Chương 101: Forge It (1/3)

To the Jiuli Fiend—a being born and sustained within the iron order of cultivation, heavenly law, and the rigid pillars of Daoist principles—this was no mere anomaly of the flesh.

It was a monstrous aberration, a thing that should not exist beneath the heavens.

In the thousands of years this entity had spent chained to the subterranean bedrock of the Ghost Market, serving as a penalized blacksmith for the damned and the ambitious alike, it had witnessed every conceivable form of existence. It had hammered the living bones of cursed monks, feeling the marrow scream beneath the strike. It had melted down the spatial rings of fallen Sword Immortals, watching dimensional matrices collapse into molten ruin.

It had breathed in the soul-vapors of demonic beasts that possessed bloodlines tracing back to the shattering of the Heavenly Dao, tasting the bitter tang of ancient divinity corrupted beyond recognition.

It knew the architecture of life. Every entity, no matter how corrupted, twisted, or holy, possessed a spiritual framework. The flesh was merely a house; the soul was the master, and the meridians were the corridors through which the master's will—Qi—flowed like water through carved channels. Even a possessed body would be filled with a soul, whether righteous or demonic.

Even a violently broken shell that had died for a thousand years would still harbor a remnant, a lingering, weeping fragment of the Divine Soul of the past host, clinging to existence like moss to a tomb's interior.

It was as though one had opened a sealed golden treasure chest, expecting some peerless divine object within—perhaps a Heaven-Grade pill, or a fragment of Immortal Scripture—only to discover a boundless void inside, as if the chest concealed a fractured portal into the starry abyss itself, swallowing all light and meaning.

But this...?

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The physical vibration of that heart was so heavy, so violently powerful, that the Jiuli Fiend's phantom intent actually shuddered from the kinetic shockwave reverberating through the chest cavity. Each beat sent tremors rippling through Shi Yan's entire frame, a percussive force that should have belonged to a war drum forged from the hide of a primordial beast, not a mortal organ.

In the physical cavern, the dim phosphorescent glow from the venting mechanism cast flickering shadows across the Jiuli Fiend's gargantuan body as it abruptly seized. The six massive arms, previously spread wide in cruel, victorious anticipation—each limb poised like the legs of a predatory spider—froze completely rigid mid-air like petrified iron. Its blind, leather-stitched face tilted sharply to the side, the cruel smirk that had split its features melting into an expression of profound, paralyzing bewilderment.

The chitinous plates binding its torso ground to a halt, their constant scraping silenced. Even the tormented, wailing faces sewn into its heavy apron fell eerily, suffocatingly silent, their dead eyes widening in unison, their mouths hanging slack, sensing the sudden, jarring halt in their master's malice. The dark fluid that had been dribbling steadily from the speaking mouth slowed to sluggish drops, each one spattering onto the shell-anvil below with a hollow plip... plip... that echoed in the frigid air.

But just before the terrifying reality of this absolute spiritual void could incite panic within the Fiend's ancient mind, a flash of insight—a sudden, arrogant epiphany born of its own profession—sparked within the creature's consciousness like a flint striking in darkness.

Wait...

The Fiend's spiritual thought echoed through the dark, blood-drenched caverns within Shi Yan's chest, while its corporeal form beyond remained rigid and unmoving, like a statue of corroded iron standing vigil over forgotten graves.

Why does this vessel possess no soul? Why are there no meridians within? Why is its bone structure no different from refined star-metal, yet wholly devoid of the aura of the Heavenly Dao? Why does flesh this dense show no trace of spiritual refinement, no lingering touch of heavenly tribulation fire?

The entity was, before all else, a master blacksmith. Through long ages spent beside the forge, breathing soot and flame, it had judged the worth of countless materials, discerned the uses of sinister weapons, and inspected the inner structures of innumerable artifacts. It had weighed the balance of spiritual conductivity against physical resilience. It had traced the grain of ten-thousand-year ironwood and measured the purity of celestial bronze.

In its eyes, all mysteries could be traced back to the principles of forging—heat, pressure, refinement, and purpose.

Thus, when confronted with such an indestructible and vacant shell, its thoughts turned in only one direction, following the logic of a craftsman who has seen too many impossible materials to doubt his own experience.

