Chapter 10: Sword, Spar, and Secret Smiles

"Don't hold back just because I'm younger," Ning Zhen said with a friendly smile, adjusting his stance in the open training courtyard. Across from him stood Han Yu, a tall and solid boy around sixteen, his martial spirit already matured into a powerful flame-maned hound. "Let's both do our best, yeah?"

Han Yu blinked, a little surprised by the warmth in Zhen's tone. He expected arrogance, not camaraderie. "Heh, you're on, junior."

Around them, several young cultivators from the clan's direct line watched silently, some curious, others skeptical. All of them had sworn oaths to keep today's fight confidential—it wasn't every day someone absorbed a thousand-year spirit ring at rank 14.

"Begin!" called the elder.

Han Yu wasted no time, summoning his martial spirit and sending waves of flame rolling across the field.

Zhen's expression turned focused but not hostile. He moved with fluid precision, spirit energy swirling around his legs as he activated his first ring ability. A red magic circle formed beneath his feet, boosting his movement. He darted sideways, deflecting a wave of fire with his forging knife, and smiled encouragingly as he parried. "That was a clean hit—almost!"

Han Yu chuckled despite himself, swept up in the pace of the duel. "You're annoyingly polite, you know that?"

"Helps me stay alive longer," Zhen replied, sidestepping a follow-up strike. "Also, you're strong. I'll learn more this way."

He closed the distance and struck with his blade's flat edge, not injuring, only disarming. Han Yu stumbled back, winded.

And then it was over. Zhen helped him up with no show of superiority, only a nod of mutual respect.

"Thanks for the spar," he said.

Han Yu shook his head, grinning. "Don't thank me. I think I'm gonna need a week to recover from that."

From the shadows, Sword Douluo stood still, arms crossed, his rare smile hidden beneath a beard that never quite behaved. His eyes said enough: pride, approval, and a touch of awe.

—

Later that evening, Zhen returned to the clan's forge, the place where he often escaped to think. A block of Heaven Forged metal sat in the corner, glowing faintly even without a flame beneath it.

"I shouldn't… but I want to," he muttered. He lit the forge, his mother's special tools hanging nearby—perfectly aligned and always polished.

The clang of hammer on metal echoed through the night as Zhen worked. His body moved on instinct, but his mind danced between thoughts of the spar, the beetles, and the way his martial spirit had behaved. His forging spirit had already absorbed the thousand-year ring—impossibly—and now, it demanded more precision, more focus.

After hours of work and sweat, he quenched the blade. The sword was simple, slender, with a faint violet sheen running along its edge like molten lava frozen mid-flow.

He looked at it and smiled.

The next morning, he wrapped the blade in red silk and made his way to his father's residence.

"You look suspicious," Ning Fengzhi said, sipping tea in the garden.

"I'm always suspicious. It's my charm," Zhen replied, placing the wrapped package on the table.

Fengzhi raised an eyebrow and unwrapped it.

He paused. Then exhaled. "You… made this?"

"Forged it last night," Zhen said. "Using that excess block of Heaven forge, from last time- that I wasn't supposed to touch until I was older."

Fengzhi laughed, genuinely impressed. "You're lucky you're talented. Otherwise, I'd ground you for a month."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

"To what?"

"You'll see."

—

That afternoon, Zhen was brought to the inner part of the clan estate he had never stepped foot in before. Past spiraling stone corridors, deep into the mountain, where the very air hummed with the weight of secrets.

"Welcome," said an elder, his voice calm, "to the Clan's Treasury."

Zhen's jaw fell open. Sword Douluo gave a rare grin. "A small reward for the sword you gave your father. And for winning that little duel."

Inside were artifacts of all kinds—robes, scrolls, weapons, strange boxes, and glowing stones. Each radiated power and history.

"You may choose one," Fengzhi said.

"Anything?"

"Anything your spirit approves of."

Zhen wandered the treasury for over an hour. Some artifacts hummed when he neared, others grew cold. But finally, at the back of the chamber, a dusty box caught his eye.

Inside was a small bell-like charm made of meteorite metal, etched with forging runes.

"What's this?" Zhen asked.

"Ah," the elder said with a soft chuckle. "That's the Bell of Echoed Flame. An unfinished spirit tool.. No one's been able to awaken it."

Zhen's martial spirit flared in excitement feeling a connection with whatever is there in the box. The forge-spirit presence behind him glowed warmly.

"I think it likes me," Zhen said.

Sword Douluo nodded. "Then take it."

—

That night, lying in bed with the charm tied around his wrist, Zhen stared at the ceiling and smiled.

"I beat a Spirit Grandmaster. Forged a blade with heavenforge metal. Gave it to Dad. Got into the secret treasury. And now I've got a bell that may or may not be alive."

He yawned.

"Just another normal day in the clan."

And with that, he drifted off to sleep, dreams filled with fire, hammers, and tools that hummed in tune with the stars.