Lian stayed away from the academy.
For the first time in months, he did not climb the wall at dusk. He did not watch from the bushes. He did not test himself against the talented.
The loss to Blitz sat heavy on him.
Not shame.
Not rage.
A cold, puzzling weight.
He walked the lower levels of Nova Prime City instead.
Deep into the industrial districts where lights were dim and air thick with smoke and hot metal.
He needed answers.
How to get faster.
How to break the wall his body had hit.
Peak Foundation was strong.
But not enough.
Not against true speed.
He wandered narrow alleys between factories.
Steam hissed from pipes.
Sparks flew from open workshops.
Aliens and humans worked late—Gromek shaping stone, Mechari welding circuits, Korrak hauling ore.
Lian kept hood low.
Scars hidden.
Void eyes scanning.
Thinking.
Always thinking.
How did Blitz move like that?
How do I match it?
He turned into a darker alley.
Narrow.
Walls black with soot.
One small forge glowed at the end.
Open front.
No door.
A single figure inside.
A blacksmith.
Old human man—broad shoulders, white beard, arms thick as Lian's thighs.
He stood at an anvil.
Hammer in hand.
Piece of red-hot iron on the block.
He swung.
Clang!
The sound sharp.
Iron flattened.
Sparks flew orange.
He swung again.
Clang!
But Lian stopped.
Stared.
The hammer moved.
But he couldn't see the man's arm.
Not clearly.
Blur.
Up—down—up—down.
Too fast.
Like Blitz's claws.
But steady.
Perfect rhythm.
No waste.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Iron shaped smooth.
Folded.
Flattened.
The old man's face calm.
Sweat on brow.
Eyes focused.
Lian stood frozen in the alley mouth.
Watching.
Learning.
The speed wasn't wild.
Controlled.
Repeated.
Thousands of times.
Muscle memory.
Power built slow.
He felt it.
The way to speed.
Not Qi.
Not talent.
Repetition.
Pain.
Time.
His heart beat faster.
The puzzlement lifted a little.
Then—chill.
Down his spine.
Someone watching.
He felt it sudden.
Like eyes on his back.
Guard up.
Body tensed.
Foundation strength ready.
He spun slow.
Scanned shadows.
Alleys empty.
Windows dark.
No movement.
No breath but his own.
Nothing.
But the feeling stayed.
Heavy.
Then a voice.
Low.
Rough.
Warm iron in it.
"Come here, boy."
The blacksmith.
Didn't look up.
Kept hammering.
Clang!
Lian turned back.
The old man still worked.
Hammer blur.
But voice clear.
Lian walked forward.
Slow.
Stopped at the forge edge.
Heat hit his face.
Bright orange light on scars.
The old man finally paused.
Hammer rested on anvil.
He looked up.
Eyes gray.
Sharp.
Old, but strong.
Saw everything.
The scars.
The void eyes.
The blood stains still faint on clothes.
The way Lian stood—ready, balanced.
The blacksmith wiped hands on leather apron.
"You've been standing there ten minutes."
Lian didn't answer.
Just watched.
The old man picked up the iron with tongs.
Red hot.
Folded it again.
"You watch like you're starving."
Lian's voice low.
"Need to get faster."
The blacksmith nodded once.
Swung.
Clang!
Sparks showered.
"Everyone wants fast."
Clang!
"Few want the work."
He set hammer down.
Looked at Lian full.
"You're the Scarred Ghost from the academy stories."
Not question.
Fact.
Lian's eyes narrowed.
Old man smiled small.
"Word travels. Even to old forges."
He turned.
Walked to back wall.
Pulled a small sword blade—half finished.
Plain steel.
No glow.
Held it out.
"Hold."
Lian took it.
Heavy.
Balanced.
Old man watched.
"You fight with body only?"
Lian nodded.
"Good."
"Qi is flash. Body is root."
He picked up his hammer again.
Big.
Heavy head.
"Watch."
He swung at a new iron bar.
Slow first.
Then faster.
Blur again.
But Lian saw pattern now.
Shoulder.
Elbow.
Wrist snap.
Hip turn.
Breath timed.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Iron folded perfect.
Old man stopped.
"You copy?"
Lian nodded.
Old man tossed him a small hammer.
Light.
"Try."
Lian stepped to anvil.
Hot iron waiting.
He swung.
Slow.
Clang.
Old man corrected.
"Looser wrist."
"Turn hip."
"Breathe out on strike."
Lian adjusted.
Again.
Faster.
Clang!
Better.
Again.
Faster.
Spark jumped.
Old man watched quiet.
Hours passed.
Lian swung until arms burned.
Until rhythm came natural.
Until hammer blurred a little.
Old man nodded.
"Root first."
"Speed comes after ten thousand strikes."
Lian paused.
Breath hard.
"Ten thousand?"
Old man smiled.
"Start with one."
He handed water skin.
Lian drank.
Cool.
First kindness in months.
Old man sat on bench.
"You run from something."
Not question.
Lian sat too.
Void eyes on fire.
"Chase something."
Old man nodded.
"Revenge?"
Lian silent.
Then.
"Yes."
Old man looked at stars through open roof.
"Good fuel."
"But burns out if only hate."
He stood.
Walked to back.
Pulled old book.
Thick.
Leather cover.
No title.
Opened.
Pages yellow.
Hand drawn forms.
Body techniques.
No Qi.
Pure movement.
Strength.
Speed.
Endurance.
He handed to Lian.
"Copy if you want."
"Return when done."
Lian took it careful.
Heavy.
Old man turned back to forge.
"Practice here if you like."
"Quiet."
"No questions."
Lian looked at him.
"Why?"
Old man picked hammer.
Swung.
Clang!
"Because I was you once."
"Scarred."
"Zero talent."
"Fought anyway."
Clang!
"Now I make weapons for those who need them."
He paused.
Looked at Lian.
"Stay or go."
"Your choice."
Lian looked at book.
At hammer.
At fire.
The watching feeling gone.
Warmth here.
He nodded.
Stayed.
Hammered late into night.
Old man worked beside.
No names.
No past.
Just iron.
Just rhythm.
Just root.
Lian swung.
Clang!
One strike.
Toward ten thousand.
The puzzlement faded.
Replaced by path.
Clear.
Hard.
His.
He swung again.
Clang!
The forge glowed bright.
The Scarred Ghost found a door.
Not academy.
Not underground.
A quiet one.
In fire and iron.
He stayed.
Learned.
Grew.
Ready for what came next.