Joren shoved the rusted pile onto Kairo's workbench with a clang that rattled the half-finished arm guard beside it. Dust motes danced in the anemic light filtering through the grime-streaked windows of Master Borin's smithy. "Master Borin said these need re-tempering. The old ones were too soft, they bent like reeds. Figure out why, Kairo. And polish them until I can see my reflection." He emphasized 'Kairo' with a sneer, a thinly veiled challenge wrapped in a mundane chore. The other apprentices, gathered near the bellows, chuckled, their gazes sharp and judgmental. Kairo merely nodded, his expression unreadable. The weight of Borin's trust was a heavy cloak, insulating him from their petty jabs but also making him a target. He picked up the first tool, a dull, chipped chisel, its edge pitted with rust. The raw iron, once vibrant, now looked sickly. His fingers traced the cold, rough surface. "[Appraise]," he thought, and a familiar screen shimmered into his mind's eye. **ITEM: Discarded Chisel (Common)** **MATERIAL: Low-grade Iron (Impure)** **CONDITION: Severely corroded, improperly tempered, fatigued metal.** **SUGGESTED REPAIR: Thorough cleaning, careful grinding to remove pitting, re-tempering at 780°C, followed by a slow oil quench.** The details were precise, a roadmap to perfection even for a mundane item. This was the system's true power, not just a guide but an oracle for the forge. Joren and the others saw only a peasant fumbling with scrap; Kairo saw the potential hidden beneath the grime. He ignored the apprentices' whispers, the clatter of their own hammers a rhythmic backdrop to his internal focus. He moved to the grinding wheel, its stone groaning to life under his foot. Sparks flew, a brief shower of orange-red against the dimness. He worked with a meticulousness that would have seemed obsessive to any other apprentice. Each pass removed a layer of corrosion, revealing the darker, denser iron beneath. He reshaped the edge, restoring its original geometry with a steady hand, a task that required far more precision than simple repair. Hours later, a pile of glinting tools lay waiting. He had individually ground each one, restoring their functionality, preparing them for the heat. The furnace roared, a hungry beast devouring kindling and coal. Kairo, using a long pair of tongs, fed the first chisel into the inferno. The metal glowed, first cherry-red, then orange, then a brilliant yellow, the impurites burning away, the structure realigning under the intense heat. He pulled it out at precisely the suggested temperature, the internal timer of his system guiding him, and plunged it into the waiting vat of oil. A hiss, a cloud of acrid smoke, and the distinct smell of superheated metal filled the air. He repeated the process for each tool, his movements fluid and economical. When he was done, the entire set lay cooling, dark and slick with oil. He wiped them down with a rag, and for the first time, he truly saw his reflection in the newly polished surface of a claw hammer. It was a distorted, grimy image, but it was there. Joren approached later, his curiosity overcoming his disdain. He picked up a small punch, tested its newly sharpened tip with a thumb (carefully, Kairo noted), and then attempted to flex its shaft. It held firm. "These... these are actually good," he admitted, grudgingly. "Better than new, even. What did you do?" His eyes narrowed, searching for a trick. "Just followed Master Borin's tempering instructions," Kairo replied blandly, a half-truth that concealed the system's exactitude. Joren grunted, a flicker of suspicion in his gaze, but he had no proof. He simply tossed the tools into a nearby crate and stalked away. --- The next few days settled into a routine. Kairo worked diligently on his assigned tasks, proving his worth with quiet efficiency. His probationary status meant he was often given the more tedious or less desirable jobs, but he used each as an opportunity. While cleaning out the slag pit one afternoon, he saw Old Man Rhen, one of Borin’s long-time guards, practicing a series of slow, deliberate movements with a training sword in the smithy’s small, dusty courtyard. Rhen wasn't a cultivator of any significant renown, but he moved with a practiced economy of motion, his sword flashing in an arc that seemed to deflect an invisible attack. **[SKILL OBSERVED: Basic Parry – Novice Grade. Do you wish to copy?]** Kairo’s breath hitched. A combat skill. Even a basic one would be invaluable. He mentally confirmed, and a surge of energy flowed through him, not unlike the feeling of forging, but internal. The nuances of Rhen’s parry, the precise angle of the blade, the subtle shift in weight, suddenly became clear in his mind. He now possessed [Basic Parry (Novice, Level 1)]. He tested it subtly later, during a break, using a heavy iron rod like a sword. The movements felt natural, ingrained. It was rudimentary, but it was a beginning. His mental skill list, once sparse, was slowly filling. He now had a handful of crafting skills, [Appraise], and this new defensive technique. Each copied skill was a small victory, another weapon in his arsenal against a world that had once offered him nothing. His access to scrap materials was another boon. Each evening, after the day's toil, Kairo would spend an extra hour sifting through the heaps of discarded metal in the back of the smithy. To the other apprentices, it was refuse, twisted and broken remnants of failed projects or worn-out tools. To Kairo, with [Appraise], it was a treasure hunt. He found small, discarded ingots of purer steel, bent but salvageable iron rods, even a few fragments of what looked like low-grade mithril alloy – too small for any large project, but perfect for experimentation. His small, personal workbench, tucked away in a corner, became his clandestine forge. There, using the improved tools he had salvaged, he began to craft. He started small, focusing on precision and technique. His first independent project was a set of fine engraving chisels, not for combat, but for delicate smithing work. Each chisel was a testament to his growing skill, the metal hardened to a crystalline perfection, the edges capable of microscopic detail. He even managed to infuse a faint hint of **[Wind Element]** into one, making it feel impossibly light and responsive in his hand. The system simply reported **[Engraving Chisel: Wind-Kissed – Uncommon]**, a quiet affirmation of his first successful elemental infusion. --- Master Borin, a man whose observations were as keen as his hammer strikes, noticed Kairo’s meticulousness. One crisp morning, he found Kairo polishing his newly crafted engraving tools, their faint blue sheen barely visible in the morning light. “Those are... well made, Kairo,” Borin rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle. He picked up one of the chisels, turning it over in his calloused fingers. “The balance is exceptional. And this edge… I haven’t seen such fine work from an apprentice in years. Did you forge these yourself?” Kairo nodded. “From scrap, Master. For personal use.” Borin grunted, a sound that could mean approval or skepticism. “Good. Good. Precision is a virtue in our trade.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the smithy, then back to Kairo. “I have a small commission. Old Man Hemlock, the carpenter down by the market, needs a new set of hinges for his wagon. Durable, but light. And he’s particular about the finish. Think you can handle it?” It was a real job, not busywork. A genuine test. And it came with a promise of actual payment. “Yes, Master Borin,” Kairo said, a rare warmth stirring in his chest. “I can.” “Good. See to it. And don’t disappoint me, boy.” Borin turned and walked away, leaving Kairo with the weight of expectation and the first real step towards financial independence. The wages for Borin’s probation were meager, enough for basic sustenance, but the commission from Old Man Hemlock could provide the first proper funds for quality raw materials. Kairo looked at his 'Wind-Kissed' chisel, a quiet pride swelling within him. The path was still arduous, the true challenges of Tianhua yet to reveal themselves, but with each precise strike of his hammer, with each copied skill, he was forging his own ascent. The whispers of the apprentices, the petty jealousies, all seemed distant now. His forge, however small, was beginning to sing a tune of its own. He still needed more, much more. But the hinges for Hemlock would be a start, a small offering to the demanding world for the resources he craved.

Chapter 22: Sparks of Scorn