Chương 85: The Iron Yaksha (3/3)

The apprentice—the same boy who had earlier fumbled and nearly spilled the oil bucket—jumped as though struck by lightning, his thin shoulders jerking upward and his bare feet skidding against the soot-blackened floor. Dust puffed up beneath his heels. He hurried over with a squat ironwood stool clutched against his chest, the wood dark with decades of forge oil and sweat, then bent nearly double as he offered a cracked porcelain cup brimming with dark, steaming tea.

The bitter-leaf scent curled upward in thin, acrid tendrils—sharp enough to sting the eyes.

"Esteemed Immortal, please enjoy some bitter-leaf tea," the boy stammered, his voice cracking with nervous reverence. His knuckles were white where they gripped the cup's chipped rim.

Shi Yan accepted it with a brief nod but did not drink it, instead holding the cup and scanning the surrounding area with curiosity. The heat from the ceramic seeped through his glove, pleasant against his palm. His gaze swept across the cluttered expanse of the forge—stacks of scarred leather hides folded like sleeping beasts against the far wall, iron tongs hanging from blackened hooks, and the constant shimmer of heat distortion rising in waves from the main furnace channel.

There, far from the white blaze of the main furnace channel, he sat with his back against the cool stone of the aqueduct wall. The chill of the rough-hewn rock pressed through the layers of his coat, a welcome contrast to the oppressive heat radiating from the forges. He lowered the brim of his bamboo hat until his eyes were hidden beneath shadow, the woven edge casting a dark bar across his face that swallowed his expression entirely.

With [Phantom-Ash Veil] maintaining the pressure of a steady Late Tier-1 aura around him, no one dared approach. The invisible weight of it pressed outward like a slow, suffocating tide—enough to prickle the skin of any mortal who wandered too close, enough to make their breath catch and their feet unconsciously veer away.

For the next several hours, Shi Yan essentially became a guardian. It felt as though he were their protector. The apprentices moved more confidently, their shoulders less hunched, their voices louder when calling out measurements or haggling prices. Even the customers seemed to straighten their spines upon entering, as though the presence of a cultivator—silent and still as a statue in the shadows—lent the entire forge an air of inviolability.

For example, while the master blacksmith personally handled Shi Yan's custom order at the primary anvil—his massive frame bent over the glowing steel, one scarred hand gripping the tongs while the other raised the hammer high—a rotating crew of six muscular apprentices manned the front counters and the secondary fires, dealing with the steady influx of mortal customers. Their bare arms gleamed with sweat, their faces ruddy and streaked with ash.

They shouted over the roar of the furnaces, their voices hoarse but practiced.

Shi Yan watched a group of four men trudge into the shop. The floor trembled faintly beneath their heavy, uneven footfalls.

They were marsh-hunters, a wretched band fresh from the mire, their hide armor pieced together from all manner of scraps—boar leather, scaled frog-skin, patches of coarse hemp stitching holding it all together—stiff with caked mud and old black blood that had dried into flaking crusts. The stench of rot and stagnant water preceded them, thick enough to make one of the younger apprentices wrinkle his nose and turn his head. Flies buzzed lazily around their shoulders.

Two among them half-carried the third; one of his legs had been bound in haste with a snapped spear haft and strips of crimson-soaked cloth. The makeshift splint jutted out awkwardly, the wood splintered and rough. The injured man's face was ashen, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, and every jarring step drew a faint, bitten-off whimper from his throat. His companions' grips on his arms were white-knuckled, their own faces grim and hollow-eyed.

"Little master!" the foremost hunter cried, stumbling to the counter and casting down a great broadsword with a heavy clang. The blade hit the scarred wood with enough force to rattle the iron nails holding the counter together. The sound echoed through the forge like a death knell.

The blade was chipped and rolled, its edge curled as though it had hacked against stone cliffs rather than flesh and bone. Deep notches marred the fuller, and the tang was bent slightly to one side.

"Reforge this edge at once, and prepare thirty heavy crossbow bolts of river-iron, each one barbed. We have urgent need!" His voice cracked on the last word, desperation bleeding through the command.

A senior apprentice took up the ruined saber and turned it beneath the light, soot smeared across his brow like war paint. His expression darkened, the lines around his mouth deepening as he traced one calloused finger along the ruined edge.

"You struck a hard frame," he said slowly, his voice flat with the weight of experience.

"Mud-Croc bone?"

The hunter gave a bitter laugh and spat to the side, the glob of spittle landing with a wet splat against the dirt floor. His face was waxen, slick with cold sweat, and the fear in his eyes had not yet dispersed—it lingered there, raw and animal, like a man who had looked into the maw of something that should not exist and barely escaped with his life.

"Would that it were only that. A young demonic beast Boar." He shook his head slowly, his matted hair swaying.

"Those cursed beasts have drawn nearer the southern outer-markers."

