CHAPTER 12: CHAPTER 11: FLAME, FORGED BY WILL

The next morning, sunlight had barely stretched its fingers over the peaks of Mount Mugang when Jinmu stepped out into the street. A faint chill still clung to the air, but his steps were steady. Beneath his cloak, his body still bore faint soreness from the battle with the fire-breathing beast, but his heart was calm. His goal was clear.

I have the materials. I have the technique. And now, I need the fire...

He stopped before a forge tucked into the deeper alleys of the city — not flashy, not central, but well-maintained. The sign above was unpolished iron, engraved only with a simple character: "철" — steel.

Jinmu stepped inside. The scent of soot, oil, and iron hit him instantly, sharp and heavy. Sparks danced in the far corner, and the sound of steel ringing against steel echoed like a heartbeat.

The man working the anvil turned his head.

He was large. Not just muscular, but built like someone who had shaped iron with his bare hands for decades. His hair was silvering at the sides, tied in a rough knot behind his head, and his arms were layered with burn scars. His eyes were a dark brown, like cooled iron, and sharp as blades.

This was Gwak Jincheol, one of the more respected smiths in the city.

The hammer paused mid-swing.

"You again," Gwak Jincheol grunted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Didn’t expect to see the quiet one back so soon. You lost?"

Jinmu stepped forward, lowering his hood but keeping his expression calm.

"No. I came to ask something."

"That right?" The smith raised a brow. "Didn’t strike me as the type to talk much."

"I’d like to use your smithy," Jinmu said plainly.

There was a clang as the smith laid his hammer down, not roughly, but slowly. Deliberately.

Gwak Jincheol stared at him in silence for a moment. Then he let out a short, humorless laugh.

"You? Use my smithy? Kid, you know how many fools in this city would kill just to get five minutes in here?" He leaned forward. "What makes you think I’d let you touch even a tong in my forge?"

"I’m not here to borrow your tools. I brought my own materials," Jinmu replied, meeting the smith’s gaze. "And I don’t need guidance."

"Oh, so you’re a smith now?" Gwak Jincheol scoffed. "Can’t be older than eighteen. Don’t even smell like iron yet. You think swinging a sword makes you qualified to shape one?"

"I’ve seen your technique," Jinmu said, voice low. "And I’ve learned it."

Gwak Jincheol’s face darkened.

"You what?"

"I said," Jinmu repeated, "I’ve learned your technique."

Not exactly a lie. I did copy it. Every movement of his hand, the way he channels ki through heat, the structure of his forging rhythm... it’s all stored within me now.

"You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that." Gwak Jincheol crossed his arms. "And stupidity. A lot of it."

He studied Jinmu a while longer, eyes narrowing.

"You got your own ore?"

Jinmu reached into his pouch and pulled out a wrapped cloth bundle. When he opened it, the metal inside shimmered with a reddish hue, faint heat rising off it like breath. The core fragments of the fire-breathing beast — dense, glowing, and rare.

Gwak Jincheol let out a slow whistle.

"...Where did you get this?"

"I hunted a beast. Peak Master level," Jinmu answered simply.

The smith didn’t speak for a long time. The only sound in the forge was the soft creak of burning coals.

Finally, he scratched the back of his head and muttered, "If you’re lying, you’ll burn your own hands off. If you’re not... well, I’d be damned not to watch."

He gestured toward the inner side of the forge.

"You get one try, brat. One."

"I only need one," Jinmu said.

The fire roared louder than before, as if answering Jinmu’s resolve.

He tied up his sleeves and laid out the materials beside the forge — the beast’s core, scattered scales, remnants of its claws and bones. All of it radiated a faint crimson glow.

Gwak Jincheol leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"You got a name, brat?"

"...Jinmu."

"Alright then, Jinmu. Show me what you can do."

Jinmu stepped forward. His fingers brushed the tongs, the hammer, the quenching basin — and everything came naturally. Not forced. Not learned through books. It was as if his muscles remembered everything. The Ironshaping Craftsmanship flowed through him.

Every movement has a rhythm... the pulse of the forge, the breath of the fire, the tension of the metal... don’t fight it. Just follow it.

