The scent of jasmine tea lingers in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of ink as I reforge my father’s broken sword. The smith’s hammer strikes are measured, like the heartbeat of a warrior in meditation. Zhào Hǔ may have shattered the blade, but the steel remembers its purpose—just as I remember mine. Tonight, the fire does not burn; it whispers. And what it says is this: a weapon is only as strong as the hand that wields it. (A lesson for those who mistake destruction for victory.)