NOVEL NEXT Chapter 40 - Still Ugly as Shit
The chamber was thick with the scent of smoke and scorched metal. Aaryan's breath came in shallow pulls, his chest rising and falling beneath robes that clung to his frame like wet cloth. Sweat traced silent rivers along his jawline and down the hollow of his neck. His hands trembled slightly—more from exhaustion than doubt.
He didn't know how long he had been at it—nor how many attempts he'd made—but he'd already paused six times just to replenish his qi. Six times, and still no success.
The soft tap… tap… tap of iron on stone echoed behind him. Aaryan didn't need to look—he already was. Uncle Soot hopped forward with exaggerated patience, the crooked cane striking stone like a ticking clock counting down to another insult.
Vedik slithered lazily behind him, floating through the air like smoke from a snuffed-out wick. His eyes gleamed in the forge-light—slow blinks, curious… possibly mocking.
Soot stopped just short of the slab and squinted at Aaryan's exhausted face. "Tch. Might as well take up broom sweeping instead." He scratched his beard with a long, rusty nail. "At this rate, you'll succeed just in time for the author to forget this scene entirely."
He grinned, all teeth and no warmth. "Low aptitude, Bad control over qi and soul sense, worse luck. If effort alone made a forgemaster, we'd be crowning donkeys."
Aaryan said in a barely audible voice, "It can't be that bad?"
Soot didn't miss a beat. "Boy, if disappointment had legs, it'd walk like you."
He snorted, shook his head, and waved a dismissive hand as if Aaryan's entire existence had mildly inconvenienced his day.
Aaryan didn't respond this time.
He simply stared—drained, breathless, but silent.
Soot waited.
Then huffed. "Tch. Fine, fine. He refuses to break until I teach him something. What a stubborn brat." His eyes glinted as he muttered the words.
He stepped up to the slab and raised a hand lazily. With a flick of his fingers, all four refined materials—Coldiron Shard, Molten Sand Block, Refined Cloud Tin, and Black Ash Bark—lifted from the rack and hovered above the crucible.
With a soundless pulse, they dropped.
Not into the flame, but into the air just above it—where four balls of fire ignited midair, each enveloping one ingredient in its core. They hovered in perfect stillness, suspended like miniature suns, looking exactly the same except for the different ingredients at its centre.
"Now," Soot said, voice a little more serious, "thread your soul sense into each flame."
Aaryan steadied himself, wiped his palms on his robe, and slowly extended his mind outward.
One breath.
Two.
Thin, near-invisible threads of soul sense laced out from his soul. One wrapped around the first flame, then the second… the third…
His brow tightened. A flicker of resistance passed through his expression, but he pushed forward.
The fourth thread connected.
Soot's expression, usually hidden behind exaggerated scorn, softened for half a second. The old man's gaze flicked toward the suspended flames—then to Aaryan's trembling hands.
"You've got them all?" he asked.
Aaryan nodded, wordless.
Soot grinned, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Good. Now comes the part where most people cry."
His cane tapped once against the ground. "Well?" he grunted. "Can you tell me the difference between 'em?"
Aaryan narrowed his eyes. He stood still, his breath levelling out. For two, maybe three slow inhales, he focused—his soul sense brushing across each fireball.
Smooth. Identical.
He exhaled. "No difference," he said honestly. "They're the same."
Soot's snort was immediate, loud enough to echo in the stone chamber. "Same?" He tapped the cane again, this time twice, with emphasis. "You're looking at their faces and thinking you know their blood. What you're sensing is skin-deep, boy. Stretch your sense inward. Wrap it around the ingredients—not just the flame, but the space right around them. Get inside."
Aaryan hesitated for only a breath. Then, his soul sense extended—threads weaving deeper into the crucible, slipping between flame and matter… and then, surrounding each ingredient like a second skin.
His eyes widened.
The illusion shattered instantly.
The four fireballs, which moments ago had seemed uniform, now pulsed with chaotic individuality. The Refined Cloud Tin was steady but demanded even warmth, resisting uneven temperature like a stubborn ox. The Black Ash Bark sparked erratically, exhaling tiny bursts of resistance with every probe, its soul pressure fluctuating wildly. The Molten Sand Block absorbed heat greedily, dragging Aaryan's soul thread along like a whirlpool. And the Coldiron Shard? It was cold at the centre—still—resisting fire entirely, and only its outer shell shimmered with heat.