He stoked the fire, adjusting the heat with the technique’s subtle ki control. Instead of a blinding blaze, it was precise — focused. The core melted slowly, obediently, infused with energy instead of resisting.

Gwak Jincheol straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

He’s not just copying my technique... he’s... refining it.

Jinmu began forging. The process took hours. He shaped the metal with smooth, calculated strikes. Never wasted movement. Never second-guessing. The blade that took form was not bulky, nor thin — it was sleek, balanced, and dangerous.

The color of the sword wasn’t ordinary silver or gray.

It was red — not painted, but dyed through the essence of the fire-breathing beast. Its surface shimmered with heat lines, almost like it pulsed with flame. And when Jinmu gently poured his ki into the blade—

WHOOSH.

The blade flared to life, cloaked in fire that danced like a living spirit. It didn’t burn him. It embraced him.

Gwak Jincheol muttered, half to himself, "That sword’s alive..."

Jinmu looked at it silently. Then he lowered the blade and sheathed it into the scabbard he’d carved earlier.

"I’ll call it..." he paused, gaze resting on the glowing embers beneath the forge, "Yeomhwa."

Gwak Jincheol blinked. "Flame Blossom, huh? Not bad."

He walked over slowly, eyes glued to the sword.

"You know," he said, his voice low, "I’ve forged for thirty years. Masters from all over Jeonghwa have used my blades. But that—" he pointed at the sword, "—that isn’t just craft. That’s art."

Jinmu bowed slightly.

"I used your technique."

"You used my technique better than I ever could," Gwak Jincheol said, not unkindly. "And I don’t say that lightly."

There was a pause before he added, "I don’t know where you learned it. Maybe you saw me in a dream or something." He gave a half-laugh. "But you got it burned into your bones now."

He extended a hand.

"If you ever need a place to forge again, Jinmu... this smithy’s open to you."

Jinmu accepted the handshake, firm and quiet.

I have my sword now. My fire. My path.

Outside, the sky had turned a deep amber. And within his robe, Yeomhwa pulsed with quiet, controlled heat — a blade born of monster blood, ki-fire, and stolen craftsmanship.

The morning wind was dry and restless. Leaves rustled above like whispering tongues, and sunlight filtered down through thick layers of trees, breaking into shards on the forest floor.

Jinmu stood alone in the clearing.

No paths led here. No sounds of footsteps. Only the occasional call of a bird or the snapping of a branch under a distant beast. It was the kind of place one could vanish into without leaving a trace.

That was why he chose it.

He unstrapped Yeomhwa, his newly forged sword, from his back and held it before him. The metal hummed faintly as if recognizing what was to come.

Now... it’s time to test the other blade I’ve taken.

Jinmu closed his eyes and reached inward. Through the quiet pulse of ki in his danjeon, he located the technique he had copied — the sword art of the Crimson Flow Blade Union.

The memory surged forward.

Movements wild and aggressive. Sword arcs that tore through air without hesitation. A style that was ruthless in intent and explosive in power. The very embodiment of the Crimson Flow.

He focused.

"PASTE," he whispered, his voice barely audible under the breath of the wind.

The copied energy shifted in his body, snapping into place like a puzzle locking into a frame.

So this is what their blade feels like... it’s like my blood is being forced to boil. There’s no hesitation. No softness. It demands blood.

Jinmu took a stance.

He inhaled. Then moved.

The first form — Crimson Fang Draw. A lightning-quick unsheathing slash designed to tear through an opponent’s guard before they could even react.

The second — Flood Edge Rush. A forward burst, low to the ground, using footwork to close gaps and disorient.

The third — Scattering Blade Rain. A flurry of diagonal cuts mimicking falling crimson petals, overwhelming defense with sheer speed.

The fourth — Wounded Flame Step. A twisted step that left behind afterimages while slicing sideways.

The fifth — Severing Torrent. A descending slash layered with rotating ki, meant to break weapons and bones alike.

The sixth — Crescent Rupture. A leaping arc of the blade, sending compressed ki like a half-moon slash at long range.

The seventh — Final Vein Break. A thrust that tunneled ki straight into the opponent’s danjeon.

