A Blacksmith's Routine

 

Blade woke at precisely five a.m.

For all the wild rumors whispered across planets and platforms—that he was a sleepless specter brooding over the past, or that he let the Mara consume his nights in chaotic delirium—Blade did, in fact, sleep. Not restlessly or with anguish, but like a man who had work to do the next day. Because beneath the title of Stellaron Hunter and the weight of countless bounties on his head, Blade was, at his core, a blacksmith.

Meticulous. Ordered. Efficient. Everything in his life mirrored the forge: clean tools, a sharp mind, a steady rhythm. Even madness, in his hands, had a kind of symmetry.

Rising from his bed, he moved with calm precision. A wash. Fresh clothes. And then into the kitchen—a fortress of function, the heart of the house he shared with what some would call a ticking time bomb of hormonal entropy: four other Stellaron Hunters, all of whom were younger, unpredictable, and annoyingly loud before caffeine.

The coffee machine sputtered to life under his command. As it brewed, he flicked open his phone, the pale blue light catching in his eyes.

"One more day... I might need to run an errand..." he muttered to himself, eyes scanning the calendar.

As the last drops of the brew dripped into the pot, Blade reached for a mug. Two creams. Five sugars. One shot of an unspeakably potent caffeine additive banned in half the galaxy. He didn't even look up as he extended the cup to his right, holding it out like a ritual.

A pair of slender, dainty hands—greedy and tremoring—snatched the mug.

"You get two more hours and then I'm cutting down your door," he said flatly, still not looking.

Silver Wolf shuffled past him in oversized pajamas, dark circles under her eyes, a flicker of light from her handheld console still dancing in her vision. She took a deep sip and nodded without a word, muttering something that may have been gratitude before vanishing into her room like a cryptid retreating into her lair.

Blade didn’t watch her go. He turned, instead, to breakfast.

Every member of the household had their tastes.

Firefly liked something flavorful, light but sweet—her war-born tongue still amazed by indulgence.

Stelle craved protein, the sort of breakfast that fueled training and tomboy antics.

Kafka—Kafka claimed to be watching her figure, as if anyone believed she didn’t devour sweets like a woman possessed. So Blade made her fruit smoothies rich in natural sugars, with ingredients she could pretend were "clean eating."

As he worked, he reflected grimly—not on some past battle or lost memory, but on the absurdity of it all. That the most unstable of the Stellaron Hunters was, essentially, their stay-at-home dad. A Mara-struck househusband surrounded by four emotional women at various stages of young adult chaos.

He had already prepped Firefly’s overnight oats, topped with fresh fruits, a drizzle of honey, and a cloud of whipped chocolate cream.

Stelle’s omelet bowl came next: red and yellow peppers, tomatoes, herbs, sausage—all diced with clinical precision.

Kafka’s smoothie was last: mangoes, strawberries, kiwi, pineapple, blueberries, a hint of kale masked by sweet coconut milk and a spoonful of honey.

By the time he plated Stelle’s breakfast, the others had entered. They moved like clockwork, not from Blade’s command, but from the quiet routine he had built. Without a word, he handed them their meals.

Only once their needs were met did he begin his own.

His breakfast was a white fish congee, rich with ginger, green onions, and fresh cilantro. As he sat beside them in the dining nook, the silence of morning was broken by casual chatter.

"Hey Blade?" Stelle asked between bites.

"Hmm?" he responded without looking up.

"What does Cilantro taste to you?"

Blade raised an eyebrow. "Where are you going with this?"

"I was just wondering if you had the gene that made Cilantro taste like Soap."

"I wouldn't know," he replied, scooping another bite of congee. "I can barely taste anything."

That stopped the conversation cold.

Firefly blinked. "W-Wait, if you can't taste anything, how in the world can you cook anything?"

Blade didn't pause. "Centuries of practice, and remembering what flavors pair well with which. That, and I've monitored you all to know what to expect in terms of taste."

Kafka leaned back in amusement. "Really?"

"Yes, really," he huffed. "Firefly likes flavorful foods because her time as a glammoth soldier, she didn't eat foods with flavor, so everything I prepare for her is enjoyable for her palate. Stelle is a tomboy and likes to stay in shape, so I make her a protein based breakfast while keeping it healthy. And you, Kafka, claim to be on a health kick, but everyone knows you indulge into sweets, so I make you a sweet smoothie to drink while making sure you get the nutrients you'd almost never get."

