A Waste of Time

Chapter 68: Flickering Ash

Morning.

Daemon rose, stretched the stiffness from his back, then sat down cross-legged — slipping into the black-and-white tiled path. Routine. Another piece of Asura’s World in his mind.

The dice felt cold, familiar in his palm. He flicked it.

He got a 1.

A quiet growl. “Don’t be another Mystery Box…”

The [????] tile glowed ominously in red — no clue. Same gamble.

No kick back to Asura’s Iron Throne this time. Instead — [Hourly-Roll].

No time to spit a curse — the tiles vanished. No flash, no swirl — just a new path under him.

Now dark-blue tiles stretched ahead, fading brighter toward a rippling surface. Behind, each step blackened deeper into an abyss that made his gut tighten.

Around him: the ocean — flashes of scales, fins, shadows painted in green, silver, gold, crimson.

A new dice — red-and-white — sat ready.

He rolled.

A 3 (Red).

The path dragged him back three tiles toward the dark. Cold pressure pressed up through the tiles — the abyss closer than before.

Perfect. Nothing but deeper dark.

A sharp breath, then he flicked out — back to his tent.

Real dirt, morning chill. But that ocean still lingered behind his eyes. Kicking the flap open, he left.

Jia glanced over. Kirin wheeled overhead. Xia tended Mei by the fire. Daemon nodded at them — no questions invited. Then the voice came:

Ippo: “So? Figure out why you’re locked out?”

Daemon rubbed his temple. “What can I say? Too handsome. Fate drags me under — who knows what's happening in the Orc camp right now!”

Ippo: “HA! Cheer up buddy! At least you’re swimming with the big fish now. How many rolls till you grow fins? Any idea?”

Daemon snorted, dry. “Laugh it up. Hourly rolls — I’ll clear this in no time, and rule this ocean soon enough. You just watch, and envy. Shrimp!”

Ippo: “Sure. Don't let the abyss spit you out bald. Do me that mercy.”

Daemon flicked him a mental rude sign — then turned for the table. Better preserve than burn, he’d need all the energy he could get to work the Iron later anyway.

Brooding became his mood during the meal’s sitting.

Daemon cleaned the last bite off his fingers, rose, and checked the sun’s angle. He gave Ru a nod to watch over Mei and Xia. "Keep an eye on them for me, will you?" Ru gave a short grunt. "Understood."

Jia fell in step behind him when he tipped his chin for her to follow, then teased Xia and little Mei with a grin. "Don’t worry ladies, I’ll keep an eye on young master Daemon for you." Little Mei stuck her tongue out while Xia hid her annoyance and shooed Jia away with a dismissive flick.

Kirin wheeled overhead, feathers catching sunlight.

Inside the forge, Daemon looked up at Nie Leixu and asked, "What am I going to work on today?"

"Yesterday's stubborn Sword," Leixu said gruffly. "But I’m sure it’ll sing true when you strike it again."

Jia watched in silence, fingers brushing the Hammer’s handle. Nie Xiaoli brought the Sword blank forward with both hands, bowing once after placing it on the workbench next to Daemon's anvil. The younger Nie siblings tried not to stare — but Jia’s sharp eyes flicked their way, and they flinched back to their tasks.

Outside, boots scraped the dirt. Six young men and four young women in yellow robes swaggered close, laughter sharp as knives. Elder Ping followed, face carved from old stone — her mission was to keep the brats safe.

Nie Xiaodan stepped forward, palms raised. "Honored Sect Disciples, this isn’t a place for—"

One disciple — sharp chin, smug grin — shoved closer. "Step aside, Blacksmith. We’ll see for ourselves what treasures your mortal den is hiding."

Another youngster sneered, full of arrogance. "How dare a mortal like you block my way? Move, or taste my Immortal Steel." His hands rested on the pommels of his twin Swords.

Nie Xiaowen bristled at the group of Sect Disciples about his own age, but Leixu’s bark cut him off. "Silence! Let your old man do the talking."

Xiaowen bit his lip, iron tongs clenched tight. The Nie family closed ranks behind their old man to block the entrance — but Daemon’s calm voice cracked the tension. "Hold. Back off if your surname is Nie."

His eyes pinned the Nie men where they stood. Does he think we’re children? Nie Leixu thought — but he held.

The seven men in dirty clothes stepped aside for the ten Sect Disciples — and the barefoot woman in the black dress, whose feet hovered just above the Smithy’s packed dirt, never touching it for even a heartbeat.

Inside his skull, Ippo’s voice curled. "Want me to call the Swordsman over?"

Daemon’s smirk flickered. "Do it. Let’s see how many backsides Ru can spank before I have to lift a finger today."

Beyond the doors, villagers whispered behind shutters. The merchant caravan by the road slowed — drivers nudging each other at the sight of the yellow robes.

High above, Kirin’s wings flexed before it landed behind the Smithy with a low screech — Daemon’s eyes cut toward the beast with a glare that said: Not yet.

Steel met flame again. The Hammer rose. Sparks hissed.

Come knock. I’ll open a dam of trouble.

Ippo emerged from the woods with Kyra and her cub Kira padding behind him. He brushed the leaves off, locked eyes with Ru, and muttered quick details of the brewing mess at the forge.

Ru cursed under his breath, told Xia and Mei to run back to the village at once, then clapped Ippo’s shoulder and stalked off toward the Smithy.

Inside the Smithy, the ten Inner Disciples and Elder Ping stood to the side, the Nie family on the other — tense air thick between them. Daemon hammered the Steel, a Lightning Cocoon sparking around his body and feeding into the Sword. Jia fanned Fire Qi, blasting heat into the metal. Daemon’s Mana bled fast, but his focus never slipped.

