The clang of hammer on steel echoed through the dusty air of Red Ash Village, a forgotten settlement nestled at the base of jagged, timeworn mountains. Once renowned for its blacksmiths, the village now struggled under the weight of obscurity, its fires dimming as the world moved on. In the soot-filled workshop at the heart of the village, a boy fought against his weakness.

Jin stood over the anvil, his thin arms trembling as he struggled to bring the hammer down. Each strike was uneven, a sharp clink instead of the satisfying ring Elder Han expected. The old blacksmith sighed, his voice rough but not unkind.

“If you can’t strike a piece of iron, how will you strike back at the world, boy?”

Jin paused, sweat dripping from his brow. His grip tightened on the hammer, his knuckles white. He wanted to retort, to tell the old man that he knew far more about striking back at the world than anyone could imagine. But what would be the point? Who would believe that this frail, awkward apprentice had once been the legendary Heavenly Blade, the strongest martial artist the murim world had ever seen?

He set his jaw and raised the hammer again.

“Again,” Elder Han barked, his sharp eyes boring into the boy.

Jin struck the glowing steel with all the strength he could muster, though the blow lacked power. The hammer bounced back, leaving only the faintest indentation. Elder Han clicked his tongue and turned away, muttering about wasted talent and weak bodies.

Jin stared at the metal on the anvil, its orange glow fading. His reflection shimmered in its surface—a boy with gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes, a shadow of the man he had been.

Reincarnation.

The word had haunted Jin since the day he opened his eyes in this fragile body sixteen years ago. His memories of his past life had returned slowly, like whispers in a dream, until they finally crystallized. He remembered the heights of his power, the reverence of allies, the fear of enemies. And the betrayal.

The memory of that day still burned: his closest comrades turning against him, the glint of blades in the moonlight, and the searing pain of his death.

“Heavenly Blade, huh?” he muttered to himself, his voice low. “Some legend I turned out to be.”

Now, he was Jin. Not a hero, not a warrior, just a blacksmith’s apprentice struggling to hold a hammer steady. But deep inside, the fire hadn’t died. It flickered, waiting for the right moment to reignite.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

That moment came sooner than he expected.

It was dusk when the riders came. The rhythmic pounding of hooves shattered the evening calm as a group of men, clad in black and red, stormed into the village square. Their leader, a tall man with a hawkish face, dismounted with a sneer, his sword glinting in the fading light.

The villagers gathered, their faces pale. Jin stepped out of the forge, wiping his hands on his tattered apron. He knew who these men were—the Black Vulture Sect, a gang of marauders notorious for preying on small, defenseless settlements.

The hawkish leader strode forward, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

“Listen up, worms! The Black Vulture Sect has been generous in leaving you alone until now. But generosity has its limits. From now on, half of everything you have belongs to us—gold, grain, tools. And if we’re not satisfied, we’ll burn this village to the ground.”

Elder Han stepped forward, his gnarled hands raised in a gesture of peace.

“We’re just simple folk,” he said, his voice steady but strained. “We have little to give, but you’re welcome to what we can spare.”

The leader’s eyes narrowed. He grabbed a nearby villager by the collar and shoved him to the ground.

“I said everything, old man. Don’t test my patience.”

Jin clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He wanted to act, but what could he do in this body?

The answer came when one of the rogues turned to him.

“What’s this?” the man sneered, eyeing Jin’s thin frame. “You call yourself a blacksmith’s apprentice? I’ve seen twigs with more muscle.”

The rogue shoved Jin backward. He stumbled but managed to catch himself. Laughter erupted from the crowd of bandits.

Something inside Jin snapped. The fire that had lain dormant surged to life. He picked up a pair of tongs from the forge, gripping them tightly.

“Try that again,” he said, his voice low and cold.

The rogue blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in Jin’s demeanor. Then, with a growl, he lunged, drawing a dagger.

Jin moved without thinking. His body was weak, but his mind was sharp, honed by decades of experience. He sidestepped the attack, swinging the tongs to knock the dagger from the rogue’s hand. The weapon clattered to the ground, and Jin followed up with a quick jab to the rogue’s stomach, sending him sprawling.

The villagers gasped. The hawkish leader’s sneer turned into a frown.

“So, there’s fight in you after all,” he said, drawing his sword. “Let’s see how long you last.”

Jin’s heart pounded as the leader advanced. He knew he couldn’t match the man’s strength, but he didn’t need to. Every movement, every strike, was calculated. He used tools from the forge—a hammer, a poker, even a bucket of coal—to outmaneuver the leader.

When the fight ended, the Black Vulture Sect retreated, nursing their wounds. The villagers erupted into cheers, but Jin didn’t share their relief. His body ached, his breaths came ragged, and he knew the truth: he had won, but barely.

That night, as the village celebrated, Jin sat alone in the forge. Elder Han approached, his expression unreadable.

“You fought well,” the old man said, sitting beside him. “Too well for someone your age. Who are you, really?”

Jin didn’t answer. Instead, he gazed at the distant mountains, where the murim world awaited.

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “What matters is what I’ll become.”

He turned to the anvil, picking up the unfinished blade he had been working on earlier.

“This is just the beginning,” he whispered.

As the forge’s fire roared to life, so did the spark of Jin’s destiny.