He staggered slightly, overwhelmed by the shift.
Soot didn't even glance at him. He stared at the flames and spoke in a flat tone. "Now you understand."
He gestured lazily with the cane. "You think fire is just hot? No wonder you've been failing. That's like saying all wine is the same if it stings the tongue."
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Aaryan looked back at the flames—really looked—and finally saw what Soot meant.
"You've been slamming every one of them with the same rhythm," Soot continued. "Same tempo. Same touch. Forge like that and even a piglet will die of shock, let alone rare materials."
His voice grew quieter, but sharper. "You want to fuse them? Fine. Then tune your soul threads. Not to dominate—but to listen. Each one has its song. Match the beat."
He made a quick, mock-conducting gesture with his cane. "Use those threads like fingers on strings. Press light here, heavy there. Pull one, release the other. Don't forge—orchestrate."
Aaryan didn't speak.
But his gaze returned to the crucible. Steadier now. Focused in a way it hadn't been before.
The flickering flames cast long shadows across the stone walls, dancing in irregular pulses that mirrored the tension in the room. Aaryan stood still before the crucible, soul threads still latched onto each of the four fireballs. His brow was damp, his arms slightly trembling—not from exertion, but from understanding dawning too fast.
Uncle Soot's cane scraped ever so slightly against the floor as he took a slow hop forward. "Control," he said, tapping once. "That's the real game. Control over what?" He gestured to the flames. "Not the fire itself—that's just the tool. What matters is how that fire changes what it touches. And how well you change with it."
He glanced at Aaryan, voice growing sharper. "That means your soul sense needs to bend. Adapt. Be flexible. Compatible with the flame—and the metal. Otherwise, all you're doing is cracking eggs with a hammer."
Aaryan's lips parted, but no sound came out. He just listened.
Soot smirked. "Your problem, twig-boy, is that you're trying to dominate every flame like it's a pet. This ain't beast taming." He leaned slightly closer. "It's babysitting a set of twins with different tempers. One cries if you look too loud, the other throws a tantrum if you don't feed it fast enough."
Aaryan almost coughed in disbelief, but Soot wasn't joking.
"Stop brute-forcing it," the old man muttered. "You're trying to control the flames when you should be listening to them. Every refined material has a temper—a rhythm, a heartbeat. If your soul thread doesn't match it before you try fusing, they'll kick and bite and spit themselves apart."
He jabbed his cane toward the crucible. "The Cloud Tin likes to simmer low and steady. Coldiron resists until it trusts the heat—it fakes you out. That bark?" He snorted. "Wants chaos, needs it. Feed it too smooth a flame, and it'll go out of balance just to feel alive."
Aaryan's brows furrowed as he focused his soul threads again, watching—feeling—how the fireballs shifted in reaction.
Soot crossed his arms, grumbling, "Your threads are stiff as a corpse's spine. No wonder they keep rebelling. You want them to dance? Then stop playing soldier. Play musician. Or a mother."
There was a strange softness under the sarcasm now. Almost a hint of... pride, buried deep beneath the insults.
Aaryan didn't speak. He didn't nod.
He just closed his eyes—and listened.
The room had fallen into a strange quiet—one that buzzed not with silence, but with attention. The glow of the crucible's flames pulsed gently, casting soft amber light across the curved chamber walls. The air was warm, thick with the tang of heated metal and something older—raw potential, waiting to be shaped.
Soot didn't say a word. He stood near the edge of the formation, arms folded, cane resting against his shoulder, watching.
Aaryan still had his eyes closed.
He breathed slowly, letting the pulse of each fireball beat against his soul threads. They no longer resisted him. There was tension still—unspoken edges and warnings—but the hostility had waned. They weren't enemies anymore. Just dancers—waiting for a lead.
Only when Aaryan's breathing shifted, when his shoulders finally loosened, did Soot speak.
"Now," he said, voice low but steady. "Now comes the part where most idiots ruin their own eyebrows."
Aaryan opened his eyes.
Soot's lips curled. "Once you've found their rhythm, built that trust… you don't throw 'em in a pot and hope they stew well. That's not forging—that's gambling. This is a quartet, boy."
