Dawn in Ashveil Village was not gentle.
The roosters screamed like warriors heading to battle. Smoke spiraled from crooked chimneys. The sharp clang of pots, hooves on stone, and chatter over cold tea wove into a tapestry of noise that chased away sleep from even the most stubborn dreamers.
Jin Muyeon woke with a start. He hadn't meant to fall asleep on the forge's stone steps, but Ruo Lianhua's cloak still draped over his shoulders. A soft smile tugged at his lips before a loud thud yanked him from warmth.
"Move, boy!" a gruff voice barked.
Old Zhen the butcher rolled his meat cart past, wheels creaking under half-frozen pork and chicken legs. His ox snorted like it hated mornings more than Muyeon did.
"Get your head out of the clouds," Zhen grumbled, not unkindly. "Or you'll end up like your old man—dreaming of glory, but eaten by the grind."
Muyeon stood slowly, rubbing his eyes. "Morning to you too, Uncle Zhen."
The butcher spat to the side, already focused on arguing with the baker over sausage prices. In Ashveil, that counted as affection.
Ashveil was poor.
Not wretched, but worn around the edges. The kind of place where children learned to patch their shoes before they learned to read. Where roofs leaked, but neighbors shared umbrellas. A village where people didn't dream much—because dreaming was dangerous when the world could crush you before breakfast.
The forge stood at the edge of the main square, tilted like it had one bad leg. The stone was blackened, patched by mud and old brick. The sign above the door had long since lost its letters, but everyone still called it Muyeon's Forge, even when it was his father's.
He walked past Auntie Shen's dumpling stall, and she tossed him a half-burnt bun.
"Eat," she said. "You're thinner than a sword edge."
Muyeon bowed slightly in thanks and chewed slowly, letting the heat sting his mouth.
Ruo Lianhua found him again, as she always did. She didn't speak at first, just matched his steps.
They passed the Temple of Three Flames, barely more than a crumbling stone altar. An old priestess was sweeping the steps with a bundle of dried reeds, humming something that sounded like it came from a time before Ashveil had walls.
"Have you ever thought about leaving?" Lianhua asked, voice soft.
Muyeon didn't answer at first. He stared at the path leading east—toward the hills, the forests, the places beyond.
"Every day," he said.
That afternoon, he went back to the forge.
The sword he'd reforged the night before sat on the anvil. Crude. Heavy. Ugly. But it held. And that was something.
He practiced with it in the yard. Slow swings, keeping his stance grounded like his father taught. After fifty strikes, his shoulders burned. After a hundred, his hands bled.
But he didn't stop.
Not until the sun had begun to set behind the mountains, and the village was painted in gold and fire.
That night, Lianhua sat beside him again. She didn't say much—just pulled a needle and thread from her pouch and began patching the tear in his sleeve.
"You're not going to make it easy on yourself, are you?" she murmured.
Muyeon looked at his hands. Calloused. Cracked. But steady.
"Nothing worth forging ever comes easy."
She glanced at him, smiled quietly, then looked up at the stars.
Somewhere beyond the veil of sky, fate stirred.
And deep in the forest east of Ashveil, where trees wept and beasts avoided, the Primordial Flame Essence pulsed again—brighter this time, as if it had… noticed something.
Or someone.