Chapter 5: The Trash Rumor & The Smithy

  Age: 6 Years Old.

  In the town of Oakhaven, there were two famous children in the Baron’s family.

  The first was Elena, the "Little Sun." At age four, she was already blindingly cute. She had golden hair, big blue eyes, and a natural Holy Aura that made flowers bloom when she walked past. The townspeople adored her. They gave her free apples. They smiled when she waved.

  The second was Cain, the "Defect." That was me.

  At age six, I had developed a reputation. They called me "The Mute Trash."

  It wasn't that I couldn't speak. It was just that talking to these NPCs was a waste of calories. Why explain myself to a baker who thinks the world is flat? So, I stayed silent. I walked with a deadpan expression. And then there were my eyes.

  "Don't look at him," a mother whispered to her child as we walked down the market street. "You'll catch the curse."

  The child peeked anyway. When our eyes met, the kid flinched and hid behind his mother’s skirt.

  My eyes had changed. Because I had spent three years constantly circulating the Heavenly Demon Breath, my biology had shifted. My irises were no longer brown. They were a Pale, Dull Red.

  They weren't the glowing crimson of a combat state. They looked like dried blood. Or the eyes of a dead fish that had stared at the sun too long. Combined with my pale skin and silence, I looked like a ghost.

  "Nii-ni! Look! A butterfly!"

  Elena tugged my hand, oblivious to the whispers. She was the only one who wasn't afraid of me. To her, I wasn't a "Demon Child." I was just her quiet, slightly creepy, but comfortable pillow.

  "..." I looked at the butterfly. It was a Cabbage White. Common pest. I didn't answer. I just let her drag me along.

  "Hey! Look, it's the Ghost Boy!"

  A group of village kids blocked our path. Three boys. Ages 8 to 10. The leader was the butcher's son a fat kid named Goro who thought being large was a martial art.

  "And he's with the Princess," Goro sneered, stepping closer. "Hey, Elena. Why do you hang out with him? My mom says he eats rats."

  ‘I eat wasps, actually,’ I corrected him internally. ‘Rats are too gamey.’

  Elena puffed up her cheeks. She looked like an angry hamster. "Go away, Goro! Nii-ni doesn't eat rats! He eats... um... vegetables!"

  "He's creepy," Goro spat on the ground near my shoe. "Look at those eyes. He looks like a sick rabbit. Hey, Mute! Say something! Or are you too stupid to talk?"

  He reached out to shove me. It was a clumsy shove. Full of openings. I could break his wrist in three places before he even touched my shirt.

  But I didn't move. If I fought back, people would know I had reflexes. The "Trash" cover would be blown.

  ‘Endure,’ I told myself. ‘A dragon does not engage with an ant.’

  But then, Goro made a mistake. He changed targets.

  "You're ignoring me? Fine. Maybe I'll push your pretty sister instead!"

  He swung his hand toward Elena.

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  Time slowed.

  My "Dragon" philosophy evaporated. You can insult me. I don't care. But if you touch my "Golden Ticket/Retirement Plan/Sister," I will end your bloodline.

  I couldn't punch him. Too obvious. I needed an accident.

  I looked at the ground. A small, round pebble lay near Goro’s foot. I channeled a microscopic amount of Qi into my foot. I tapped the ground. Thump.

  The vibration traveled through the cobblestone, hitting the pebble perfectly. The pebble jumped up, sliding exactly under Goro’s planting foot just as he shifted his weight.

  "Whoa?!"

  Goro slipped. His arms flailed. He did a spectacular pirouette and face-planted into a pile of fresh horse manure that a passing carriage had kindly left behind.

  Splat.

  Silence. Then, the other kids exploded in laughter.

  "Pfft! Goro ate poop!" "Nice dive, Goro!"

  Elena blinked, her big eyes wide. She looked at Goro, then at me. I was standing perfectly still, hands in my pockets, looking at the clouds.

  "Wow!" Elena gasped, clapping her hands. "God punished him! Did you see that, Nii-ni? The wind pushed him!"

