Heavenly Workshop: Iron Lord of the Cultivation Wastes

The air inside the forge was perfectly still. As if the world itself held its breath.

Jiang Ye stood in the dark, one hand resting on the lion-shaped anvil, the other hovering just above the glowing glyph suspended before him. The cube pulsed like a living heart, emitting a soft hum that resonated through the bones of the forge.

"Sentinel Market Interface unlocked," the voice intoned. "Connection stabilized. Host access granted to curated Machine Dao relics, blueprints, and classified constructs. Warning: Market stock fluctuates based on Host's technological progress, spiritual influence, and philosophical alignment."

"Philosophical alignment?" Jiang Ye murmured.

"Your beliefs shape the world you build. The system responds accordingly."

"Then let's build a world that bleeds when it's cut."

The glyph fractured like glass.

A moment later, a vast lattice of golden schematics unfolded in mid-air, floating through the chamber like celestial maps. He saw diagrams of complex machines layered with spirit-script, rotating engine cores, mechanized beasts, synthetic meridian networks—each more impossible than the last.

But one blueprint pulsed in red.

Tier I Forbidden Construct: Qi-Leech Refinery Node

Converts ambient spiritual energy into compressed, weaponizable essence.

Effect: Creates artificial spiritual scarcity in enemy territory.

Risk: Extreme. Considered heretical by all major sects.

Jiang Ye's fingers trembled slightly—not with fear, but with want.

This wasn't just power. This was economic warfare. Starve a sect of qi, and their cultivation would wither like wheat in winter.

"Cost: 3,000 CP or equivalent exchange in spirit essence."

"How much do I have?"

"Post-reward balance: 3,200 CP."

"Buy it."

"Confirmed."

The schematic embedded itself in his mind, and with it came the instructions—materials, formation patterns, cooling arrays, false-flag concealment protocols.

Jiang Ye smiled, slow and sharp.

By the time he returned to the manor's inner chambers, dusk had fallen. Red-orange light slashed through the corridors, burning across the stone like blood at twilight.

She waited for him in his study, back to the door, fingers trailing across his desk.

Liu Qianyu.

The woman wore a midnight-blue silk robe trimmed in silver, loose enough to hint but not reveal, gathered at the waist by a cord of woven talismans. Her hair was unpinned. Deliberately casual. Dangerous.

"You didn't call for me," she said without turning.

"I didn't need to," Jiang Ye replied.

She turned now, slowly, chin slightly tilted.

"And yet you returned to the forge with a pulse like thunder," she said. "Whatever you found—it wasn't small."

"Would you like to see it?" he asked.

"I would."

"Then remove your robe."

She blinked.

Slowly.

Then—she smiled. Not soft. Not shy. Sharp. Calculating.

"You mean it literally," she said.

"Your qi signature would disrupt the projection field. Skin contact only."

"Of course."

She undid the robe without a word. Let it slip from her shoulders, pooling around her ankles like silk water.

Jiang Ye stepped forward, fingers grazing her forearm. The touch was light, but it was all that was needed. The construct projected between them—a lattice of red lines and spinning gears—and Liu Qianyu's pupils dilated.

She looked at him.

And for the first time, her mask slipped.

"This," she whispered, "could drain a sect city in a week."

"Three days," Jiang Ye corrected. "If placed near a leyline."

Her breath trembled once. Then evened.

She stepped closer, her chest brushing his.

"Do you want loyalty," she asked, "or complicity?"

He didn't answer.

She leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

"Because I've already chosen. I just want to know what I am to you."

Jiang Ye looked her dead in the eye.

"A knife I trust not to dull."

She kissed him—rough, hungry, claiming.

And then stepped back, tied her robe, and left without another word.

He didn't have time to savor the moment.

An hour later, the gate steward burst into the study.

"My lord—an envoy from the Hidden Edge Sect has arrived. No escort. No announcement. He waits in the hall."

Jiang Ye's eyes sharpened.

"Prepare tea."

"And the guards?"

"No. Let him wait. Alone."

The envoy stood motionless in the ancestral hall, flanked only by silence. He wore charcoal-gray robes with the Sect's seal sewn in silver thread over the heart. His eyes were hidden beneath a flat-topped hood, and his hands were folded calmly.

Jiang Ye entered slowly, each footstep echoing.

"Envoys usually announce themselves," he said.

The man bowed his head.

"I am no envoy," he replied. "Merely a messenger. My sect has heard… troubling rumors."

"Ah," Jiang Ye said. "Rumors. My favorite currency."

The man's lips did not twitch.

"Spiritual fluctuation records indicate covert operations in the southern hills. Experimental qi compression. Unauthorized forge fires. Curious things for a declining noble house."

"Curiosity is the root of invention."

"And heresy."

Jiang Ye approached until only a few paces separated them.

"If your sect has proof," he said softly, "then accuse me."

"If we had proof," the man replied just as softly, "you'd be ashes."

Silence.

Jiang Ye smiled.

"I appreciate honesty."

"I bring you a warning, Lord Jiang. Your enemies multiply. Crows smell smoke. You are not invisible."

"No," Jiang Ye said. "I am inevitable."

The messenger inclined his head, turned, and left without another word.

Jiang Ye waited until he was gone.

Then looked up at the shadows above the beams.

"I know you're there," he said.

Wu Meixue dropped from the rafters.

"You want me to kill him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I want him to return home," Jiang Ye said, "and tell his masters the truth."

"And what truth is that?"

Jiang Ye turned toward the forge corridor.

"That I smiled when threatened."

At dawn, the carriage arrived.

Black lacquered wood, trimmed in phoenix gold. Two spirit bulls pulled it through the outer gate, unchallenged, as Jiang Ye stood waiting at the manor entrance with a small retinue of handpicked guards.

The door opened.

And she stepped out.

Lan Yueru.

Daughter of Magistrate Lan of Stonewell Town. Known for her gentle music, her pious calligraphy… and, less publicly, for embarrassing three marriage suitors into retreat with a smile and a single sentence.

She wore white.

Not just for elegance. For strategy.

White meant purity, clarity, peace.

She bowed deeply—gracefully—her every movement measured like a blade concealed in silk.

"Lord Jiang," she said. "It is an honor."

He inclined his head. "The honor is mine."

She met his eyes directly. "You do not seem as desperate as I expected."

"And you don't seem as meek as your father described."

"Then we are both disappointments," she said pleasantly.

Jiang Ye's mouth curved.

So. Not a doll. A strategist.

Excellent.

He offered her his arm.

She took it.

"Come," he said. "Let's talk about politics. And wine. And whether you prefer wolves or knives in your garden."

"I prefer both," she said.

"Then we may get along after all."