden mist. The forges were still silent, most chimneys cold. Morning fog clung to rooftops and alleyways, kissed by the light and slowly retreating. Vendors were just beginning to pull carts into the streets, their wheels squeaking on stone. A lone hawker's voice cut through the air, calling about steamed buns and fresh milk-tea. Peaceful. Calm. Ordinary.

None of that peace made it into the room on the second floor of the inn.

Inside, Aaryan looked like a different person.

Days had blurred into nights, and meals into muscle memory.

Hair messy and matted with soot, face streaked in black ash, and robe burnt through in more than one place—he looked less like a cultivator and more like a deranged coal miner. His arms were speckled with faded red marks, some still peeling at the edges. His hands weren't burned, but marked—etched with the strain of channelling too much power through flesh not meant to carry it.

And yet, his eyes…

His eyes gleamed.

Not with madness. Not with exhaustion.

But with something sharper. Clearer.

The spark of control.

All around him were containers—dozens of them. Small dishes, bowls, and even teacups that had been repurposed to store the results of his obsessive practice.

Each vessel held a different refinement attempt.

Some powders were greyish-black, lumpy, and useless—his first failures. Others had a cleaner hue. Then lighter. Then purer. Slowly, deliberately, each batch had improved until the last few trays shimmered with nearly flawless material—fine powder like stardust, shining faintly even without light.

Some jars held liquefied essences. Thick at first, clouded with impurities, then clearer, more stable, until one jar at the centre swirled like molten glass—perfect and undisturbed.

Aaryan crouched beside them and ran a finger along one of the bowls. The black powder crumbled beneath his touch.

He didn't even remember how long it had been. A week? Two?

Time had blurred.

He had paused only to recover his Qi, eat just enough to stay standing, and sometimes sleep for a couple of hours when his body forced him to. But each time he rose, the silver flame would return to his palm. And each time it did, his control sharpened.

He hadn't used the Soulfire Crucible. Hadn't touched the Essence Bed.

Because he wasn't ready.

This was foundational.

This was him learning to feel metal, not just melt it. To shape it, not dominate it.

And the strangest thing?

He enjoyed it.

The challenge, the process—the silence between flame and metal. The first time he refined something successfully, he'd felt more satisfaction than when defeating Viyom.

He looked at his hands again.

They no longer trembled.

He could call the flame to just one finger if he wanted. Weave it, bend it, compress it—control had seeped into his bones, quietly, gradually. That too, was a kind of cultivation.

Still crouched, Aaryan finally looked around the room. Empty.

No Soot. No Vedik.

They had vanished again—together, as they often did. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes for an entire day. Once, even two. Neither offered any explanations. And he'd long since given up asking.

Weird companions.

That was the only way to describe them. One a dragon who slept with his claws twitching like a dreaming dog, and the other an old man who could vanish through walls without opening the window.

Aaryan sighed.

His knees cracked slightly as he stood, brushing off flakes of soot that immediately replaced themselves.

"I look worse than that old man," he muttered, staring down at his ruined robe.

Then, without ceremony, he trudged toward the bath chamber.

It was time to scrape off the ash, clean up, and have a delicious meal.

Barely an hour or so had passed when freshly bathed and dressed in a clean set of robes, Aaryan stepped out of the small washroom attached to his rented chamber. Steam clung to his damp hair, and he ran a hand through it absently as he reached for the doorknob.

That was when he saw them.

Soot and Vedik were back—seated like they had never left. Vedik lounged on the windowsill, tail swinging lazily, eyes bright as ever, while Soot reclined on the floor cushion, mouth half-open in a yawn that threatened to swallow his face.

Vedik perked up as soon as he saw Aaryan and glided over with a muffled sound that was far too cheerful for someone who had disappeared for two days.

Aaryan raised an eyebrow. "Where were you?"

Vedik turned his head toward Soot, who, without even looking up, casually shook his head.

The little dragon let out a soft huff and zipped behind Aaryan's shoulders.

Aaryan chuckled. "Figured."

He was just about to head out for breakfast when Soot's voice floated over behind him.

"So, you finally managed to learn a bit after burning through all the materials."

Aaryan paused mid-step. "It took a while, yes."

Soot sighed with exaggerated disappointment. "Haaah… How slow. Back in my day, I only needed a few tries. Maybe ten. At most."

Aaryan scoffed, turning slightly. "You must've had a better teacher than me."

Soot blinked. "That's—wait—hey! You little brat!"

Aaryan smirked and kept walking, only to have a small bundle thunk against his shoulder. He caught it instinctively and unwrapped it.

Inside was… a dagger. Or something that used to be one. The blade was pitted and rusted along the edges, the handle chipped down to a stub of warped wood, and the surface pitted with age.

"Really?" Aaryan asked flatly. "You dig this out from a junk heap?"

"It's not the dagger that matters," Soot said, now sitting up straight. "It's the forging process. You've learned to refine metals. Time to fuse them into something."

Aaryan narrowed his eyes at the ancient blade. "I can't do that here?"

"Sure," Soot drawled. "If you want to burn down the entire inn."

Vedik snorted, a throaty sound with a smug edge—as if laughing at Aaryan's expense.

Aaryan sighed. "I'll head to the outers after breakfast, then."

Soot's eyes snapped open. "What outers? What breakfast? No time for that. Go to the Ember Spire directly."

Aaryan turned, one brow raised. "I can't enter the Spire. Not without clan backing or an endorsement from the Forging Council. Also—" He jabbed a thumb at himself. "—I'm hungry."

Soot clicked his tongue. "Hungry. Hah. You're a cultivator! I once went without food for twelve years." He gave an emphatic nod.

A loud burrrp echoed from his side.

Soot blinked. "Er… residual qi from a beast I ate ten years ago. Still digesting."

Aaryan stared.

Vedik squeaked in glee.

Soot cleared his throat and waved his hand. "Anyway. I can get you into the Spire."

Aaryan tilted his head. "You?"

"Who else?" Soot huffed. "You think some old ghost like me can't even do that? Just head there. They'll let you in."

Aaryan didn't argue. He'd learned the pattern by now.

He sighed, slipping the rusted blade into his storage ring. "Fine. But I'm eating after I'm done forging."

"Forge first, eat later," Soot muttered. "Spoken like a true Spirit Crafter."

As Aaryan stepped toward the door, Vedik leapt onto his shoulder with a soft trill, wings twitching in amusement, as he turned back to his small bird form.

The dragonling was laughing again.

The moment Aaryan stepped out of the inn, he sensed it. Something in the air had shifted. Even earlier, within the quiet of his room, a strange tension had curled beneath the surface—subtle but real. Now, out on the streets, it pressed sharper.

Fewer voices, quicker footsteps, eyes that darted and didn't linger. Stall vendors whispered instead of shouted. Guards stood a little straighter. Aaryan didn't pause. Whatever storm was brewing in Steel City, it wasn't his concern—at least not yet. He continued walking, steady and silent, toward the towering Ember Spire.

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