The first rule of surviving in a dying house was simple: act useless, think endlessly.
Jiang Ye sat cross-legged on the cold forge floor as the sun began to rise beyond the cracked skylight. Dust motes glimmered in the golden shaft of light slicing through the gloom. Above him, glowing patterns still pulsed softly on the stone walls, like the heartbeat of a sleeping dragon.
The anvil hadn't cooled. The System hadn't gone quiet.
"Regional scan complete," came the calm voice again. "Fangyan Province is composed of nine townships, one ruined mine, three minor leyline junctions, one abandoned foundry, and thirty-four human structures of strategic interest."
"Any spiritual veins?"
"Deteriorated. Qi flow reduced to 11% standard output. Estimated 67% spiritual depletion due to improper mining practices, unbalanced geomantic arrays, and sect extraction levies."
"So in short," Jiang Ye said dryly, "this land is as spiritually bankrupt as it is financially."
"Correct. It is a miracle you are not already dead."
He chuckled under his breath.
The System was blunt—cold, perhaps—but not hostile. It responded to command, delivered insight in measured tones, and most importantly, showed no trace of rebellion. Unlike the spirit beasts of this world, it didn't posture or play at dominance.
It simply served.
"Would Master Reforger like to initiate a prototype construction?"
"Yes. But I want something subtle. Nothing that will attract attention."
"Blueprints available. Recommended: Qi-Inductive Strike Hammer. Crude forging weapon designed to channel basic kinetic energy into a focused impact burst. Fabrication time: six hours."
Jiang Ye stood, dusted off his robes, and ran his palm across the lion-shaped anvil.
"Show me the process. I want to understand the logic, not just copy the result."
"Understood. Initializing Schematic Transfer."
And then—without fanfare—knowledge flowed into his mind.
But it wasn't like reading. It was like remembering something he'd never learned. His fingers twitched. His breath slowed. Materials, temperature profiles, pressure ratios, resonance frequencies—everything parsed itself across his brain like an architectural dream unfolding in reverse.
It wasn't just how to build it. It was why.
When the surge stopped, he exhaled long and slow, steadying himself.
"I need scrap qi-conductive alloy, mid-grade furnace heat, and... bone ash?"
"Beast bone ash improves qi responsiveness and dampens spiritual feedback during resonance bursts. It was once considered the peak of early Machine Dao metallurgy."
"And if I don't have any?"
"A viable substitute is pig bone, finely ground. The ritualistic belief in beasts is irrelevant to mechanical harmonics."
He couldn't help it—he smiled.
A thousand cultivators across Zhongyuan would burn spirit stones for refining talismans blessed by divine beasts, yet here he was preparing to craft weapons using livestock bones and scrap iron.
"Good," he murmured. "Let's insult tradition properly."
Three hours later, his robes rolled up to the elbows and sweat running down his spine, Jiang Ye stood over the forge's open basin, watching sparks leap from his makeshift crucible.
His hands worked without pause—steady, fluid, certain. Modern metallurgical principles merged seamlessly with the schematic knowledge granted by the Sentinel.
He poured the iron alloy slowly, guided it into the carved mold shaped like a blacksmith's maul. The mold itself was etched with thin spiritual inlets, just enough to carry a spark of qi.
No flash. No divine thunder.
Just metal.
But when he placed the hammer on the anvil, a soft hum whispered up through the handle. The qi coil inside responded to touch—amplifying pressure. Controlled. Tuned.
He hefted it once. It felt heavy, balanced. Primed.
With this, he could shatter bone.
With a dozen like it, he could arm outlaws and peasant cultivators.
With a hundred—
He could start a war.
"Prototype complete," the Sentinel confirmed. "Efficiency rating: 64%. Durability: moderate. Concealability: high. Recommended upgrades: dual-channel coil, curved handle for torque, blood-seal lock for exclusive user control."
Jiang Ye nodded.