All three women stared at him, stunned into silence.

Firefly blinked again. "Wait, what about Silver Wolf?"

Blade didn’t miss a beat. "She rarely eats breakfast, so I end up making her a late lunch, which is a Edamame Hummus Wrap."

Stelle seemed almost abashed. "O-Oh..."

Blade let out a quiet grunt as he stood, collecting his empty bowl. "Leave any dishes in the sink. I have to put Silver Wolf to sleep."

He left the kitchen without another word.

Kafka, Stelle, and Firefly sat in thoughtful quiet as they finished their meals, unsure what to say about the man who had just dismantled their morning with quiet competence and unspoken affection.

Later that day, Blade left the house.

It was such a rare occurrence that the others took notice immediately. He wasn’t the type to venture out unless it involved a mission. Yet when he returned, he carried bags.

"Planning a feast, Bladie?" Kafka asked with a smirk.

Blade barely looked up as he entered the kitchen. "No. It's for the Moon Cycle."

The women exchanged confused glances.

Silver Wolf, appearing in the hallway with her console in hand, blinked slowly. "The...what?"

Blade sighed, setting the bags down on the counter. "The Moon Cycle... or what do you Non-Xianzhou natives call it... the Period."

All four women blushed in unison.

"S-So... wait..." Stelle stammered.

"Living together for so long, four of you synchronized Moon Cycles," Blade explained, pulling out various items and sorting them into labeled bins. "And so to ease the burden on myself, I schedule and prepare for such weeks with foods and snacks that appease your individual moods. I also purchased individual toiletries as well as medicines that work for each of your physiology."

The four women stood frozen, cheeks flushed, stunned speechless.

Blade turned to them, lifting a brow ever so slightly. "I'm Mara Struck, not crazy."

---

The stone arena was silent, save for the last clatter of a broken blade hitting the fractured ground.

Crumbled pillars leaned like weary titans around the battlefield, the scent of scorched dust thick in the air. Blade stood at the center, robes settling as he exhaled slowly, the remnants of the duel with Jingliu still fading like smoke from their swords. She stood across from him, unscathed but breathing harder than usual, strands of silver hair clinging to her temple. Their audience—Jing Yuan, Dan Heng, Yanqing, and Stelle—watched from the outer rim of the ring.

Jing Yuan gave an impressed whistle. “I do enjoy our little reunions,” he said, folding his arms with a lazy grin. “So dramatic.”

Blade said nothing. His eyes locked on Dan Heng as he crossed the arena floor without fanfare, boots scraping over cracked stone. When he reached him, he pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from his sleeve and extended it silently.

Dan Heng took it cautiously, flipping it open. "What's this?"

Blade didn’t blink. “Instructions. On how to handle Stelle during her Moon Cycle.”

Across the arena, Stelle—who had just finished sipping water from a canteen—froze, her expression halfway between confusion and existential crisis. "Wait, what?"

A wet snort came from Jing Yuan, who immediately turned his head to the side, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. Yanqing coughed violently into his sleeve.

Jingliu, for her part, made a noise dangerously close to a scoff—startling enough for her. Her cheeks colored faintly as she looked away. “I can’t believe you’re still at your antics,” she muttered.

Dan Heng, meanwhile, stared down at the notebook as though it held the secrets of the universe. “Thank the High Elder...” he whispered reverently. “I’ve been at my wits’ end.”

Blade sighed, the long-suffering kind that only a man with years of domestic trauma could deliver. “You get one free.”

With surprising speed, Dan Heng stepped forward and hugged him.

Blade did not move for a second. Then, with a single pat on the back—just one, mechanical and precise—he muttered, “I understand.”

Stelle, still holding her canteen, blinked at the group like someone who had missed three chapters of a very personal novel. “...Am I supposed to be offended?”

No one answered her.

Jing Yuan doubled over laughing. Yanqing was now beet red and pretending to study the clouds. Jingliu turned away and walked off, muttering something about emotional resilience.

Blade just turned on his heel and walked off without another word, tattered ribbons trailing like the full stop at the end of a sentence.

Dan Heng cradled the notebook to his chest like a sacred text.

Stelle stared at all of them. “I am offended, right?”

No one looked her in the eye.