Forging Immortality: The Undying Blacksmith

Chapter 84: Stirrings on the Grassland

At the height of summer, the vast, boundless Bandong Grassland was a veritable ocean of green. Fierce winds swept across the plains, sending ripples through the dense grasses like waves upon the sea.

This expansive grassland was home to many nomadic peoples like the Tuva tribe, who lived by herding cattle and sheep. To the south, the great plains bordered two nations: the Liang Country and the Feng Country.

For years, autumn had brought with it the thundering hooves of grassland horse bandits, riding south to plunder grain. But last year, an unnatural quiet had fallen. Had these raiders, ever-starved for supplies, truly developed a conscience and abandoned their ways?

The answer, of course, was no.

The peace was a lie, as fragile as sun-bleached grass before the northern gales.

Amidst the ocean of green, a massive cavalry formation materialized upon the plains. Before them lay the camp of a tribe that had just migrated to the area.

At the head of this army rode a sinister-looking man with a brutish, one-eyed face scarred by violence. His remaining eye burned with a savage, cruel light.

“Chief Tuvahaar, the Mulan tribe’s camp is just ahead,” a man with the air of a strategist reported, riding up beside him.

Indeed, the leader was Tuvahaar, the very same horse bandit chief who had once clashed with the Wuli Army. Back then, he commanded a force of just over five thousand. Now, the army at his back had swelled to over thirty thousand riders—a tide of men and horses that could sweep away anything in its path.

“Same as before,” Tuvahaar said, his single eye narrowing. “Offer them a chance to surrender first. They are children of the grassland. It would be a waste to kill our own.”

After more than a year of campaigning, he had absorbed the vast majority of the tribes in the southern Bandong Grassland. The few that remained were no longer a threat. He had lost an eye in one of those conquests, but Tuvahaar felt no regret. Compared to the grand, ambitious design taking shape in his mind, what was a single eye?

“The food in the camps is running low,” the strategist noted. “Should we ride south this year?”

Tuvahaar shook his head, a ferocious grin twisting his features. “No. We won’t go south this year either. If we’re short on food, slaughter all the cattle and sheep.”

He gestured forward. “There are still a few tribes ahead of us, aren’t there? Once we’ve brought them into the fold, slaughter their livestock as well. Distribute the meat to everyone.”

The strategist, a man of sharp intellect, immediately grasped the chilling implication. Slaughtering every last animal meant no new lambs or calves would be born the following year. It was an act of finality, a burning of bridges that left no path of retreat.

Tuvahaar was a madman, but one with an ambition as vast as the grasslands themselves. He had integrated dozens of tribes and amassed an army of over thirty thousand—an unprecedented power on the plains. What he intended to do with such a force was terrifyingly clear.

***

In Shengtian, the imperial capital of Feng Country, the first signs of autumn were appearing as the leaves of the maple trees began to blush with red.

This year, too, the grassland bandits had not come south. Not so much as a shadow of them had been seen. In the ensuing peace, the capital had grown ever more prosperous. Merchant caravans flowed in and out in an endless stream, and the city’s poetry and songs gained fame across the land.

Amidst this age of peace and prosperity, Li Qing continued his relentless training. Aided by the Tiger Bone Body-Nourishing Wine, his progress on the martial path had begun to accelerate.

“Hah!”

Inside the smithy, Li Qing stretched his limbs, a deep, satisfied smile spreading across his lips as he ran a hand over his own skin.

“The first layer of the Golden Body Art… complete.”

With the potent medicinal wine, a technique that should have taken three years to master had been accomplished in just a year and a half. Li Qing was now twenty years old, and his Outer Force had been honed to its absolute peak. Furthermore, his internal energy had grown far more vigorous and abundant. It was no exaggeration to say he could now face five or six Outer Force martial artists simultaneously without breaking a sweat.

“Inner Force… what exactly *is* Inner Force?”

Li Qing narrowed his eyes, returning to the question that had plagued him for so long. He stood at the apex of Outer Force, but now he had hit a bottleneck. Despite his mastery of several formidable martial arts, he found himself, for the first time, unsure of how to advance.

Troubled, he poured himself a cup of the Tiger Bone Wine and downed it in one go. The spicy, potent liquid burned its way down his throat, and its medicinal power surged through his body, suffusing him with a deep warmth. Combined with the completion of the Golden Body Art’s first layer, his physical body had reached a frankly absurd level of toughness.

*Crack!*

He tightened his grip slightly, and the ceramic wine cup in his hand didn’t just break; it disintegrated. When he opened his hand, a fine white powder trickled from his palm and through the gaps between his fingers. He had done it with nothing but raw, unreasonable strength.

And yet, his palm was completely unmarked, not even a scratch. The first layer of the Golden Body Art was already proving its worth.

“It’s time I sought some guidance,” he muttered to himself. “If I keep fumbling around in the dark on my own, I’ll be at this forever.”

With that, Li Qing stood, and his figure vanished from the room in a blur.

***

The imperial capital, Xiliu Street.

Even late at night, the street was ablaze with lanterns, its crowds even more boisterous than during the day. This was the city’s artery of vice, lined with brothels and taverns. From the balconies above, colorfully dressed women leaned over railings, their laughter and song spilling into the bustling thoroughfare below.

“Hehe, look! The great hero Zhang Lai from the Feiyun Martial Arts Hall is drunk again!”

“Young Hero Zhang, when will you come to the Lichun House for a drink with me?”

“Young Master Zhang Lai, the girls at our Golden Phoenix Tower have been waiting ever so long for you!”

On the street, Zhang Lai stumbled along, so drunk he could barely keep his feet. His face was flushed crimson, but a lecherous grin remained plastered on his face.

“Hahahaha! Miss Rong, next time, I promise! This young hero has urgent business back at the hall tonight!”

He staggered away from the brightly lit street, his silhouette shrinking as he disappeared into the mouth of a dark alley. Drunkards were a common sight here; every morning, the sun would rise on a few men passed out like dead pigs. It was a testament to how well order was maintained on Xiliu Street—for no other reason than it was the shared territory of the city’s three major martial arts halls.

Zhang Lai swayed, shaking his head as he plunged deeper into the darkness.

The moment his figure was completely swallowed by the shadows, a slender form detached itself from a corner of the alley and followed.

In a flash, a sudden chill of premonition cut through Zhang Lai’s drunken haze. He felt a knot of panic tighten in his chest.

*Hmm?*

He turned, just in time to see a hand, shaped like a talon, punch straight through his throat.

“Guh—”

*Thud.*

Not even a gurgle escaped his lips. Zhang Lai collapsed, a dead weight in the suffocating darkness. Blood pulsed from the wound, a hot spring that quickly pooled and stained the grimy cobblestones.

A slender young man knelt beside the body, placing a hand on Zhang Lai’s abdomen. He moved with the calm, steady precision of a seasoned hunter.