The beast hide was low‑quality, scarred and uneven. The spirit ore dust was little more than residue, the dregs of what actual crafters used. But it would do.
Luo Fan dragged himself to the flat stone and laid the hide on top. He sprinkled a pinch of dust over it, watching the faint shimmer of residual Qi in the particles. Then he picked up the broken awl.
The system interface pulsed.
[Materials detected. Initiate forging?]
Yes.
His finger pricked against the awl's tip. Two drops of blood fell onto the hide.
The world changed.
It was as if a furnace had ignited behind his eyes. Heat—not physical, but something deeper—spread through his chest, down his arms, into his fingertips. His vision sharpened until he could see the grain of the beast hide, the way the spirit ore dust settled into its fibers, the way his blood seemed to pull at the ambient Qi that drifted through the air like mist.
He began to trace.
The broken awl moved slowly, haltingly. There was no automated guidance—only a sudden, crystalline understanding of what needed to be done. The formation pattern unfolded in his mind: a spiral of seven nodes, each requiring precise pressure and angle. His hand shook. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
Thirty minutes, the schematic had said. It felt like thirty hours.
He made mistakes. Twice his awl slipped, smearing the spirit dust. Each time he had to pause, reapply a pinch from the meager pouch, and steady his breathing. The original Luo Fan's memories gave him nothing—this was all new, all learned in the white heat of the moment.
But the knowledge was there, buried in the system's gift. His engineering mind latched onto it, comparing each stroke to a circuit trace, each node to a connection point. Slowly, painfully, the pattern emerged.
When he connected the final node to the blood droplets, a pulse of crimson light ran through the formation. The hide absorbed it, and the silvery‑black lines solidified, becoming permanent.
The heat faded. His arm fell limp.
---
[Forging Complete!]
Item: Minor Qi‑Gathering Talisman (Mortal‑rank, Low Quality)
Forge Points Earned: +5
Refined Spiritual Essence Absorbed: +2 units
[Forge Mastery increased: 0 → 1]
---
The essence hit him like a warm tide.
It spread from his chest outward, gentle and subtle, like drinking hot tea on a freezing day. His withered meridians—dry as dead roots—drank it in. They didn't heal; that would take far more. But they remembered. A faint pulse of energy now resided where there had been nothing.
The countdown shifted: 71:28:14. The process had cost him over thirty minutes, but the essence had bought him back a little more time. A net gain—barely.
In his trembling hand lay the talisman. Crude, ugly, made from scraps. But it was his.
He heard footsteps approaching.
Luo Fan wiped the sweat from his face and arranged his features into a mask of weary submission. The door opened. Lu Chen stood in the threshold, arms crossed, expectation and threat mingling in his posture.
Luo Fan held up the talisman.
Lu Chen's expression flickered. He crossed the room in two strides and snatched the hide from Luo Fan's hand. He turned it over, examining the formation with narrowed eyes. Even a brute like him could sense the Qi coiled within—faint, crude, but real.
For a moment, something that might have been respect crossed his face. Then it was gone, replaced by avarice.
"How?" he demanded.
Luo Fan shrugged weakly. "I told you. I studied."
Lu Chen tucked the talisman into his robe. His smile returned—sharp, predatory. "You can make more?"
Luo Fan nodded slowly. "Yes. Better ones. But I need materials. Better tools. And time."
Lu Chen considered this. His gaze swept the hovel, the broken awl, the empty corners. When he looked back at Luo Fan, there was a new calculation in his eyes.
"Then you've become useful, trash." He turned toward the door, then paused. "I'll bring you materials. You'll make talismans for me. And if you think about running, or trying to sell to someone else…" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
The door closed. His footsteps faded.
Luo Fan sat in the silence of his hovel, the system interface still pulsing softly in the corner of his vision. His body ached. His head pounded. He had traded one form of exploitation for another.
But his Forge Mastery had ticked up to 1. And those two units of refined essence were still circulating in his body, a fragile spark in the darkness.
He looked at his hands. Thin, scarred, calloused. The hands of a laborer. The hands of a craftsman.
"You think you've got a useful pet now," he murmured. "But you've just put the first tool in my hands."
The countdown continued: 71:27:33.
He had bought time. But now he was a prisoner.