"I'll build a better version later. For now—"
He turned toward the door as it creaked open.
An old man stood there, shoulders stooped, thin beard trembling slightly in the forge smoke.
Jiang Ye didn't move. "Steward Meng."
The old steward bowed shallowly. "My lord. You summoned?"
"I did." He set the hammer down with a soft thunk. "Join me. We have wine."
Meng hesitated. "Here?"
Jiang Ye gestured toward a small table he'd pulled into the corner earlier that morning. Two clay cups sat there. A bottle of cheap rice wine from the outer town market sat beside them, uncorked.
He didn't sit until Meng did.
Jiang Ye poured both cups, pushed one forward.
"You were my father's man," he said simply.
"I was."
"You managed this estate for twenty years."
"I did."
"You know every servant, every supplier, every petty cultivator still lurking in the hills."
"That's correct."
Jiang Ye took a sip of wine. It was lukewarm and sour. Still better than he'd expected.
"Tell me then," he said calmly, "which of the staff has been selling household tools for coin behind my back?"
Steward Meng's cup paused just below his lips.
"My lord?"
"Don't pretend. I'm not accusing you. I simply want to know who."
A long silence.
Then the old man sighed. "Shen Bao. The smith's assistant."
"How much?"
"Ten silver a week, for scrap iron, broken fittings, even coal chips."
"Who buys?"
"Traveling merchant out of Yulan Town. Probably reselling to the Zhang militia."
Jiang Ye leaned back.
A year ago, he might've screamed. Or reported the theft to the local sect. Or punished the boy.
But none of that would help him now.
Instead, he said, "Let him continue."
"My lord?"
"Double the amount he can take—but have someone else record every item. No interruptions. No warnings. Just watch."
"You want to see where the metal ends up."
"Exactly."
Jiang Ye stood, picked up the hammer from the anvil, and placed it on the table between them.
"Steward Meng," he said softly. "I am going to ask you something that will sound mad. But I want you to listen."
The old man didn't speak, but his eyes sharpened.
Jiang Ye continued. "What if I told you that this weapon can be made without qi? That I can build thirty of them in a week with enough iron and coal? That it will strike harder than a cultivator's fist and doesn't require any training to use?"
Meng stared.
"I'd say you were drunk, my lord."
"I'm not."
"I'd say you were spitting on three thousand years of cultivation practice."
"I am."
"I'd say..."
Meng paused.
"…that if it's true, you'll be hunted."
Jiang Ye smiled.
"So you do understand."
By the time night fell, Steward Meng had seen the prototype in action.
He'd watched it crush a practice dummy's reinforced bone core in a single blow.
He'd touched it, swung it once, and seen the qi coil spark even in his untrained hands.
He'd said nothing for a long time.
And then he'd bowed. For real. Full, deep, from the waist.
"Command me, my lord," he said quietly. "For whatever war you're planning, I'll be your ghost in the shadows."
Jiang Ye simply nodded.
He stepped back into the forge, alone, and whispered to the air.
"Sentinel."
"Yes, Master Reforger?"
"Prepare blueprints for mass production."
"Shall I begin fabrication of auxiliary tools?"
"Yes. But slowly. We move like shadows. No light. No thunder."
"Understood."
"And one more thing."
"Command?"
"Show me the schematics for a printing press. One that runs on spirit essence. If I'm going to reshape the world," he murmured, "I'll need more than weapons."
"Schematic retrieved. Design: Spirit-Type Rotary Essence Press, Model D. Production cost: 420 refined copper units, one formation crystal, beast tendon wiring."
"Estimated effect: Enables mass duplication of talisman scrolls, ritual texts, and propaganda leaflets. Upgradeable."
Jiang Ye's eyes gleamed.
It would begin with hammers.
Then come weapons.
Then come words.
And then—one day—this entire continent would be stamped, branded, and reshaped by iron.
Not with fire.
But with process.