Year: 271 AC (Midwinter)
Location: Winterfell, The Blacksmith's Loft
The frost had worsened. Winterfell's walls groaned under ice. Smoke from the forge drifted up, froze midair, and vanished like ghosts.
In the blacksmith's loft, Arthur Snow sat bare-chested on a straw-stuffed pallet. Around him, the other apprentices snored beneath furs. He sat still, eyes closed, legs folded.
Tonight was the night.
He had waited. Ever since the ambush at the Broken Pass, the whisper of qi inside him had grown louder. Something had changed in that fight—something had been stirred by the clash with the man in the bone-rings. He hadn't won that night.
But he had survived.
And the qi had started moving.
He exhaled. Slow. Deliberate. His breath fogged the air, then faded.
Begin.
He stilled his mind. Thoughts slowed. Body relaxed. The Nine Heavens Cultivation Method activated. Qi stirred inside his dantian—soft at first, like water lapping against a cup.
Then—
Pulse.
A shock ran through his chest. His bones vibrated. Muscles tensed, then released. Energy surged through his arms, legs, spine. It burned and hummed, cleansing as it flowed.
Arthur didn't move. He just breathed.
The whisper of qi turned into a hum.
Then a roar.
He opened his eyes.
Awakening
His body felt new. Not heavier. Not lighter.
Tighter.
Faster.
Alive.
He stood. No sound. No stiffness. He stepped to the edge of the loft, looked down at the forge below. Garen had gone to bed. The fire had died to embers.
Arthur dropped to the floor without a sound.
He picked up the unfinished blade from earlier—half-forged, dull, unbalanced. With both hands, he gripped the cold iron.
He focused.
Qi flowed through his arms, into the steel. A dull hum answered. The blade glowed faintly—not from heat, but resonance. The steel trembled.
Heavenly Forge Technique: First Flame.
The metal bent. Shifted. Straightened.
No hammer.
His qi had become the tool.
He let go. The sword was still rough—but changed. Reinforced by will. The process had started.
Not mastered.
But awakened.
The Next Day
Before the sun could rise, Arthur slipped into the training yard.
Snow covered the stones. Wind howled past the walls.
He didn't feel the cold.
A wooden staff in hand, he began.
Phantom Tread. He moved. Fast. Silent. Left no prints behind.
Coiling Dragon Stance. His arms flowed like rope. Fast strikes. Smooth counters.
Whirlwind Tiger Sweep. He spun low—CRACK—snapped a practice post in two.
Qi fed every motion. No hesitation. No mistakes. His power wasn't wild anymore.
It listened.
He moved faster. Strike. Spin. Jump. Dash.
When he stopped, the training yard was still. Six posts broken. Snow untouched.
Arthur stood on the yard wall. Balanced. Still.
He looked out toward the Wolfswood.
His eyes narrowed.
He felt something.
Far off. Distant.
A ripple.
A presence.
Not his qi. Not Northern.
He couldn't see it. But he felt it. In the trees. In the dark.
Someone is watching.
Memory of the Pass
His hand tightened.
The man with the yellow eyes.
The one with the bone-ring beard.
The people call him Vargo, The Bandit Chieftain
Arthur had failed to kill him. Vargo had looked at him like prey. A beast that knew something others didn't.
That man was still out there.
And now Arthur could feel it. He wasn't hiding anymore. He was waiting.
Arthur dropped from the wall.
He returned to the loft before light touched the sky.
None of the other apprentices stirred. Torren snored with his mouth open. Jonos muttered in his sleep.
Arthur lay back on the straw and pulled the furs over him.
Breathing slowed.
But his heart didn't.
He wasn't just a blacksmith anymore.
He had qi. He had power.
And someone dangerous was hunting him now.
For now, he'd stay silent. Let them think he was still the quiet orphan.
Still nothing.
But deep inside, he knew the truth.
The Heavenly Demon had returned.