The red dawn broke across the Scorched Badlands, turning the sand dunes into vast ridges of dull copper.
Beneath the sandstone bluff, the scavenged pile of bandit iron, broken wheel rims, and scrap plating from the Iron Spire Outpost lay heaped across the dry red shale.
Ye Chen stood before the scrap, his bare chest catching the first pale rays of morning light as he extended both hands over the metal.
He channeled a controlled, concentrated stream of Primordial Yang fire directly through his fingertips, heating the twisted plates into a soft, glowing orange sludge without releasing a single wisp of smoke into the desert sky.
Beside him, Han Ping worked with a heavy stone mallet, pounding the softened plates into wide, curved runners designed to glide smoothly across the shifting sand.
