A Waste of Time-Chapter 49: Sunken Sigh

Daemon made his way towards Nie Leixu’s Smithy at a steady but determined pace, ignoring the glances and whispers trailing in his wake. Ever since he’d stepped back into this village — dragging that monstrous Aquatic-Boa behind him — some of the brats around his age seemed to think they’d been granted permission to hover near him again. He noticed the way they lurked near alley corners or peeked from behind stalls, trying to catch his eyes as if the clock could turn itself backwards just because they’d decided to remember he existed.
Some of these same brats were Da Niu’s old playmates — back when his father was still alive and his mother hadn’t yet dragged that sniveling drunk into their home to spit curses at him over every meager bowl of rice. The same brats who vanished the moment his stomach did the same, leaving him to rot in that broken shack while they played stickball in the street.
Not my problem. Not anymore.
He answered each stiff “Young Master Da Niu!” with a flat nod and a polite hum, never slowing his stride, never opening the door they hoped to slip through.
A plump boy with a doughy face — the Baker’s son who’d once loved to smack him behind the head just because he could — puffed up enough courage to step in front of him. “Hey! Hey, Da Niu! Wait — what’s your secret, huh?” The question came out more whiny than bold, his eyes flicking to the muscle barely hidden beneath Daemon’s sleeves.
Daemon paused mid-step, his boots scraping the dust. He turned his neck just enough for his shadow to stretch long over the boy’s trembling feet. A single heartbeat of silence passed between them before Daemon’s lips curved into a blade-thin grin. “Eat your vegetables. Run one hour at dawn every day. Sleep at least six hours, no less.” He let that linger — cold, sharp truth that carved deeper than any insult — then winked at the blushing girls hiding behind the Baker’s son. His grin turned softer, but no less distant. He raised a hand in a lazy wave before slipping past the human wall with ease.
They didn’t dare follow him past the fence where the old Smithy loomed like a crouched beast of fire and steel. Everyone knew Nie Leixu’s six sons were bred hard as Iron Ingots and swung their fists like hammers if they caught fools lurking too close to their father’s forge. Daemon stepped over the threshold, inhaling the heat and iron scent like an offering. He barely caught the last echo of giggles and muttered excuses drifting away behind him.
Let them whisper. Let them wonder.
“Hehe… look what we have here.”
“The Young Hero’s back — did you see those kids drooling after him?”
“Kekeke… more boys than girls too! Heh.”
“I admire your courage for saying that out loud.”
“Me too.”
“Me three.”
“Huh? Why—”
Thud!
A sandaled foot connected with the backside of the loudest brother. He stumbled forward with a squawk, barely catching himself before he slammed into the anvil. Nie Leixu, sleeves rolled to his elbows and a scowl buried under his thick beard, jabbed a finger at his foolish son. “Because that boy could kick your ass harder than that — you Iron-sand-for-brains. Now shut up.”
The other five brothers howled with laughter that died the instant their father’s eyes turned on them. Daemon just cocked an eyebrow, stepping forward without missing a beat as Nie Leixu jabbed a thumb at the empty workbench to his left. “Stand here. Grab that Hammer. Flat side only — don’t get creative until I say so.”
Daemon obeyed without a word, fingers curling around the wooden handle that still carried the ghost of countless strikes. He lifted it once, testing its balance and weight, then nodded once to the big man and turned to face the Forge. Heat roared at him in waves thick as oil, licking sweat across his brow before he’d even raised the Hammer properly.
Good.
His grip tightened.
Exactly what I wanted.
Nie Leixu didn’t waste time with fancy speeches. He stepped to the massive crucible locked into the Forge’s gaping mouth and twisted the iron wheel that groaned in protest but obeyed.
Hiss — Fwoosh.
A slow, steady river of molten metal poured into the thick, scorched container in his grip. It glowed brighter than fresh blood, searing red and gold, and Daemon felt the heat crackle against his chest like a living warning. He watched the Blacksmith brace his knees and arms to guide the flow, only cutting it off once the container was near brimming.
When the liquid metal was ready, Nie Leixu moved like a man born from iron himself — muscle shifting under skin hard as boiled leather. He lifted the container and turned, easing the blistering cargo into a set of massive wooden molds packed with fine, red Sand. Even the Sand hissed and spit sparks when the liquid hit, casting a sickly glow against the soot-black walls of the Smithy.
