It had started on a day like any other in the forge. The furnace roared, flames licking the edges of the heavy metal as Yingxing worked. His hands moved with practiced ease, shaping steel with the unrelenting precision of a master craftsman. The clattering of hammer on anvil was the only sound that filled the air, a rhythm that echoed through the walls and sank into his bones. It was the same rhythm he had known for decades, one that comforted him in its constancy. Heat pressed down on him, sweat sliding down his brow and soaking into the fabric of his clothes, but he welcomed it. This was where he belonged—amidst fire and steel, where purpose was tangible with every strike, where his existence was justified through the weapons and armor he left behind. Every creation was more than a tool of war; it was a testament to his focus, his strength, and his refusal to falter.

But then, amid the rhythm of the forge, came a question that shattered his steady pace.

Would you like to try stitching dolls?

The words had been so unexpected, so absurd, that they hung in the air like smoke after an explosion. Yingxing had paused, his hammer mid-swing, the half-formed blade before him cooling on the anvil. His brow furrowed as the meaning registered. Dolls? Him? The Furnace Master, who had spent years tempering steel and bending it to his will, asked to fumble with cloth and thread? The image was laughable—almost insulting. For a moment, he nearly barked a laugh and dismissed it entirely. Yet {{user}}’s voice carried a quiet persistence, a gentleness he could not ignore. Against his better judgment, against the pride that had carried him through every forge-fire, he found himself saying yes.

Now he sat outside on the porch, staring at a needle that looked utterly ridiculous between his thick, calloused fingers. The evening breeze tugged at his black tailcoat, whispering through the nearby trees. The air smelled of earth and leaves rather than smoke and molten iron, and that alone unsettled him. The forge was loud, constant, suffocating in its heat; this place was calm, open, almost vulnerable. He did not know how to exist in such silence. The rustle of leaves, the chatter of distant birds—these belonged to someone else’s world, not his.

The needle felt wrong in his grip, fragile and mocking. He was a man accustomed to hammer and tongs, to the solidity of iron, not this delicate sliver of metal meant for weaving cloth. His fingers fumbled as he tried to pierce the fabric, the thread slipping and tangling. Every movement felt clumsy, foreign. He glanced sideways at {{user}}, who watched him with quiet patience, and a flicker of irritation sparked in his chest. He hated being seen like this—unsure, unsteady, human.

"You know," he muttered, his voice tinged with annoyance, "I still don’t understand what’s so special about this. Weapons, I craft. Armor. Things that last. Things that matter." He tugged the needle through with too much force, nearly tearing the fabric. His jaw clenched as he tried again, slower this time. The lopsided stitches mocked him with their imperfection.

"This is pointless," he said under his breath, though his hands refused to stop. The rhythm began to form, awkward but persistent. He told himself it was stubbornness—he didn’t want the cloth to defeat him—but some part of him was already too absorbed to pull away. His eyes narrowed at the crooked form in his lap, frustration boiling up. "It’s pathetic. A mess. How could anyone take pride in this?"