"An artifact?" the Fiend's consciousness murmured, its awe deepening with every breath, the words reverberating through the hollows of Shi Yan's ribs like wind through a cavern.

Its phantom serpent coiled tighter about Shi Yan's enormous heart, translucent scales pressing against the pulsing muscle as if trying to memorize its rhythm. Meanwhile, its will swept across the fortified cage of ribs in careful scrutiny, probing each bone like a jeweler examining the facets of an uncut gem.

This is no human. This is no cultivator! What mortal womb could give birth to a frame of such pure and flawless bodily might? What earthly Qi could refine sinew to this degree without leaving a single trace of its passage? This is perhaps the famed Flesh-Vessel! A supreme biological golem crafted by hands that dwelt beyond the Nine Heavens! If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

The revelation struck the Fiend like a blow from its own colossal hammers, sending a shockwave of understanding through its fragmented consciousness.

It had once heard such tales whispered among the remnants of ancient records, inscribed in jade slips older than most sects: in the elder ages of the old world, long before the Heavenly Demon shattered the Mandate and cast the realms into disarray, the realm from above—the Upper Realm, where Supreme Emperors and True Immortals wandered with every step reshaping reality—had spoken of forging "Empty Husks."

They were peerless fleshly artifacts, indestructible bodies refined from the rarest materials beneath the heavens—phoenix marrow, dragon sinew, the condensed essence of spiritual veins—fashioned to remain utterly blank: without soul, without karmic stain, without original sin, without the impurities that plagued even the most exalted cultivator.

So that when a supreme existence faced Heavenly Tribulation, when the nine lightning bolts descended to obliterate their mortal shell, their spirit might depart its failing form and enter a perfected vessel, sidestepping the judgment of Heaven itself.

Now... all things became clear to the Fiend, and the truth was so dreadful it was almost wondrous.

That incomparable bodily density, each muscle fiber woven tighter than silk-steel cable. The absence of a Native Soul, leaving no competing will to suppress. The empty white page of the mind, pristine and unmarked by any Dao comprehension. Even the immunity to the baleful air of the Ghost Market, which corroded lesser beings down to their very marrow.

A Divine Artifact, cast adrift within the Yellow Spring?! A treasure meant for Immortals, somehow fallen into the depths of the underworld market?!

The Fiend's spiritual thought roared madly, its phantom intent surging with wild exultation that rippled through Shi Yan's internal landscape like a gale through a canyon.

The Heavens are blind, and fortune has sunk into the abyss! A flawless masterpiece of flesh-refining, worth more than ten thousand sects' treasuries, yet still without owner's mark! There is no soul within for me to suppress! No divine brand to contest! This is an empty throne, and its gates stand open before me!

At once, the entity's final trace of hesitation dispersed like smoke before a bellows' blast. It no longer dreaded the emptiness within that chest. Why should the sword fear an empty sheath, when it was born to enter it? Why should the spirit flee a perfect vessel?

I shall not merely use this shell to flee the Ghost Market! I shall return to the Yang world in this body and reign as an undying god of flesh! I need only reach the Sea of Consciousness, imprint my True Name upon the core matrix of this artifact, and this vessel will acknowledge me as its one and only master! The heavens have given me what even Immortals covet!

Its phantom form began to surge upward through Shi Yan's torso, rushing along the spinal column with renewed, desperate hunger, scales scraping against bone as it ascended toward the skull.

Meanwhile, at the exact same time, in the cold, binary reality that only the target could perceive...

[System Warning: Foreign Entity Possession Attempted. Processing Host Metaphysics...] Shi Yan stood firmly on the bedrock floor of the cavern, his wide-legged stance rooted like an ancient cedar that had weathered ten thousand storms. His boots pressed down into the bone dust, compressing it with minute shifts of his weight, each granule grinding against its neighbor with a faint, gritty whisper.

His eyes were bloodshot behind the iron slits of the Yaksha mask, the spreading red capillaries across his sclera making his steel-gray irises appear almost luminous in contrast.

He mapped the agonizing, freezing sensation of the phantom snake shooting up his spinal cord, feeling each vertebra light up with invasive cold as the entity climbed higher, rushing toward his skull like a parasite seeking its final destination.

