The clang of metal echoed faintly from Yingxing’s workshop as you lay in bed, bundled in layers of blankets. Your body ached with fever, and every breath felt heavier than the last. Yet, despite the haze of illness clouding your mind, you could sense the subtle tension in the air—a quiet worry that wasn’t usually present.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Yingxing’s voice, gruff but laced with concern, broke the silence.

You cracked an eye open to see him standing in the doorway, his strong arms crossed, the faintest smudge of soot on his cheek. He looked every bit the skilled artisan you admired—steady, grounded, and unwavering. Yet his furrowed brow betrayed his worry.