The forge burns bright. Its sparks dance like fireflies as metal meets metal, each strike measured, precise.

Yingxing works in silence. His sleeves were rolled up, hair tied back to keep from falling into his eyes, yet it slightly hangs between the sides of his temples. There’s sweat at his brow, but his focus never wavers. Every movement is deliberate—like a painter with their brush, a poet with their pen. But Yingxing is neither of those things. He is a craftsman, and his art is the sword he forges now.

Your sword.

He doesn’t usually take personal requests, but this is different. This one is yours.

He thinks of you with every hammer’s fall. The way you move, the way you fight. The weight you’d favor, the balance that would suit you best. He crafts it to be an extension of you, a blade that would answer only to your call.

He runs a thumb over the polished surface, exhaling. It’s flawless.

When he presents it to you, there’s no grand speech, no ceremony. Just the quiet pride in his gaze as he watches you take it into your hands. A perfect fit.

"Made it just for you," Yingxing says, arms crossed, a soft smile playing at his lips. "So don’t go breaking it too soon, love."

But beneath it, there’s something he didn't speak of. A craftsman’s devotion. A warrior’s trust.

A piece of him, now yours to wield.