The kindling. (1)

Clank.

The sound echoed throughout the forge like a bell, ringing into the streets just beyond the open wall.

Clank.

The sound echoed, and in tune the sparks flew. The forge's kindling had been lit and the hammer helped it dance, each errant spark that glittered and then faded was a dream fulfilled, a purpose accomplished. The kindling of the forge was made to create weapons so how could it not glow like the sun when it got to fulfil its purpose?

Clank.

The hammer fell and the pump was pushed to breathe more air into the kindling, heat scattering alongside the sparks. It was warm, searing even. Yin Long felt the fine hairs on his face melt each time the hammer fell, his lips and skin long dry.

Clank.

But this was just warmth. A tinge of fever like a ray from the distant sun. To Kong Hui Jo, life had been a blazing pain.

Clank.

Skin had crackled as flesh cooked, blood-vessels had burst as blood boiled. At first there was just a twinge of white, but eventually the world had been overtaken by murky spots, when your eyes burned and melted, the world may as well look scorched and decayed. But even that ruined world was missed when the last of your retinas melted and darkness descended, for everything was better than those final moments of solitude as you burned. Not even your own scream could keep you company in that darkness, the fire in your throat and lungs stole it all.

Clank.

A spark rose and died on Kong Hu… No, Yin Long's face. A flash of warmth dragged him back to his own reality. Life was painful. For Kong Hui Jo, for Puisha, for Hao Han, for Dao She Jui. And now, thanks to them, it was painful for Yin Long.

Clank.

The dancing sparks scurried about like tiny sprites, fluttering out of existence with a final quiet giggle. He'd seen them before, in his own life, in his own past. The forging of a blade, the hammering of metal. Oh, how beautiful the sprites had been then, dancing in his eyes as if the world was filled with music.

Clank.

Why were they so dark now? Where was the giggling, the music, the joy as they scattered? They couldn't even get reflected in his eyes anymore, they just sank into the murky darkness with a quiet whimper. The sun had grown cold and the sparks had grown dark. The light was swallowed and the sprites were dead, becoming nothing more than another piece of the emptiness.

Clank.

The only sound echoing throughout the emptiness was the constant clanking of hammer striking blade, of metal grinding against metal. Oh how familiar the sound was, how dear it was. It reminded him of a time before the hollowness, before the cold light and the dead sprites.

Clank.

When had it first started? The emptiness, the small motes of darkness gnawing at his kindling? Was it when his friends and family died because of him? No, the first patch of darkness went back further than that.

Clank.

Was it back when Lan Yun and Jin Wang were kidnapped by Xue Qiuling and he almost lost them? No, that wasn't it either, his first brush with emptiness went back further.

Clank.

Was it when he forced Lang Huo to kill him in that duel? Was it when his actions as an assassin were revealed? No, it couldn't be them either. He was happy when he died, he was happy that his life could be useful even as it ended.

Clank.

Ah… There it was. A dimly lit room. The sound of rain hammering on the large window, the howling of wind and roaring of thunder. The usual smell of food replaced by the soft scent of decay. The hand on his cheek, that soft and light touch that lacked any energy. Yes, that's where it had all started. The first pain. The first touch of emptiness. The first embrace by hollowness. Esi.

Swoosh.

A sound that belonged to the steady rhythm of the hammer. The soft sound as it moved through the air, the brief moment before its familiar clank would echo through the emptiness. But that touch of familiarity that dredged at his old memories wasn't allowed to ring out again. A hand clutched his falling wrist, a gentle yet firm grip that had followed him almost as long as that first patch of darkness.

"You mustn't do that, Young Master. Your pain isn't an art exhibit, it is not a show for others to marvel at. So please, my dear Young Master, open your eyes."

A soft darkness fell over his eyes for a second as the sweet voice tugged at his sense of reality, dragged him out of the dark mire again. When the hand that covered his eyes moved away, gone was the dimly lit room and the sound of rain, he was back in the forge.

His arm was still raised, the hammer held tight in his grasp, like a child scared that their parents would let go of him. He never did get to complete that swing, he was barely allowed to start its movement. But he felt something familiar within the hammer, within the motion. A nail. His nail, his very own, and his very first nail.

His murky gaze slid forward slightly, landing on the woman who was helping him forge. She was no longer managing the molten metal or the pump, she was crumpled over on the ground while groaning, clutching her stomach. He could see that her cheeks had started to thin, as if she was sucking them in.

But no, she wasn't feigning it. She was suffering, aching as she cried without a single tear, screamed without a single sound. The nail, Yin Long's first nail, his first brush with emptiness, she had been scratched by it because he had started to sink into the emptiness thanks to the familiar sound. He didn't get to finish swinging the nail thanks to Lan Yun, but it had still scratched the world, as was the nature of nails.

"You've hammered enough, Young Master. You can put down the hammer. It's enough."

The sweet voice snuck into his ears again from behind him, the hand holding his wrist gently lowering it. The nail within that grasp faded away like dust in the wind. There would be a time for it to properly scratch the world now that Yin Long understood what it meant to be a nail, what it meant to be a Woehowl. But now wasn't the time, and this simple blacksmith wasn't the world.