And the eighth — Crimson Last Breath. A finishing move — high risk, high reward — a reckless all-out strike meant to finish battles by spilling blood.

By the end of it, the forest clearing was scarred. Trees bore deep gashes, the ground was scorched, and dust danced around Jinmu like remnants of battle.

He lowered Yeomhwa, breathing heavily, his body slick with sweat.

"...It’s strong," he muttered. "But..."

It doesn’t fit.

He stood still for a long moment, his eyes drifting down to the blade. Flames still clung to it, licking the edge gently.

It’s brutal... yes. But the rhythm is jagged. Unbalanced. It fights against my body’s natural flow.

The forms were powerful — there was no question. But it felt like he was dragging a blade through water, fighting resistance that shouldn’t be there.

I’m not a member of the Crimson Flow Blade Union. Their technique isn’t wrong — it just wasn’t made for me.

His thoughts drifted.

Blossom Vein Arts.

Where each motion flowed like water. Graceful, deceptive, fluid. It wasn’t raw violence — it was elegant death. It bent the opponent instead of breaking them outright. His body had long grown used to that art’s rhythm.

He took a breath. Closed his eyes.

What if I didn’t choose? What if I didn’t have to?

His hand gripped the sword tightly.

What if I combined them?

It was a dangerous thought. Reckless even. No one in the world would dare to blend two martial schools with completely opposite philosophies.

But Jinmu wasn’t anyone.

He didn’t learn techniques the way others did.

He copied them.

He understood them.

He could rearrange them.

Slowly, he took the stance of the Blossom Vein’s opening form — Drifting Petal Stance.

But this time, he altered it.

He infused the stance with the violent energy of Crimson Fang Draw. Instead of waiting like the Blossom Vein’s typical approach, he baited — then lashed out.

The clash was sharp, chaotic, violent — like two storms colliding within his meridians.

Jinmu gritted his teeth as ki roared inside him.

Not yet... Hold it... Guide it...

He shifted.

Took the footwork of Flood Edge Rush, but merged it with the momentum redirection of Twin Lotus Coils. Instead of charging in, he twisted behind the imagined enemy’s flank and struck with a rising blade arc.

Again, clashing styles.

Again, imbalance.

But he didn’t stop.

Bend. Don’t force. Let one guide the other.

He adjusted.

Instead of layering the techniques blindly, he let one style serve as the foundation and the other as the edge.

Blossom Vein Arts for structure — Crimson Flow for impact.

Water... with fire beneath.

Grace... with wrath folded inside.

The results began to change.

The sword no longer dragged. It danced. Flames spiraled around petals. Slashes moved like flowing ink, but struck with the force of lightning.

Nine forms.

Each one birthed in the crucible of his duality.

He called it—

Blossom Flow Requiem (연화혈무 | Yeonhwahyeol-mu)

He whispered the name, and his ki accepted it.

Nine forms...

Flame Petal Draw – A deceptive opening slash, blending blossom stillness with an explosive first step.

Winding Pulse Dash – Merges evasive redirection with a brutal side thrust, flowing like a stream, striking like a flood.

Coiled Vein Rain – A flurry with hidden acupuncture strikes among violent cuts, meant to confuse and maim.

Ghost Bloom Step – Mid-combat feint that leaves an afterimage of flame trailing like petals in the wind.

Crimson Curtain Dance – A circular chain of palm and blade strikes, defensive yet continuously pushing.

Vein-Rupture Spiral – A grounded ki-siphon that tears enemy footing before retaliating with upward arcs.

Moonlit Bloom Severance – A wide horizontal slash, layered with bloodlust and softness, disarming both weapon and mind.

Heart of the Last Bloom – A buildup technique that focuses ki into a single strike that pierces armor, flesh, and will.

Funeral Flame Blossom – The final form. A full-body blade dance where flame and petal spiral into a storm that consumes everything within reach.

He stood still at the end.

Breathing hard. Knees slightly bent. Sweat dripping down his jaw.

But his eyes were burning.

Not with fire — with clarity.

This... is mine.

He had copied two techniques.

But this one—

He created it.

And now the sword he forged, Yeomhwa, pulsed warmly as if it, too, recognized the new path. A path of contradiction made whole.