The frost patterns on the inner surface of his mask's eye slits had thickened, tiny crystalline fractals spreading across the metal like delicate, deadly lacework. His breath rattled through his clenched teeth, each exhalation a visible plume of vapor that condensed immediately in the frigid air. His jaw remained locked so tightly that the muscles along his neck stood out like cables beneath skin, each tendon rigid and trembling with the effort of holding perfectly still.

He didn't know this beast, this entity, thought he was a magical robot. He didn't care what the monster thought. He only knew that the entity was committing entirely to a metaphysical assault, pouring its entire consciousness into the invasion, leaving its massive, physical body completely exposed across the cavern and trusting in a spiritual victory it believed inevitable.

But when he finally saw this transparent screen materialize in his vision—text overlaying the dim cavern like ghostly script written in pale light—the strain of locking his neck muscles to prevent a neurological twitch finally eased. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth beneath the mask, though his lips remained pressed together, still fighting the urge to dry-heave.

Finally...

He could feel it. The phantom serpent thrashed within his chest cavity, no longer in confusion, but in arrogant eagerness—its movements purposeful now, confident, its coils tightening in preparation for the final lunge toward his brain. And, of course, this confidence, this total commitment to the invasion, also triggered the system's final protocol.

[Targeting: Spiritual Root. Structure non-existent.] [Targeting: Sea of Consciousness. Reincarnation Tether: NULL.] [System Directive: Threat Nullified. Anomaly: 10 -> Quarantine Protocol Engaged. Purging foreign intent.] As he expected, the reversal was instantaneous, violently sudden, and utterly catastrophic for the attacker.

The Jiuli Fiend did not just fail to possess him. As its malice made direct, prolonged contact with the absolute, unyielding Void of Shi Yan's unique existence—a space where cultivation law simply ceased to function—the entity's consciousness stared directly into a metaphysical black hole, a singularity that devoured all spiritual constructs without distinction or mercy.

But the horror did not stop at the realization of the Void.

"What void is this?!" the Fiend shrieked, its previously arrogant rumbling voice shattering into a panicked, high-pitched wail that bounced wildly off the cavern walls like a wounded animal's death cry.

"The seal—it eats the true soul! No! No! Let me out!"

The words echoed through the forge area, distorting as they bounced between stone and metal, each repetition growing more desperate and raw.

A wet, gagging rattle tore from the Fiend's physical throat in the cavern outside, a sound like drowning on dry land, echoing the silent, agonizing severing of its soul within Shi Yan's body. The massive frame shuddered violently, all six arms jerking in uncoordinated spasms. The phantom serpent was caught in the crushing gravity of the anomaly, its translucent form beginning to distort and compress as if squeezed by an invisible fist.

Ghostly scales sheared off into nothingness, peeling away layer by layer like ash caught in a hurricane, dissipating into motes of gray light that winked out one by one.

The Fiend gurgled in visceral agony, its physical limbs spasming uncontrollably as thick, black blood—viscous and reeking of old iron and rotten incense—suddenly burst from beneath its stitched-shut eye sockets, streaming down the leather-wrapped contours of its face in dark rivulets.

The apron faces began shrieking in unison, their dead eyes rolling wildly, their mouths opening impossibly wide as tar-like tears poured freely, steaming violently as they hit the frigid air and spattered onto the shell-anvil below in a staccato rhythm of hiss-hiss-hiss.

Its ancient consciousness was being systematically dismantled, ground down fragment by fragment by a cold, uncaring force it could not fight, could not reason with, could not negotiate with or flee from. The phantom serpent's head dissolved first, its jaws disintegrating mid-scream, followed by its coils unraveling into threads of gray mist that were immediately absorbed into the crushing void.

The chitinous plates covering the Fiend's torso cracked audibly, hairline fractures spreading across their surface like spider webs, each split releasing a faint hiss of pressurized vapor. The blackened meteor hammer and prehistoric bone club slipped from its upper limbs, clattering to the stone floor with heavy, reverberating thuds that sent small clouds of bone dust spiraling upward.

Why would you go out after coming in? Shi Yan sneered inwardly.