He poured all his focus and strength into forging the silver, shaping it until it nearly resembled a blade. The metal glowed a dull red under the flickering candlelight, reflecting in the sweat beading on his brow. He was Lin Yang, the second son of a small blacksmith family nestled in the quiet village of Willow Creek. Having discovered he had no aptitude for cultivation – no whisper of Qi within him – he was compelled to learn the family trade, becoming the heir to their blacksmithing legacy.

In his five years of forging, this was the finest piece he had ever crafted, even if it was only a mortal blade, lacking the mystical properties imbued by a cultivator's touch. The balance was perfect, the curve of the blade elegant, the silver gleaming despite the soot that clung to everything in the workshop. Today, he’d been given permission to leave the workshop early, a rare treat. Tomorrow, he had to rise before dawn to travel to the city temple. He had reached the age of fifteen, old enough to participate in the Spirit Awakening ceremony.

The temple, nestled in the bustling city of Oakhaven, provided the necessary services for the ritual. Why did they need the temple's help? Were they the only ones who knew how to awaken a spirit? He knew the answer, as did everyone else in Willow Creek. Humans needed Qi to awaken their spirits. Only cultivators possessed Qi, the mystical energy that flowed through the world, so mortals required their assistance. It was a stark reminder of his own limitations, his inability to tread the path of cultivation, a path that promised power and prestige.

His house was a mere five-minute walk away from the workshop. As he walked, he looked forward to the next day, to the vibrant city, and to the question burning in his heart: What kind of spirit will I awaken? Magic? Weapon? Beast? He knew that the type of spirit was often influenced by one's parents. His father, a gruff but skilled blacksmith, likely carried a weapon spirit. His mother, known for her gentle nature, perhaps a healing spirit. Still, there was no harm in fantasizing, even if reality often proved disappointing. He allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would awaken a spirit that would surprise everyone.

Reaching home, he found his mother preparing dinner. The aroma of stew filled the small cottage. "I'm home!" he called out, the sound echoing in the quiet house.

"Welcome home, Lil Yang. Dinner will be ready after you bathe. Your father is still at the workshop; he’s pushing to finish that order for Uncle Zhou." His mother usually ate alone, as his father and he often worked late into the night. It was a quiet life, a life of hard work and simple pleasures.

Lin Yang washed the grime of the forge from his skin and joined his mother at the dining table. After a satisfying meal of his mother's delicious cooking, she asked, "How's the forging going? Any progress on the silver blade?"

"Still level 1!" he replied with a wry grin. Level 1 was the starting point for every blacksmith, and progressing to higher levels required years of dedicated practice and, sometimes, the intervention of a cultivator to imbue the metal with Qi.

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"Alright," she said, patting his hand. "Tomorrow at 6 a.m., your Uncle Zhou will be here. I want you to wake up early. I don't want him waiting."

Uncle Zhou, his mother's older brother, was a merchant. He was responsible for selling the weapons their family workshop produced. He was a boisterous man with a booming laugh and a keen eye for business.

Uncle Zhou came every two weeks to collect the weapons. The journey to the city of Oakhaven took about five hours by horse-drawn carriage. It was a long and arduous journey, but it was necessary to reach the market and earn a living.

.........

The next morning, they ate breakfast with Uncle Zhou before he left. His father, it seemed, hadn't come home last night, probably busy preparing weapons for his uncle. Lin Yang felt a pang of guilt. He should have stayed to help, but the excitement of the upcoming ceremony had consumed him.

After more than five hours of travel in the cramped carriage, the tall city walls of Oakhaven came into view. The city was a sprawling hub of activity, a stark contrast to the quiet tranquility of Willow Creek. They had to pay for accommodation permits to enter, a small fee that Uncle Zhou grumbled about but paid nonetheless.

Once inside the city, they went to Uncle Zhou's shop, a large, bustling establishment filled with weapons of all shapes and sizes. Uncle Zhou dropped off the weapons and haggled with his employees over prices and deliveries. From there, they went straight to the temple, a serene oasis amidst the city's chaos.

The temple was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling marketplace outside its walls. Only seven people, including Lin Yang, were there for the Spirit Awakening ceremony. The other candidates were a mix of young men and women, all with the same nervous anticipation in their eyes.

The fee for the ceremony was five silver pieces, a significant sum for a family like Lin Yang's. Uncle Zhou paid without a word, his expression a mix of pride and concern.

An old man with a thick, white beard, dressed in simple robes, oversaw the ritual. His eyes were wise and knowing, and his hands moved with a practiced grace.

When it was Lin Yang's turn, the old man placed his hands on Lin Yang’s head. The touch was surprisingly light, yet Lin Yang felt a strange energy emanating from the old man. “Close your eyes and focus on what lies within the darkness,” he instructed, his voice calm and soothing.

Lin Yang closed his eyes, trying to follow the old man's instructions. He focused on the darkness behind his eyelids, trying to see… something. Anything.

After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, Lin Yang felt the old man’s Qi flowing through his body. It was a strange sensation, a tingling warmth that spread through his limbs. He began to sense something forming before him, a faint image flickering in the darkness. He reached out, grasping it.

Opening his eyes, Lin Yang beheld his spirit: a rectangular Iron Spirit, topped with a glass surface. It was thin, 5.5 inches long, and 2.5 inches wide. Lin, whose family specialized in crafting tools and weapons, recognized the shape instantly. It was… a rectangle. A smooth, metallic rectangle.

A small, melon-shaped protrusion, serving as a logo, extended from the back. It was… familiar. He’d seen this shape before. He racked his brain, trying to place it.

A great weapon spirit? He’d hoped for a gleaming sword, a powerful axe, or even a mystical hammer. But this… this was just a rectangle. Disappointment washed over him, a cold wave that threatened to drown his hopes. He looked at the old man, who simply nodded, his expression unreadable. Lin Yang’s heart sank. His spirit was… a metal rectangle. What was he supposed to do with that?