He paused, his throat working as he swallowed hard.

"The Cloud-Mirror disciples have already sealed the safer trade roads by Ancestral Ridge. New spirit mirrors have been set there, and the gate levy has risen again. We could not pay the passage silver, so we cut through the weeping-weeds." His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, as though speaking the words aloud might summon the danger again.

At the mention of Cloud-Mirror sect, Shi Yan's interest was caught and he looked over, his head tilting slightly beneath the shadow of his hat. His fingers tightened fractionally around the still-warm teacup. But as soon as the conversation proved useless—no mention of patrols, no description of the spirit mirrors' range—he diverted his attention back, letting his gaze drift across the forge once more.

Soon after, an old woman with a bent back and a face wet with tears came trembling through the doorway. Her gnarled hands shook as they clutched a small, filthy purse, the drawstring frayed and knotted. Her robes were little more than rags, patched so many times the original fabric was impossible to discern. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

She spent what little she had on a cheap length of iron chain—thin, rusted links that clinked faintly as the apprentice wrapped them and placed them into her trembling palms—muttering all the while that the Flesh-Forge Pavilion had begun sweeping through the slums to seize "volunteers" for medicine-refining labor. Her voice cracked and warbled, thick with grief and terror.

She pressed the chain to her chest as though it were a talisman of salvation, bowed three times toward the forge, and shuffled back out into the fading light, her silhouette small and hunched against the red-orange glow of the setting sun.

Finally, his train of thought was broken by the repeated peal of metal striking metal.

Dang. Dang. Dang.

The ringing of the anvil reverberated through the workshop like temple bells beaten in anger, each strike a thunderous declaration that shook the air and rattled the iron tools hanging from their hooks. The rhythm was relentless, hypnotic—steady as a war drum, purposeful as a heartbeat.

Shi Yan turned his full attention toward the forge, his eyes following the master smith's every movement. The blacksmith's massive frame was silhouetted against the furnace's white-hot glow, his arms rising and falling with mechanical precision. Sweat poured down his scarred face, dripping from his tangled beard and hissing into steam when it struck the heated anvil. His single pale gray eye was fixed, unblinking, locked onto the glowing steel as though nothing else in the world existed.

This was the first time Shi Yan—in both lives—had witnessed this. Even the original host body had no memory of it, so he could not help but be enchanted. There was something primal in it, something ancient and undeniable—the transformation of raw ore into instrument, the bending of fire and metal to human will.

And finally, under thousands of remorseless impacts, the dark iron slowly yielded, flattening and bending, sparks flying outward in glittering cascades with every strike. The metal sang—a high, ringing note that shifted in pitch as its shape changed—until its form began to resemble a curved faceguard, the edges smoothing, the surface taking on a dull, menacing luster.

Whenever the glow dimmed from blinding yellow to a duller orange, the smith returned it to the coals, thrusting the piece deep into the furnace's heart where the air shimmered and twisted. He waited, his chest heaving, his scarred hands resting on the anvil's edge. Drew it forth with a hiss of displaced heat. Struck again, the hammer's head flattening the steel with brutal, controlled force.

So the cycle repeated, over and over, each strike a negotiation between man and metal.

Until— Inside the forge, the fires had been banked low. The cacophony of the day had settled into a quiet, simmering exhaustion. The last of the apprentices moved sluggishly, their faces drawn and streaked with soot, their movements slow and heavy as they swept ash from the floors and hung tools back on their pegs. The air still shimmered faintly, the residual heat clinging to every surface.

The master blacksmith wiped his sweat-soaked brow with a filthy rag, the fabric already stiff with dried salt and grime. He walked heavily toward Shi Yan's shadowed corner, each footfall deliberate and weary, his boots scuffing against the packed dirt. He carried a massive bundle wrapped in cheap brown burlap, the fabric tied with coarse twine. He dropped it onto the low workbench beside Shi Yan with a dull, weighty thud that sent a puff of dust spiraling upward.

"It is done, Venerable," the blacksmith breathed, his voice rough as gravel dragged over stone. Despite the haggard breathing, the sweat-drenched body, and the foul smell coming from him—coal smoke, burnt metal, old sweat—there was a smile—a glitter in his gaze—as he looked at it, his single eye bright with something like pride.

"The Iron-Yaksha loadout."

Shi Yan stood up, the ironwood stool scraping faintly against the floor. The forgotten teacup sat cold and untouched on the ground where he'd set it hours ago.

He reached out and untied the burlap wrapping, his gloved fingers working the knots loose with practiced efficiency. The twine fell away, and the fabric peeled back.

There it lay. It was a complete armor set, which pleased him inwardly just looking at the cool design. The black iron plates gleamed dully in the low firelight, their edges sharp and clean, the leather straps dark and supple. Every piece was fitted with brutal elegance—functional, asymmetrical, deadly.