  ‘Yes,’ I thought, my expression unmoving. ‘The wind. Let's go with that.’

  She looked at me suspiciously for a second. Sometimes, she had these moments. She would look at me like she knew I wasn't just a mute idiot. Like she sensed the beast sleeping inside the cage.

  "Nii-ni..." she narrowed her eyes. "Did you...?"

  I tilted my head and drooled a little.

  "Never mind," she sighed, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief. "You're just spacing out again. Come on, let's go buy candy!"

  She dragged me away. I glanced back at Goro, who was crying in the dung. My eyes flashed Crimson for a split second a warning. ‘Next time, it won't be manure. It will be a cliff.’

  That Night: The Smithy.

  The incident with Goro confirmed one thing: I was defenseless. Not because I lacked skill. But because I lacked a tool.

  If I had to fight seriously, I couldn't use my bare hands. My body was still only six years old. If I punched an adult Knight, my arm would shatter before his armor did. I needed a weapon. And not the wooden toys my father gave me.

  I waited until midnight. I slipped out of my room (the window latch was permanently broken now). I crept across the courtyard to the family forge.

  Silas, the old blacksmith, had gone home. The coals were dying, casting a dim orange glow.

  I entered the heat. I loved the smell of sulfur and iron. It smelled like progress.

  I picked up a standard iron sword from the rack. I swung it. Whoosh.

  "Too light," I muttered.

  It felt like holding a feather. My Qi was Heavy. It was dense, Demonic energy. If I channeled it into this cheap iron, the blade would explode. I needed mass. I needed density.

  I rummaged through the scrap pile. I found it in the corner, covered in dust. A lump of Black Iron.

  It was an ugly, jagged ore. Silas had complained about it last week. He said it was "cursed" because it wouldn't melt and it broke his hammers. I smiled. ‘It's not cursed, Silas. It's high-carbon residue mixed with trace Mana. It’s just stubborn.’

  I grabbed the heaviest sledgehammer in the shop. It was almost as big as I was. I couldn't lift it with muscle. So I lifted it with Qi.

  I wrapped my arms in invisible energy chains. Heave.

  I placed the black ore into the furnace. I pumped the bellows until the fire roared white-hot. Most smiths used finesse. They folded the steel a thousand times to make it pretty. I didn't care about pretty. I cared about Pain.

  I pulled the glowing chunk out.

  CLANG.

  I brought the hammer down. Sparks flew like fireworks. The sound was deafening, but the thunder masked it.

  CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

  I poured my frustration into the metal. The frustration of being a baby. The frustration of the "Mute Trash" rumors. The frustration of eating bugs.

  "Submit," I hissed, my eyes glowing bright crimson in the dark forge. "Become a vessel for my malice."

  The iron groaned. It began to yield. I didn't shape it into a sword. Swords are for heroes. Swords break. I shaped it into a Cleaver.

  It was a thick, single-edged slab of black metal. No crossguard. No elegant tip. Just a rectangle of sharpened hate attached to a handle. It looked like something a butcher would use to chop dragon bones.

  I quenched it in oil. HISS. A cloud of black smoke rose up, smelling of burnt demons.

  I pulled it out. It was ugly. It was rough. It weighed about 20 kilograms. To a normal six-year-old, it was an anchor. To me, it was perfect.

  I wrapped the handle in scrap leather. I gave it a few test swings.

  Vwoom. Vwoom.

  The air groaned under the weight. The momentum was terrifying. If I hit Goro with this, he wouldn't just be pushed. He would be turned into paste.

  "I will call you..." I looked at the ugly, jagged blade. "...Nameless."

  Because naming weapons is for people who expect to be heroes. I was just a survivor.

  I hid the cleaver under the loose floorboards of the forge, covering it with hay. I couldn't take it to my room. Elena would find it and try to use it as a toy.

  I snuck back into the house. My hands were blistered. My Qi was exhausted. But I slept better that night than I had in six years.

  I was no longer just a "Mute Trash." I was a Mute Trash with a giant iron cleaver. And that made all the difference.