庚 is the yang face of metal: unworked ore, the axe, the blade. Its action is severance — separating what's mixed, cutting away what shouldn't stay. Necessary in any system, and never popular, because the half being cut has someone to speak for it.
You'll recognise it here: you spot a situation's central contradiction quickly and can't quite keep it to yourself; your speech is short, not from coldness but because surplus words irritate you; and you don't retreat much from conflict — it slightly wakes you up.
Running well, 庚 is whoever defines the thing: what counts as done, what isn't being done, who owns it. Without that role work expands without limit and everyone tires. Blocked, the blade turns inward or towards the people closest — cutting their room first and then your own, because it's the only tool you have. The tradition says 庚 becomes a vessel only after fire: raw sharpness isn't the capacity, holding shape under heat is. So what 庚 practises is one question before the cut — what this particular cut is for. Nobody resents the ones you can answer for.