Then, without asking permission, Shi Yan unclasped his current waxed-canvas cloak, letting it fall heavily to the dirt floor. The fabric crumpled in a heap, dust rising faintly around it.

First came the Stoneback gambeson.

As he slid his arms through the sleeveless tunic and pulled the leather clasps tight across his chest, he instantly felt the profound density of the garment. The material was thick and unyielding, the layered boar-hide stiff but flexible, the pond-spider silk woven between the layers creating a faint, almost imperceptible resistance as he moved.

It was surprisingly heavy, hugging his torso like a second, thicker skin. The weight settled onto his shoulders and core, grounding him. When he tapped his knuckles heavily against his own ribs, the blow felt deadened, the kinetic force instantly swallowed by the packed silk and spongy boar-hide. The impact barely registered—no sting, no echo through his bones.

Perfect shock absorption. Shi Yan's brows eased and the lips that had been flat now slowly curled into a faint smile, his eyes growing more curious. He rolled his shoulders, testing the range of motion. No binding. No pinch at the armpits.

Next came the Ironfang brigandine. He slipped it over the gambeson, the panther-hide coat heavy and supple, its surface scarred faintly with the beast's original claw marks—left intentionally, the blacksmith had said, to preserve its ferocity. As he fastened the dark iron buckles down the center of his chest, he rolled his shoulders, feeling the hidden River Iron plates shift beneath the leather.

The overlapping plates of River Iron sewn inside the panther hide shifted silently against one another, a faint metallic whisper, smooth as scales sliding over scales. He twisted at the waist, rotating his hips sharply. There was no binding. No restriction. The coat flared and settled back perfectly, the weighted hem swaying just above his knees.

"Hmm." He even hummed as he wore it, grinning—a rare, genuine expression of satisfaction. The blacksmith's eye gleamed brighter.

Then, the asymmetrical limbs.

He strapped the massive, segmented black-iron pauldron over his left shoulder, securing the heavy leather bands tightly beneath his armpit. The iron was cold even through his underlayers, the weight immediate and undeniable. He slid the thick, oversized steel bracer onto his left forearm, locking the buckles with sharp metallic clicks. The vambrace encased his arm from wrist to elbow, its surface etched faintly with geometric grooves for reinforcement.

He raised the arm, testing the weight. It was extraordinarily heavy—perhaps forty pounds of solid iron localized onto a single limb. His shoulder muscles burned faintly as he held it aloft, but the burn was familiar, manageable. He clenched his fist inside the gauntlet, feeling the articulated joints shift smoothly.

"Good," Shi Yan commented, his voice flat but approving. Unlike him, the apprentices of the blacksmith had been holding their breath the whole time, their eyes wide and unblinking, their bodies frozen as though witnessing a ritual. The master blacksmith himself was watching Shi Yan with great interest, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his scarred face alight with quiet satisfaction.

He left his right arm completely bare of steel, strapping on only a tightly wound leather bracer to compress the forearm muscles. The leather was thin, flexible, designed to enhance grip rather than protect. He flexed his fingers, feeling the tendons shift beneath the binding.

He dropped into his bladed stance again, testing the pendulum theory—left foot forward, weight sinking low, right hand cocked back. He violently pulled his heavy left shoulder backward, the iron dragging like an anchor, snapping his unarmored right arm forward in a simulated thrust.

The sheer, dragging mass of the left arm acted exactly as he had calculated, whipping his right torso forward with terrifying centrifugal velocity. The simulated strike broke the air with a sharp, audible snap—a sound like a whip cracking—causing the nearby apprentices to flinch backward, their faces pale, one of them stumbling over his own feet.

Hmm…Zero drag, good.

Finally, Shi Yan reached down into the burlap sack and lifted the dark-iron half-mask.

It was heavy, cold to the touch, the metal chilled despite the ambient heat of the forge. The surface was matte black, unpolished, the jagged gill-vents slitted across the lower half like the jaws of some predatory fish. He raised it to his face, feeling the hardened boar-leather interior press against his skin—rough, dry, slightly abrasive.

He pulled the thick leather straps over the crown of his head and snapped the buckle securely against the base of his skull—precisely above the nerve cluster the System had mutated for his radial sonar. The buckle bit into his scalp faintly, the strap taut and secure.

The hardened boar-leather interior pressed securely against his cheekbones and jawline, molding to the contours of his face, leaving his eyes completely unobstructed beneath the shadow of his bamboo hat. He took a heavy breath, the air cool as it filled his lungs.

The air pulled easily through the jagged, aggressive gill-vents slitted across the iron mouth, flowing smoothly despite the narrow openings. He exhaled sharply, and the air rushed out of the steel teeth with a low, menacing hiss—a sound that seemed to echo in the sudden silence of the forge, serpentine and cold.

Shi Yan turned to face the blacksmith.