Tang Wulin had been busy all morning.
The forging room's windows faced south. At noon, sunlight poured in from outside, illuminating the anvil and his sweat-dampened forehead. He placed the last piece of Spirit Alloy into the Storage Soul Tool. The metallic clink was faint, like a few pebbles dropping into deep water.
His finger pressed the edge of the Soul Tool. The lid sprang back with a tiny click. Metal shavings were scattered across the tabletop—silver, dark gold, and copper-red mixed together like a layer of crushed starlight. His palm was burning hot, and gripping the hammer all morning had worn a faint red ring into the web between his thumb and forefinger.
Before leaving, he looked at his forging hammer.
The hammer rested beside the anvil. Its face still held the residual warmth from the forging, and a thin layer of heat could be felt when he brought his hand near. The handle was dark brown, its color deepened by the sweat from his palm. Several strips of nonslip cloth were wrapped around its end, their edges worn and frayed. He reached out, picked it up, and weighed it in his hand.
He had a bold idea.
"Bzz."
Wu Changkong's Communication Soul Tool rang once.
The sound was muffled, the dull vibration of a metal casing. The Soul Tool lay on the lectern, its screen lighting up and casting a white glow across Wu Changkong's chin. He lowered his head for a glance, and his brows shifted slightly.
"What is it?"
Long Bing leaned her head over, carrying a faint, fragrant scent.
Her silver hair slid from her shoulder, the ends brushing Wu Changkong's arm. She leaned closer to look at the screen, her breath gently brushing the back of his hand. Her scent was faint, the crisp