The forge became Lian's new world.
Days blurred into nights of heat, sparks, and endless rhythm.
He arrived before dawn, left after the moons rose.
The old blacksmith—still nameless, still quiet—worked beside him.
No lessons spoken.
Just example.
Just correction.
A nod when right.
A grunt when wrong.
Lian noticed the legs first on the second day.
The old man moved around the forge with unnatural steadiness.
No limp.
No fatigue.
When he shifted weight to kick the bellows or haul heavy ingots, his lower half gleamed faintly under the firelight.
Advanced augs.
Not the cheap, clunky black-market kind Lian had seen on Khar-9 miners.
These were masterpiece.
Seamless carbon-titanium alloy, matte black with subtle silver circuits running like veins.
Joints silent.
Muscles of synthetic fiber flexing under plated skin.
From mid-thigh down, pure machine.
High-end military or custom artisan work—worth more than most ships.
Yet the old man wore simple leather apron and rolled sleeves, as if they were just legs.
Lian hammered.
First, simple bars.
Fold.
Heat.
Strike.
Fold again.
Ten thousand strikes, the old man had said.
Lian counted in his head.
One.
Two.
Up to hundreds.
Then thousands.
Arms burned.
Back ached.
Hands blistered, healed, hardened.
Calluses thick as leather.
He copied the old man's swing.
Looser wrist.
Hip turn.
Breath out on impact.
Hammer blurred more each day.
Speed grew.
Not Qi.
Body.
Root.
He shaped iron into blades.
Plain.
No glow.
No fancy alloys.
Just steel.
Strong.
True.
The old man watched.
Showed advanced forms.
Hammer as weapon.
Swing patterns for combat.
Block with haft.
Strike with head.
Spin for momentum.
His aug legs gave perfect balance—never wobbled on spins, absorbed recoil like nothing.
Lian practiced on air.
Then on scrap.
Metal rang.
Sparks flew.
He mixed it with academy forms.
Hammer flow into palm strike.
Spin into sweep.
Block into counter.
New style born.
His own.
The book the old man lent—body techniques, pure physical—became his night reading.
By forge light.
Pages turned slow.
Forms drawn careful.
Muscle maps.
Breathing patterns.
Weight shift secrets.
He practiced them at night.
In the forge yard.
Under stars.
Pushed body to limit.
Held poses until shake.
Struck posts until knuckles split.
Ran laps with weighted chains the old man made—aug legs letting him forge heavier ones than any human could lift.
Speed drills.
Burst forward.
Stop sudden.
Turn sharp.
Again.
Again.
Weeks passed.
Body changed.
Lean muscle thicker.
Shoulders broader.
Scars stretched.
Movement smoother.
Faster.
He sparred the old man sometimes.
No words.
Just circle.
Hammer vs hammer.
Old man fast—blur like first night.
Aug legs gave explosive steps, perfect pivots.
Lian slower.
But closing gap.
Took hits.
Gave some.
Learned.
The watching feeling came sometimes.
Chill on neck.
Eyes in shadows.
Lian scanned.
Nothing.
Old man noticed once.
"Old ghosts," he muttered.
"Nothing to fear yet."
Lian didn't ask.
Just hammered harder.
One night, after ten thousand strikes counted true, something shifted.
Hammer mid-swing.
Qi stirred.
Not forced.
Natural.
From endless repetition.
From pain endured.
From root built deep.
Circuit Awakening.
Early stage.
Qi looped inside.
Internal flow.
Bursts ready.
He paused.
Hammer down.
Old man looked up.
Smiled small.
First real smile.
"Good."
Lian flexed hand.
Felt the change.
Stronger.
Faster.
Qi enhanced body now.
Not external yet.
But enough.
He swung again.
Hammer blurred true.
Air cracked.
Old man nodded.
"Root holds the tree."
"Wind comes next."
Lian worked late.
Shaped a blade for himself.
Short.
Heavy.
Balanced perfect.
No glow.
Just steel.
His.
The forge fire died low.
He sat with old man.
Shared water.
Quiet.
Old man spoke rare.
"You'll leave soon."
Lian looked at him.
Void eyes steady.
Old man stared at fire.
"Power calls you."
"Revenge too."
Lian silent.
Old man tapped his aug leg—metal ring soft.
"Lost mine long ago."
"Bad fight."
"Replaced with these."
"Better than flesh in some ways."
"Worse in others."
He handed small pendant.
Iron.
Hammer shaped.
Simple.
"Remember root."
Lian took it.
Warm.
Nodded.
Thanks.
No words needed.
He left at dawn.
Forge behind.
City ahead.
Academy pulled again.
Stronger.
He was ready.
Not for gates.
For what waited inside.
The Scarred Ghost walked streets.
Blade hidden under jacket.
Iron pendant on neck.
Body forged.
Qi awakened.
Aug-inspired balance in his step.
The path clear.
He would return.
Not as beggar.
As storm.