CHAPTER 11

Yesterday, I wasn't able to get a tour of the smithy. Big Randy said it was “too dark to see it in all its glory,” which sounded more like an excuse than a reason.

So, today I was here at his place again to take the tour. He came outside with his wife to meet me.

Big Randy seemed in better spirits than yesterday, when he was yelling at some poor apprentice, and his wife walked by his side with a radiant smile on her face. By the time she had arrived, I could already see the assortment of sandwiches on the tray she had with her.

As they approached, the aroma of freshly made sandwiches filled the air, making my stomach grumble despite myself. Granny Michelle’s voice was warm but laced with the pushy authority of someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“You’ve got to try these, young man,” she said, thrusting the tray at me like a challenge. She pointed to one of the sandwiches. “This one’s open-faced—meat, cheese, veggies. Perfect balance. Go on, take a bite.”

Her tone left no room for refusal, her sharp eyes ready to measure every bite I took.

I took a bite, and it was good—simple, but good. Then she gestured to another. “These are sops, but I’ve added my twist.” The bread was soaked in Tari Tari sauce, a tangy concoction made from the Tari Tari fruit. It was rich, savory, and just a little sweet.

I proceeded to take a bite out of each of them and then finish them all. From the look on Granny Michelle’s face, I didn't think she would let me leave till I had eaten them all.

“Come, Khan,” Big Randy said, puffing out his chest like a rooster. His grin was so wide it looked like it might split his face in two. “You’re about to step into the masterpiece of my life.”

He continued to walk forward and I followed him with Granny Michelle beside me, still offering me more food. I politely declined, but she wasn’t listening. Her ears were just for show, apparently. It went in one ear and out the other.

Big Randy pointed proudly to the forge, its fiery heart glowing like a star and radiating heat that made the air shimmer.

Big Randy pointed to it with pride. “Most folks use coal or charcoal, but not me. I’ve got astralember. You feel that heat? That’s not normal fire, my boy.” He looked at me like a proud parent, with expectant, big, puppy dog eyes, waiting for me to gush over his genius. I nodded, I was even starting to sweat a bit, he beamed once he saw my expression.

His eyes liting up in approval before he went on again, “See that there?” Big Randy pointed at a contraption with more pride than a father showing off his firstborn. “That’s no ordinary bellow. Made it myself—sucks in air like a starving beast. Keeps the heat steady without me lifting a finger. Ain’t another like it for miles.”

The place was a mess of tools, half-finished projects, and raw materials. Hammers, tongs, and other tools were neatly arranged within easy reach of the blacksmith or any apprentices that might need them

But the rest of the workshop looked like a tornado had blown through.

Next to the forge, was a water trough, filled with oil to cool down hot metal quickly.

Shelves, racks, and storage bins were scattered throughout the workshop, holding various tools, supplies, and raw materials like metal bars and ingots.

There was a designated area for storing coal or fuel near the forge to keep the fire going but instead, I saw astral-embers, a mystical substance that, when burned, releases potent, ethereal energies in very little quantities to provide heat, light, and power. Big Randy caught me staring and beamed even more, I was scared that there wouldn't be enough space for his eyes and nose at that rate.

The walls were covered in his handiwork—ironwork so intricate it looked like it belonged in a palace, not a smithy. He showed me each piece, explaining how much skill and effort went into making them.

He didn’t outright say he was a genius, though from his demeanor, I could see that was only because he wanted me to call him that.

The workshop was littered with works in progress – partially forged pieces, prototypes, and artistic creations in various stages of completion.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, listening to the man ramble on about his greatness. The forge roared in the background, its flames fierce and unyielding, a stark contrast to the dull ache in my chest. Once, I’d burned like that—driven by cultivation dreams that now felt like ash. Dreams I was trying desperately to keep alive.

As I left the smithy, the warmth of Big Randy's pride and Granny Michelle's kindness faded like the cooling forge. In its place was the familiar weight of disappointment, a quiet reminder of how far I still was from my dreams.

For some reason, I couldn’t see this place as home, no matter how close I got to Henley. I wasn’t family, and the girls— —were growing up. They’d need their privacy soon. It wouldn’t be long before I’d have to move on. But for now, I wanted to show Henley how much I appreciated him and his family. They’d taken me in, given me a place to stay, and for that, I was grateful.

However, ever since leaving the village, an emptiness had taken root within me, growing deeper with each passing day..

Even though he was the one who left his village, and despite it being them who had thrown the cold shoulder to him, he couldn't get rid of this nagging feeling that he had nobody he could truly say loved him. Hoffley and his family were there but, he had known them for only a few months, to say that he felt like family around them would be a lie.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Khan had never been able to get close to someone that quickly. It was safer that way—safer to leave when the time came, which was one of the reasons why he was able to leave his village.

As he walked through the landscape of the city, his hands hung limp at his sides, his face downcast. The contrast between him and the villagers was ever more apparent to him.

The villagers moved with an easy joy, their laughter weaving through the air like birdsong. Beneath the old tree at the square, they gathered to share stories, their faces glowing with a warmth.

Khan watched from the shadow of a crumbling house, his arms wrapped around his knees. Their warmth only deepened the chill in his chest.

Even when he was at his village, he had never had a moment like that, maybe he had never been as close to the villagers as he thought

In stark contrast to the joyous and vibrant village, there was a lone figure sitting on the steps of a small, weathered house, a heavy cloud of sorrow enveloping him. This man, Khan, wore an expression etched with disappointment and melancholy. His dreams of getting accepted into the sect had been shattered, and after making a vow to his father to make himself into a somebody and become a cultivator, here he was, still a nobody, facing the realities of life, leaving him adrift in a sea of despair.