He raised a finger, gesturing slowly through the air. "They don't just join—they move around each other. Watch."
The fireballs began to drift inward, almost lazily. Their movement wasn't guided by heat or pressure, but by invisible threads—soul sense, stretched and connected.
The air around them had begun to shimmer faintly, as if the forge itself sensed a convergence.
"First," Soot said, "you bind their ends. Not all of 'em—just enough to feel each other. No tugging. No yanking. You weave."
Aaryan mimicked the motion. His soul threads extended delicately, brushing against the edge of each flame, gently wrapping around the tips like string.
"Good. Now pick the strongest."
Aaryan paused, focusing. After a breath, he chose the Coldiron. It was the most stable, the heaviest presence in the crucible.
"Anchor," Soot said approvingly. "Use it as your center. Make the others rotate around it. Let their orbits adjust naturally. You're not forcing them—you're giving them direction."
The fireballs began to circle. Slowly, at first. Then with more purpose.
A bead of sweat rolled down Aaryan's cheek, but his eyes didn't leave the crucible.
"Keep the rhythm. Lose it, and they fight back."
A faint tremor passed through one of the threads. The bark flame wobbled, flickering sharply. The formation lines on the slab pulsed in warning.
"Too tight," Soot muttered. "Back off, just a hair."
Aaryan exhaled, adjusting. The wobble eased.
The flames steadied. The orbits resumed. The faintest sound of crackling filled the chamber, like a whisper of rain on stone.
Soot leaned back slightly, nodding.
"Good," he murmured. "Now don't blink. It's about to get tricky."
The four flames pulsed in a slow, rotating dance—threads of soul sense stretching between them like silken cords, taut and trembling. Aaryan's breath came steady now, no longer ragged with effort but slow and measured. Each inhale drew in the searing air of the forge room; each exhale brought a subtle shift in control, like a silent conductor guiding his quartet.
Soot's voice cut through the glow, raspy but sharp.
"They all have their own nature," he said, tapping his cane once against the floor. "You think just 'cause they're dancing to your tune now, they've agreed to the wedding?"
He snorted, then gestured toward the slowly orbiting fireballs. "Each of them's a master of itself. Yours, yes—but not each other's. They've aligned with your flame, synced to your will, but not to each other. So when you try to shove them into one..."
He snapped his fingers.
"They bite."
Aaryan's gaze stayed fixed on the crucible, sweat darkening the collar of his tunic.
Soot took a step closer. "Don't fight it when that happens. That resistance—it's not a challenge to conquer. It's a scream of being unmade. All you need to do... is endure."
He pointed to Aaryan's chest. "Forge to the rhythm of your breath. One inhale—observe. One exhale—adjust. You can't breathe right, what makes you think you can fuse the world?"
Aaryan nodded once, slowly, and returned his focus inward. The breath-bound rhythm grounded him—kept his soul threads from trembling or flaring out. The orb of molten Coldiron began to stretch, barely brushing the edge of the bark's flame. Both resisted. A twinge of pushback bloomed in the soul threads.
But Aaryan didn't retreat. He absorbed it, adjusted, let it pass.
Gradually, under Soot's watchful guidance, the resistance softened. The elements leaned closer, shapes distorting, sliding into one another—not perfectly, not willingly, but inevitably.
A sludgy hiss filled the chamber. The flames collapsed into a slow-spinning blob of greyish liquid, hovering above the crucible floor. Viscous, dense, and very much alive.
Aaryan blinked. "It worked...?"
Soot tilted his head, unimpressed. "You say that like you did anything."
Aaryan blinked again, turning to look.
"I was controlling everything from the side," Soot said, scratching his beard with the cane's end. "If you'd failed even then, I'd have buried your ashes under the spire and forged a chamber pot in your name."
Aaryan gave a tired huff of a laugh—but didn't argue. His eyes returned to the molten blend, wonder flickering across his face.
Soot watched him quietly. The boy didn't speak, didn't celebrate. Just stood there—soul threads still extended, breath still steady, gaze locked on what he'd helped create.
The flame reflected in his eyes, not with triumph... but reverence.
Soot's brows lowered slightly. Then, for the briefest moment, a glint—not of scorn or sarcasm—but of approval crossed the old man's eyes.
He looked away with a grunt. "Still ugly as shit."