The confrontation dragged on as both sides eyed the boy and his maid at work. The woman in black lingered on Daemon; the ten disciples in yellow fixated on the Spiritual Steel. The seven Nie men traded uneasy glances at the hungry gleam in the disciples’ eyes.

Then Ru arrived — silent, gave Daemon a nod, no extra words. His stare pinned the cocky disciples in place, but unease stirred deep. He couldn’t read Elder Ping’s cultivation — she hovered slightly above the floor, a sign of Foundation-Establishment… or talisman trickery. Ru couldn’t tell which, and that tightened his grip on his sword hilt.

The forge hissed — the Sword drank sparks and thunder. Daemon’s grin spread slowly — the ten Inner Disciples were getting restless, itching for the moment it might slip from his hands, as the Sword started to pulse with intense Spirituality.

The hammer rang — Daemon’s swings calm, steady. Jia worked with fierce focus, but her ear stayed half-turned toward the voices around her.

One of the young disciples — the same smug man with the twin Swords — pointed. “That brat’s forging Spiritual Steel? For whom?” Another sneered, flicking his sleeve like brushing off dirt. “He’s just a mortal cub. We should have him kneel and hand the Sword over.”

Ru stepped forward then, voice cold as a winter stream. “Try it. I’ll count your teeth when they hit the ground. Any who dares approach is my enemy — I won’t allow anyone to disturb young master Daemon.” He cracked his knuckles for good measure — soft pops that made Elder Ping’s jaw tighten.

Behind her students, Elder Ping’s voice slipped between them like a blade sheathed in silk. “Disciples, mind your dignity. We came to inspect — not incite bloodshed among mortals.” But her eyes cut to Daemon through the shimmering air of the Smithy — weighing, measuring. Why exactly are you so calm in there, boy? Forging so steadily in this storm — you and your girl are exhausted and clearly not fit to clash with these ten brats and your lone guard. The worst insult is you ignore me like air! Does he have some hidden support?

Nie Xiaodan muttered under his breath to his father. “They don’t even bother to hide their greed. Bastards.” Leixu’s reply rumbled from deep in his chest. “Steel can be reforged. Flesh and pride cost more.”

Inside, Daemon flicked sweat off his brow, voice dry and sharp. “Ru — warm-up’s yours. Don’t break them too fast. I want to see if they squeal before or after they bow.” Ru’s eyes glimmered — the only sign he’d enjoy this more than a drink.

In the backyard, Kirin beat its wings once — a silent dare for Ru to give his best, or maybe to show it could jump in if the Swordsman got bullied and let these brats break through.

Daemon’s Lightning crackled. Jia’s Fire roared through the raw Steel. The Blade hummed with a half-born Spirit — not quite an Artifact, but close enough to thirst for blood.

They collapsed back, shoulders knocking. They laughed once — breathless.

The unfinished Sword in Daemon’s hands was alive, hungry, singing its promise of sharp lessons to come. Sparks still danced along the blade, chased by tiny arcs of leftover Lightning Qi that flickered and hissed at the edges.

Daemon lifted his lively eyes to Ru, breath chaotic and sweat streaking his neck. “Ru. Water Qi. Quench it — now.”

Ru stepped forward, one brow cocked, but didn’t argue. His palms flared cold blue — a rush of shimmering Water Qi wrapped the Sword in a swirl of steam. The metal shrieked as it kissed the sudden chill.

A gasp broke from Elder Ping. The ten Inner Disciples flinched as one — eyes wide, faces tight. Some stepped back instinctively when the Sword’s raw Spiritual pressure touched their skin like a swarm of needles. Even the Nie brothers lowered their heads, awe plain in the flicker of the forge’s fire reflected in their wide eyes.

Jia grinned, teeth gleaming in the glow, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath beside Daemon.

Daemon let the blade rest across his palms, still steaming faintly. Its edge unfinished, but its weight pulsed like a heartbeat — a promise of violence yet to come.

He turned to Ru — the Swordsman’s hands still dripping faint wisps of Water Qi. Daemon shoved the Sword into Ru’s hand — his grin wicked. “Yours now. First Offensive Spiritual Treasure — a fitting Weapon for a Cultivator serving me. Try not to chip it, old ghost. You’re done swinging peasant iron. Walk the Immortal Path swinging this — or you’re useless to me.”

Ru’s throat bobbed once as he bowed low, a flicker of rare warmth sparking in his cold eyes, his fingers curling around the raw hilt with a reverence he didn’t bother to hide. “Understood, young master.”

Behind them, a few of the Inner Disciples clenched fists — their eyes pinned to the unfinished edge like it might leap off Ru’s hands and fly to theirs instead.

The Sword pulsed — and the hush that followed was thick enough to taste.

The Inner Disciples finally stepped forward — silk sleeves brushing ash and soot, grins sharp as fresh blades.

Elder Ping drifted closer, eyes lazy but ready. This was the moment.

One cocky youth flicked his wrist, a flash of Talisman paper dancing between his fingers. “Hand it over, boy,” he drawled. “Sect’s Law — Spiritual Treasures belong to the Mountain when found within its Garden.”

Daemon tilted his head — smile dry as old bone.

Garden, huh? Then I must be the weed.

The Forge Brawl was about to begin — Steel, smoke, and crackling Qi — no deaths, but bones would crack and pockets would empty. All while Daemon’s mind drifted to that ocean path — and the next Roll that might drag him deeper.

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