Yoriichi walked.
The pain in his ribs was a constant companion, a sharp, rhythmic throb that synchronized with his heartbeat. His left leg dragged slightly, the shin bone protesting every step on the uneven cobblestones. But he did not stop.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The sound of the hamrs grew louder. It was a heartbeat. A song of creation and destruction that seed to pull him forward by an invisible thread.
He followed the noise to the eastern edge of the compound, where the manicured gardens and elegant pavilions gave way to raw, functional industry. The air here was drier, tasting of soot and labor.
The Xiao Clan Smithing Hall was not a delicate pagoda; it was a fortress of black stone and timber, built partially into the side of a small hill to utilize natural geothermal heat and to dampen the noise. Thick, black smoke poured from its chimneys, painting the sky in streaks of gray.
Heat radiated from the entrance, shimring in waves that distorted the air.
Yoriichi stepped through the archway.
Imdiately, the temperature spiked. It was easily fifty degrees Celsius inside, a stifling, dry heat that would make an ordinary person faint within minutes. The air tasted of sulfur, coal dust, and iron filings.
Yoriichi breathed in deep.
Inhale.
For anyone else, this air would be choking. But for the user of Sun Breathing, it felt like coming ho. The fire elent in the air was dense, agitated, and alive. It flowed into his lungs, mingling with his own Qi, warming his blood without burning it. He didn't sweat more; in fact, his body temperature regulated instantly, matching the ambient heat of the room.
He descended the stone steps into the main hall.
It was cavernous.
The ceiling was high, lost in shadows and smoke. Below, dozens of forges roared like trapped dragons. Rivers of molten tal flowed in stone channels, illuminating the room in a hellish orange glow. n with bare chests, slick with sweat and soot, hamred away at anvils, their muscles gleaming in the firelight.
Sparks flew like fireflies in a storm.
Yoriichi stopped on the landing, looking out over the scene. A profound sense of nostalgia washed over him, softening the hard lines of his face.
"The Swordsmith Village," he thought, the mory surfacing unbidden.
He rembered the hidden village in the mountains of his old world. He rembered the quirky n in Hyottoko masks who would chase him with knives if he chipped his blade. He rembered their obsession, their singular devotion to the art of turning a rock into a soul-reaping edge. He rembered the legendary smith who forged his blade—a weapon that sang when it cut the air.
"I wielded the supre blade," Yoriichi mused, his hand brushing his empty waist, feeling the phantom weight of a katana. "But I never learned how to make one. I was too busy fighting. Too busy failing to save people."
He regretted it now. If he had learned the art of forging, perhaps he could have understood the nature of steel better. Perhaps he could have forged a weapon capable of killing Muzan without relying solely on his technique.
He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs of the past. "Regret is a ghost. Action is flesh."
He began to walk through the hall.
He instinctively reached for the Transparent World to analyze the tal quality of the nearest anvil, to see the impurities hidden within the iron lattice. But as soon as he tried to focus, a sharp spike of pain drilled into his temples, blinding him montarily with white light.
"Ghh..."
He rubbed his forehead, wincing.
"No," he reprimanded himself. "My spirit is willing, but this vessel's brain is fragile. Overusing the Transparent World while physically exhausted is dangerous. I could burst a blood vessel in my eyes."
He let the special vision fade. He would have to rely on his natural senses—his eyes, his ears, and his instinct.
He walked past the rows of apprentices. They were forging farming tools and basic iron swords for the clan guards. The quality was diocre—he could see the uneven cooling, the impurities trapped in the steel, the sloppy hamr strikes—but he said nothing.
None of them looked at him. They were too focused, too exhausted, or simply didn't care about a "crippled young master" wandering through their domain. To them, he was just a ghost passing through, irrelevant to the rhythm of steel and fire.
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