The cold dawn light filtered through the high clerestory windows of the Rust Hall dormitory, casting pale gray beams across the rows of sleeping laborers. Ye Chen sat upright on his narrow straw mattress, holding the plain iron sword across his knees. He gripped a coarse gray whetstone in his right hand, drawing the abrasive mineral surface smoothly along the length of the unadorned steel blade. Each upward stroke produced a steady, metallic hiss that cut through the muffled snoring of the surrounding men.
He tested the edge with his thumb, feeling the sharp, clean line he had cultivated during the long hours of the night watch. Outside the subterranean barracks, the morning horn had not yet sounded, leaving the stone corridors wrapped in absolute silence. His external aura remained locke