Regardless of the steps forward he had taken, he felt like a snail, when he was supposed to be moving as fast as a hawk.

The acceptance of Hoffnung into the sect still stung even if he tried to be happy for him.

As Khan sat on the steps, a disheveled plank, covered with moss lay beside him.

The once-familiar sounds of children playing and elders sharing stories blurred out, replaced by an eerie silence that mirrored Khan’s internal struggle.

As the sun set in the distance, its warm glow failed to pierce through the gloom that hung over Khan.

In the village, the gnarled tree stood as a symbol of interconnectedness and enduring happiness. In Khan’s world, there was no such communal gathering place.

Khan’s thoughts turned to his father, he remembered him every day, a good man who’d been forgotten the day he died. He saw his father’s face in the men around him, their smiles and laughter masking the same resignation he’d seen in his father’s eyes. They were content to live under the thumb of nobles and cultivators, never daring to dream of more, like dirty, stopped-up wells.

Such a life! If one of them even sneezed around a high enough ranking noble they may have their head to pay.

The thought made Khan’s stomach churn. Was this his fate too? To live a life of quiet desperation, never daring to reach for something greater?

Khan couldn't stand it! They were like birds-parasitic birds- that never learned how to fly, eternally grounded, feasting greedily on the prey regurgitated from their mother’s beak. It was disgusting. And he was going to be just like them? The very thought made him shiver.

Was he destined for such a loathsome existence?

His eyes fell on a lilac rose, its petals battered but unyielding. It clung to life with a defiance that stirred something in him. His jaw tightened. If the rose could endure, so could he. “Not yet,” he muttered. “I may not be a cultivator, but I've barely even tried yet, I won't live out the rest of my life knowing I quit when I could have gotten what I wanted”

His fists tightened. “No,” he muttered, the word tasting like steel on his tongue. He wouldn’t bow. Not to these circumstances. Not to failure.

"Impossible," Khan whispered to himself, the determination welling up within him like a storm on the horizon.

The pain of that realization had nearly been too much for him to bear, but now it transformed into a fiery resolve. If the world had closed one door, Khan vowed to kick it open with the strength of a thousand storms. He may not be a cultivator, and he might not have the privilege of a noble's birthright, but he could still carve out his destiny as a powerful merchant—a force to be reckoned with in a world dominated by the power of cultivation.

His eyes gleamed with a hard, flinty determination, reflecting not just the flickering light of the village's bonfire but the fire that had begun to burn anew in his chest. It wasn’t the wild, untamed blaze of his youth—this was something colder, sharper, forged in the crucible of failure and tempered by the weight of his broken promises. Khan clenched his fists, the calluses on his palms rough against his skin, and made a silent vow. He wouldn’t just be a merchant. No, he’d be a force—a merchant who commanded respect, whose name would ripple through the halls of power like a storm.

If he couldn't have qi right now, then he would have wealth. He’d carve his own path, one paved with gold and ambition.

The thought was audacious, almost laughable, but it clung to him like a second skin. He could see it now—the sprawling trade routes, the caravans laden with goods, the whispers of his name in markets and courts alike. Wealth was power, and power was freedom.

He’d build an empire so vast that even cultivators would bow—not to his qi, but to the weight of his gold and the sharp edge of his ambition.

Rising from the moss-covered steps, Khan picked up the worn plank of wood he’d been sitting on. It was damp and splintered, a relic of neglect, much like the dreams he’d carried from his village. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the rough grain against his fingers, then tossed it aside with a grunt. It landed in the dirt with a dull thud, and he felt a strange satisfaction in the act. He wouldn’t be weighed down by the remnants of his past—not by this plank, not by his failures, not by the expectations of a world that had already written him off.

The air was thick with the scent of earth and the faint tang of smoke from the village hearths. Somewhere in the distance, a child laughed, the sound bright and carefree. Khan’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t like them—content to live small, to laugh and dream within the confines of their narrow lives. He’d been born with nothing, but he’d be damned if he died with nothing.

His father’s face flashed in his mind, worn and weary, yet still proud during his drunken moments. "A tiger does not father a dog," the old man had said, his voice rasping but firm, "but this old dog wants to father a tiger." The words had stung at the time, a mix of pride and self-deprecation that Khan hadn’t fully understood.

Now, they burned in his chest like a brand. His father had been a simple man, bound by the same chains that now threatened to shackle Khan—poverty, obscurity, a life spent bowing to those who thought themselves better.

But even in his humility, the old man had dreamed of something greater for his son. Khan hadn’t done it yet, but he would. He’d make his father’s ghost proud, even if it meant tearing the world apart to do it.

He’d claw his way out of this life, not just for himself, but for the man who’d wished better for his son than he had for himself.

He took a deep breath, the cool evening air filling his lungs, and exhaled slowly. The weight of his resolve settled over him like armor. He’d start small—he already had a bit saved up. But he’d grow. He’d learn. He’d outthink, outmaneuver, and outlast anyone who stood in his way. The nobles with their bloodlines and the cultivators with their qi could keep their lofty heights. Khan would build his own ladder, one rung at a time, until he stood above them all.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the village in shades of amber and shadow. Khan turned his back on the broken house and the moss-covered steps, his steps firm and deliberate. He didn’t look back. The past was a chain, and he’d just broken free. Ahead lay the future—a vast, uncharted expanse where he’d write his own story, not as a nobody from a forgotten village, but as Khan, the merchant who’d bent the world to his will.