Daemon’s eyes flicked to the other molds stacked nearby — shapes of Swords, unfinished Blades, broad-shouldered Spears, curved Axes. Tools of survival. Tools of war. All born from this same burning place.
Once the molds were filled and the crucible returned to its cradle, Nie Leixu popped open another mold. From it he extracted a half-finished Sword that looked less like a Weapon and more like a chunk of Iron big enough to batter down castle gates. It was nearly as tall as Daemon, wide enough that Nie Leixu needed both arms and a back braced like a wall to heft it. Even then, his steps were slow, careful — like he was guiding an unruly beast toward slaughter.
Daemon didn’t need to be told twice to stand still. He stayed rooted beside the anvil, Hammer balanced on his shoulder, eyes never leaving the giant Sword as Nie Leixu stripped off the burnt edges with quick, precise tools. Every motion was heavy but graceful — like watching a bear carve calligraphy with its claws.
Next came the cleaning. A battered steel tub full of pale blue liquid. Steam hissed when the Sword dipped in. The Blacksmith scrubbed the charred slag from the Blade’s face, layer by layer, until the dull Iron gave way to a shy gleam beneath.
Then, with a grunt, Nie Leixu swung open a side hatch of the Forge and shoved the cleaned Sword deep into the flames again. He turned back only once it vanished behind the roar of fire and the hiss of new life being beaten into old metal.
He’s not forging a Weapon just to show off,
Daemon thought as he watched the man pull a second, smaller Blade from the same inferno — this one gripped with a pair of steel tongs.
He’s testing me. Good.
“I want you to Hammer the edges,” Nie Leixu barked, snapping Daemon’s focus back. He stabbed a ruler at the Blade’s dull side, tracing a slow, deliberate path. “Start here. Nine strikes at a time. Miss your mark — we do it again. And again. And again — until you get it right.”
He raised his bushy brows at his sons, who tried and failed to hide their grins behind scarred knuckles and grimy aprons. The eldest of the six crossed his thick arms and leaned in, voice dripping with theatrical pity. “Good luck, Young Master.”
Daemon ignored him. His hands flexed once on the Hammer’s haft, then settled into the right grip. He planted his feet, angled the Blade with the steel tongs, and lined up his first strike. The ringing in his ears quieted to a single thought.
Only the Hammer matters.
Clang.
One perfect strike. Sparks spat off the Blade’s glowing skin, dancing up his sleeve before dying in the Forge’s dry breath.
Clang.
Two. The tune of metal against metal struck the back of Nie Leixu’s neck like a forgotten ghost. He sucked in a sharp breath — the old ritual taking hold before he could stop it.
Clang.
Three. Nie Xiaodan, the eldest son, tilted his head slightly, ears straining for the inevitable slip.
But the slip didn’t come.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Six. Sparks like falling stars.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Nine. Daemon paused, adjusted the Blade with steady, practiced flicks of the tongs.
Next link in the chain.
His shoulders rolled, his breath flowed out slow and measured. Then he raised the Hammer again.
The five other sons traded looks behind Nie Leixu’s broad back — some with growing respect, others with something darker coiled behind their eyes.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Another link forged. The heat ate at Daemon’s sleeves, sweat pearled under his hairline, but his wrists stayed locked, shoulders loose, feet rooted deep.
Nie Leixu watched.
Not bad,
he admitted silently.
Form’s raw. But the aim… the aim’s clean.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Nine more. Still no slip.
Nie Xiaodan’s smirk wilted, replaced by the same quiet weight that had dragged his shoulders for years. His father’s Forge — the family’s legacy — outmatched by a boy not even blood.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Then Daemon stopped. He set the Hammer down, exhaling slow through his nose. “I think I failed,” he said, voice flat but honest. The Blade’s glow had dulled to a sullen ember — the metal losing its fight against the air.
Nie Leixu’s broad shoulders sagged with a sigh so heavy it rattled the tools on his bench. His sons didn’t cheer — not exactly — but every man in that Smithy breathed easier as if spared a fresh wound.
Nie Xiaodan stepped forward and clapped a hand to Daemon’s shoulder, rough but not unkind. “No worries, Young Master. You’ll get it next time.”
He meant it. Even if the thought made the Forge feel smaller than it had minutes before.
Daemon said nothing. He only looked back at the dormant Blade, the Hammer cooling at his side, and let the heat of the Forge settle in his bones.
One cycle down. Countless more to go. Good.
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