The mornings in Dragonflame City are always shrouded in endless yellow sand.
The city walls were earthen yellow, and the houses were earthen yellow.
Most of the people on the street were pale and thin, with little light in their eyes.
Like a group of puppets bent over by life, they come and go numbly.
In a blacksmith shop in the east of the city, a rare splash of bright red hues was found in this earthy-yellow town.
"bite!"
"when!"
A heavy hammer fell, sparks flying, illuminating a face mostly covered by a black mask.
Dongfang Jing was shirtless, sweat mixed with furnace ash, which outlined dark grooves on his skin.
Every muscle displays a rhythmic beauty with each swing of the hammer.
His name is A-Jing. He drifted to this city three months ago and barely made a living with his decent blacksmithing skills.
No one knows where he came from, only that he is a man of few words and quiet, but his skills are truly excellent.
The farm tools and kitchen knives he made were more durable than those from other manufacturers.
"Ah Jing, are you busy?"
A slightly slick voice came from the doorway.
Zhang Yong, the squad leader of the city guard, known as Old Zhang, carried a jug of cheap liquor and had a broken knife hanging at his waist.
He sat down familiarly on the small stool at the shop entrance and took a swig from the wine jug.
"This sandstorm today is suffocating," he complained, his eyes scanning the shop before finally settling on Dongfang Jing's muscular physique, where he clicked his tongue in amazement.
Dongfang Jing did not turn around, but the rhythm of his hammer blows remained perfectly steady.
Everyone in the city knows Old Zhang.
He was a smooth talker, always trying to extort money from merchants, often collecting small protection fees.
But no one really hated him, because everyone knew that he had a sickly younger brother named Zhang Feng, who relied on his brother to buy medicine to keep him alive.
"Ding! Clang!"
With another hammer blow, Dongfang Jing clamped the red-hot iron billet into the water tank.
"laugh--"
Thick white steam rose up, carrying a metallic, fishy smell.
He wiped his sweat, then turned around and nodded slightly to Zhang Yong as a greeting.
Just then, footsteps approached from afar, and three shady-looking thugs sauntered into the blacksmith's shop.
The scarred man at the head of the gang glanced sideways at Dongfang Jing, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth and spitting as he spoke: "New guy, don't you know the rules? This street is under the protection of our Black Tiger Gang, and this is the amount every month!"
He held up five fingers and waved them in front of the mirror.
Zhang Yong frowned, about to speak, but was silenced by a fierce glare from the scarred man.
"Captain Zhang, this is none of your business. Don't go looking for trouble."
Zhang Yong tightened his grip on the wine pot, but ultimately let out a sigh and turned his head to the side.
His salary was meager, and he had to support his younger brother. It wasn't worth offending these outlaws.
Dongfang Jing's purple eyes were calm as water. He didn't look at the five fingers, but instead picked up a twisted piece of iron from the pile of scrap metal next to him.
"roll."
A single word, not loud, yet it struck like a hammer on ice, chilling to the bone.
"Hey, you fucking asking for it!"
Scarface was enraged, and one of the thugs behind him drew a long knife from his waist and slashed at Dongfang Jing's shoulder!
This strike was so fast and ruthless that an ordinary blacksmith would probably have been scared out of his wits by now.
Zhang Yong, standing at the door, felt a sudden jolt in his heart and instinctively tried to get up.
However, the next moment, he saw a scene that he would never forget.
Faced with the slashing blade, Dongfang Jing neither dodged nor avoided it, and didn't even blink.
Just as the blade was about to strike him, he flicked his wrist, spreading his five fingers like a flexible spider web, and gently placed them against the back of the blade.
The thug felt as if his knife had cut into cotton, all his strength being neutralized and redirected by a strange force.
He tried to draw the knife, but found that the blade was as if it had been welded shut by iron clamps, and it wouldn't budge.
Dongfang Jing twisted his wrist again, pulling and stretching.
"ah!"
The thug cried out in surprise, and his long knife flew out of his hand, but Dongfang Jing seized it in the process.
"Click—"
Dongfang Jing held the knife in his left hand and gripped the middle of the blade with his right, his arm muscles bulging slightly as he exerted force.
"Squeak, squeak—"
A sickening metallic creaking sound rang out.
In his hands, the long sword was like dough, twisted into a pretzel!
"Clang!"
Dongfang Jing casually tossed the lump of scrap metal at Scarface's feet, making a crisp sound.
He raised his head, and his once calm purple eyes were now filled with icy indifference.
There was no murderous intent, no anger, only an absolute indifference that regarded all things as straw dogs.
The three thugs felt a chill run from the soles of their feet to the top of their heads as they were swept by that gaze; their legs went weak and they almost knelt on the ground.
"A ghost...a ghost!"
Someone shouted something, and the three of them scrambled to their feet, not daring to utter a sound, and disappeared around the street corner in an instant.
The blacksmith shop returned to tranquility once more.
Zhang Yong sat blankly on the bench, the wine jug in his hand had slipped from his hand and fallen to the ground, spilling murky wine all over the floor, but he was completely unaware.
He stared intently at Dongfang Jing, his eyes, usually so weathered by storms, now filled with shock and horror.
And a touch of indescribable admiration and fervor!
This taciturn blacksmith, this young man named A-Jing...
Who exactly is he?
The wind and sand rushed into the alley, stirring up the dust on the ground and making a whooshing sound.
Zhang Yong finally snapped out of his shock.
His Adam's apple bobbed, he swallowed hard, and looked at Dongfang Jing with a complicated expression.
Dongfang Jing acted as if he had done something insignificant, bending down to pick up the lump of twisted steel, weighing it in his hand, and casually tossing it into the scrap basket next to the furnace.
"What a pity, this steel is quite good." He muttered to himself, his voice not loud, but it clearly reached Zhang Yong's ears.
Zhang Yong's lips twitched.
He picked up the wine jug from the ground; the wine inside had already spilled, but he didn't care.
He walked up to Dongfang Jing, opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say.
Ask? He was afraid of touching on the other person's secret and causing displeasure.
In the end, all the words were reduced to a dry, unambiguous sentence: "Brother Jing, you have impressive skills."
Dongfang Jing glanced at him, scooped up a ladle of cold water from the water vat next to him, and poured it over his head.
Water droplets slid down his chin from the mask he was wearing and disappeared into his collarbone.
"Just a minor inconvenience."
Dongfang Jing's voice remained as calm as ever.
Looking at him, Zhang Yong felt an even deeper sense of awe.
This calm and collected demeanor is not feigned, but stems from absolute confidence.
He remained silent for a moment, then suddenly seemed to remember something and took off the sword from his waist.
"Brother Jing, look at my knife..."
He handed over his sword.
Dongfang Jing took it and casually pulled it out.
With a clang, the blade was drawn from its sheath, but only half of it came out.
In the middle of the blade, there is a notch the size of a grain of rice, and several cracks spread out like a spider web.
Zhang Yong's martial spirit is a broken shovel, whose destructive power is even less than that of a decent knife.
The weapon in his hand was left over from a fierce battle with a group of bandits during the last raid.
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(End of chapter)