Fang Lin stared at the mountain of perfectly refined Star-Steel ingots resting on the obsidian floor of Private Forge Number Forty-Two.
They were flawlessly black, completely devoid of the grey marbling that plagued raw ore. Under the dim light of the cooling furnace, they seemed to absorb the shadows around them, humming with a terrifyingly pure spiritual capacity.
It was a masterpiece of forging.
And it was completely unusable.
*What are you waiting for, Loud-Boy?* the Dark Flame Spirit's voice echoed in his mind, carrying its usual arrogant sneer. *Take your prize to the logistics dogs and show them what true fire can forge.*
Fang Lin's expression remained entirely flat. *If I hand over one hundred ingots of ninety-eight percent pure Star-Steel, I won't get a reward. I will get an interrogation.*
He wasn't an inner sect elder. He wasn't even a recognized forging prodigy. In the eyes of the Heavenly Forge Division, "Mu Tie" was just a brute with extraordinary physical strength. If an outer disciple with no formal training suddenly produced a batch of Star-Steel that even a Rank 4 Refiner would struggle to create, the sect wouldn't just be impressed—they would be suspicious.
They would investigate the forge. They would investigate him. His disguise would be subjected to the scrutiny of the highest elders in the division.
Fang Lin walked over to the pile. He selected ten of the most flawless ingots and placed them deep inside his low-grade storage bag. He would keep these for his own use when the time came to forge a proper weapon.
As for the remaining ninety...
Fang Lin picked up a handful of loose ash, burnt slag, and crushed limestone from the forge's waste bin. He threw the debris over the pristine ingots, placed them back onto the anvil one by one, and began to hammer.
*What are you doing?!* the Dark Flame Spirit shrieked in his glabella, genuinely offended. *You are intentionally polluting the lattice! You are ruining perfection!*
*I am surviving,* Fang Lin replied coldly.
He didn't use the Dark Flame Spirit's terrifying thermal control this time. He just used standard earth-fire and brutal, sloppy strikes, intentionally fusing the grey slag back into the outer layers of the Star-Steel.
By the time the sun fully rose, the ninety ingots looked entirely ordinary. The deep, flawless black had been replaced by a dull, mottled grey. The purity had plummeted from an impossible ninety-eight percent to a barely passable sixty-five percent.
Perfectly average. Perfectly forgettable.
***
The Logistics Deacon in the outer hall barely even looked up from his ledger when Fang Lin dumped the heavy sack of Star-Steel onto the appraisal counter after just a few days.
The deacon, a tired-looking man with soot-stained robes, waved a basic appraisal token over the sack. A faint yellow light pulsed, indicating the average purity.
"Sixty-five percent. Just barely passes the contract," the deacon muttered, suppressing a yawn. He didn't ask how Fang Lin had done it. He didn't care. To the logistics hall, outer disciples were just cheap labor. "Contract fulfilled. Here."
He tossed a small jade token onto the counter. Five hundred merit points.
Fang Lin pocketed the token, gave a stiff, respectful bow that perfectly fit his "Mu Tie" persona, and walked out of the hall.
As he stepped out into the bustling morning plaza of the lower division, a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder.
"I heard you took the Star-Steel backlog contract a few days ago," a familiar, gruff voice said.
Fang Lin turned to see Senior Brother Ma Teng. The massive man was chewing on the end of an unlit herbal cigar, looking at Fang Lin with a mixture of amusement and deep respect.
"I needed the merit points, Senior Brother," Fang Lin said simply.
"You finished a month's quota in a few days," Ma Teng chuckled, shaking his head. "I don't care if the purity was only sixty-five percent. The sheer physical stamina required to swing a hammer that many times without resting... you truly earn the name 'The Anvil', Junior Brother Mu."
Ma Teng leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "And you did the right thing. Keeping the purity average. If you had somehow managed to hit eighty percent on your first try, the inner hall supervisors would have been down here breathing down your neck, demanding you take on ten more contracts just like it."
Fang Lin's eyes narrowed slightly. He hadn't expected Ma Teng to be so observant.
"The Heavenly Forge isn't just about hitting metal, Junior Brother," Ma Teng continued, lighting his cigar with a snap of his fingers. "It's about politics. The resources flow from the top down, and the elders who control those resources all have their own factions. If you are an unaligned workhorse, they will work you until your bones turn to dust."
Fang Lin remained silent, letting the senior disciple speak.
"Because I was your guarantor for the practical exam, the other disciples already assume you belong to my circle," Ma Teng said, exhaling a cloud of thick, fragrant smoke. "We are part of the Ironblood Faction. We don't care much for those inner sect snobs who spend all day carving delicate spiritual arrays into flying swords. We value heavy forging. Practicality. Durability."
Ma Teng pulled a small, dark-iron token from his sleeve and tossed it to Fang Lin. It was stamped with the image of a crossed hammer and shield.
"There is a faction gathering tonight at the Boar's Head Tavern in the outer market," Ma Teng said. "You should come. Being formally recognized by the Ironblood Faction will give you protection. The other supervisors won't dare assign you impossible quotas if they know we have your back."
Fang Lin caught the iron token. He looked at the heavy, brutal insignia.
"I will be there, Senior Brother," Fang Lin said.
Ma Teng grinned, patting him heavily on the shoulder before walking away into the crowd.
Fang Lin watched him go. He hadn't planned on getting involved in the internal politics of the Heavenly Forge Division. But as he rolled the iron token between his fingers, a cold, calculating thought crossed his mind.
If he wanted to access the deepest archives—if he wanted to find the Old Root Storehouse and uncover the terrifying suppression rune buried beneath the mountain—he couldn't do it as a lone, unremarkable outer disciple.
He needed a tree to climb. And the Ironblood Faction had just offered him one.
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