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Wat Sun sits here with me and we build a furnace. We force the metal for the killing steel. We go harvest the leather used to cover the grip. We create the tang and pommel and everything. This is zen work! Use the newfound tool for its destined purpose. And we must fill the forge with coal and sharp wind for the sharpest steel requires the greatest fires and the greatest men in the worst of times.

. . . “Hmm, this might make a half-decent story!”

Bouncing about the sacred furnace like a rambunctious group of school children are the cardinal winds. These winds fan the fires of my passions as I hammer away with great gusto at the squealing metal. To wit, Wat Sun speak to me from across the magma-filled halls of this world furnace and says . . . and I ask, “What does he say?”

And he replies, “I think he says nothing and the mystery is left to the reader.”

“Ah, the truth: he never says anything, he only lounges away drinking a beer.”

Sipping away at said beer, “What Wat Sun says is muffled under the mighty blows of the world forge and yet Alchus understands.”

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