The hammer fell to the ground with a dull thud as it struck the earth, neither of the two within the room noticing the very faint sound of metal striking wooden floorboards hidden within that thud. Lan Yun's grip on his wrist softened after the hammer fell, her familiar weight leaning against his back.

"That's good, my dear Young Master. You completed what you wanted to do. But her… We must be better than those who left scars on you, we must be better than us."

Yin Long didn't need to move his eyes to know where Lan Yun's finger was pointing. The fallen blacksmith, the soundless scream that shouldn't have rung out. She was suffering, and he was the nail that had left a scar on her for no reason. They had to be better, if they weren't then they would just end up in the same position that they were in as they died.

Yin Long's other hand let go of the sword that still held a faint orange glow from the heat, his knees bending in a motion that he was now far too familiar with. His arm felt heavy, a mountainous weight lingering on his shoulders. But he still stretched it out, he still prayed as he added to that weight, to that swirling blackish-yellow darkness.

"I am sorry. You did not deserve that suffering. Visrama, Visrama, Ananta Visrama, let me bear it for you, those cries, your screams."

His hand landed on the blacksmith's shoulder and the law of Yin seeped into her. It dug into her very soul and burrowed into her pain, dredging up trauma and suffering. And then it gave that sorrow and hatred to Yin Long, listened to the prayer spoken for those who suffered and couldn't smile.

And so the world grew a bit brighter, the hope a bit lighter. And so, the weight grew heavier, and the darkness deeper. And so, the kindling that couldn't burn grew a bit colder.

"Thank you, for the sword. May you rest peacefully. Visrama."

Yin Long lowered his head slightly after he removed his hand, a prayer falling out of his mouth like vomit, like a curse upon existence. The blacksmith still lay there, but her expression was a lot more peaceful, as if she was having a sweet dream. Something fell from his right eye just as he pulled back his hand, a drop cutting through the air before it scattered upon hitting the earth.

He wasn't crying. He had spewed out everything when he cried in Lan Yun's embrace, when he begged for forgiveness. He had no more tears, so what fell out wasn't a tear. It was liquid, but it was black and heavy. It looked like pale ash mixed with glistening oil, a dirty and murky liquid, like the refuse of the world.

He wiped the dark streak from his face with his sleeve. Only a single drop had fallen so its traces were easily washed away with that simple motion. Perhaps in that way it too tried to mimic the suffering that was so easily ignored.

"You may not need it, but here, Young Master. Your sword."

Lan Yun's voice reached him again after he wiped away the refuse, the wastewater that spilt out. She still wore that crumpled expression that couldn't be called a smile, gesturing towards the weapon that still rested on the forge. Yin Long straightened his legs and picked up the sword, quenching it in the trough that awaited it at the side of the forge.

Steam rose and the water bubbled, the pale orange glow of the blade smothered within the water. When Yin Long raised the weapon, the previously ruined sword looked as if it had returned to a normal state, albeit with a blunt edge.

It only took a quick glance for Yin Long to spot a grinding station standing at the opposite corner of the room, just waiting for a weapon that would need it, something to validate its existence. The chair stationed by it was a bit too small so sitting on it was uncomfortable, but Yin Long paid it no mind as he got to work.

The wheel started to spin, sparks scattering as he held the blunt weapon against the tool. A familiar screeching sound filled his ears and empty insides as he worked. How long had it been since he last had to sharpen a sword? Ever since he acquired the ability to just make his own swords it hadn't been needed, everything he created was razor sharp after all.

But this wasn't one of his own creations so he whet the blade on the stone, grinding down the blunt edge. The murky metal slowly started to glow as he took turns whetting and polishing it, a thin edge slowly forming. But with each twist of his wrists, a bit of the red that stained his hands slid onto the blade, muddled the world it reflected. He touched it, so the blood that tainted him came to taint it, and thus he ruined what he touched.

When he was finally finished, the blade looked entirely red in his eyes, dripping with wrongly spilt blood. The metal should be shiny and clean, but it just looked murky as it reflected his eyes. It looked whole again, as normal as any blade you could buy. But he could still see the cracks that filled it, they marred his own reflection and split him apart. The blade, perhaps it was inevitable that it remain fractured and broken.

But it would do. Broken and stained, tainted and ruined, this was perhaps the perfect sword for him. With the weapon complete, he propped the fallen blacksmith up against the wall and allowed her to keep dreaming sweetly. She would have to wake up to reality before long, but at that time it should be a bit brighter to her, a bit more hopeful.

"Shall we go, my kind Young Master? There are still many more who suffer."

Lan Yun stretched out her hand, mimicking the hand Yin Long stretched out on her behalf. He sheathed the blade and hung it at his waist and then took the hand, an almost wretched smile creeping up on his face as he put on the smile she couldn't. They had been to one Resting Station, but with how large this town was there were probably multiple here. There were still many prayers to be said on this day.

And so, the city became a bit brighter that day and its hope a bit lighter, the gift of peace and rest delivered even unto this small piece of the Netherworld. And so, the swirling darkness dripping with wastewater grew darker, its sunlight colder and its kindling darker. But there were still people suffering, there were still prayers to be said. So the wastewater moved, murky footsteps trailing away from the city as they left behind a simple prayer.

"Visrama. Visrama. Ananta Visrama."