Chapter 478: Forging a Blade
Chapter 478: Forging a Blade
The forge roared before Kyrian.
The spiritual flames slowly enveloped the metal block he had chosen, heating it evenly.
The heat made the air ripple in visible waves, creating distortions that danced before his eyes like a translucent veil.
Tiny glowing particles escaped from the mouth of the forge like fiery fireflies, spiraling upward before fading into the afternoon sky. The crackling of the flames was constant, a deep murmur that filled the silence with its hypnotic cadence.
The entire square remained silent.
Hundreds of people watched a single young man who, only a few minutes earlier, had claimed he had never held a hammer in his life.
The more experienced blacksmiths leaned slightly forward, their eyes narrowed in evaluation.
The apprentices held their breath, unable to look away. Even the merchants passing through the area had stopped, drawn by the atmosphere of anticipation hanging over the square.
Sun Luguo stood beside the anvil with his arms crossed. His imposing figure resembled a statue carved from stone, motionless and silent.
The light of the flames danced across his face, casting deep shadows that accentuated every line and wrinkle, marks left by decades, perhaps even a century or more, of relentless labor.
He would not say another word.
From this moment onward, everything depended solely on Kyrian.
Kyrian took a deep breath.
The air filled his lungs, carrying the heat, the scent of heated metal, and burning charcoal.
There was a unique quality to that environment, something he had never experienced before, a blend of raw energy and controlled precision. Blacksmithing was a world entirely different from combat, and yet there were parallels he was beginning to recognize.
His gaze remained fixed on the metal.
As he waited for it to reach the proper temperature, all the information he had just memorized flowed naturally through his mind.
It was not a conscious effort. The knowledge simply flowed, organized and readily accessible, as though the pages of the book had been engraved into his memory with crystal clarity.
The temperature, color, glow, and heat flow.
Sun Luguo’s notes described every stage of the heating process with surgical precision. The metal would begin emitting a dark red glow when it reached the proper temperature for the first hammer strike.
If the glow turned orange, it meant the metal had become too hot and could turn brittle. If it remained dark red for too long, the heat had not penetrated evenly, creating internal weak points.
Breathing. Posture. Foot placement.
Every detail was there, waiting to be applied. The correct way to hold the hammer is not with excessive force but with relaxed firmness.
The position of the shoulders is aligned with the hips to transmit power efficiently.
The movement of the legs, which should act like roots, anchoring the body to the ground while the arms performed the work.
Sun Luguo’s notes surfaced one after another as though they were still open before his eyes.
At the same time...
Another memory emerged.
The countless blacksmiths he had observed throughout the afternoon. Dozens of men are working at their benches, each with a unique style, their own peculiarities, and techniques developed through years of practice.
The man hammered using nothing but brute strength, his muscles tensing with every strike, sweat running down his forehead. His movements were powerful, yet inefficient, wasting unnecessary energy with every blow.
The old man practically danced while forging, his feet moving in a rhythmic pattern, his body swaying like a leaf in the wind. Every strike seemed light, yet the metal deformed with astonishing precision.
The apprentices adjusted their breathing, inhaling before each strike and exhaling upon impact. The rhythm of their hammering was uneven, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow, but there was genuine effort behind every movement.
The masters used their hips to generate power, a subtle twist that multiplied the strength of the arm, creating impacts that echoed like drums.
And... Sun Luguo.
Every strike from that giant seemed engraved into his mind. The way his entire body moved as a single cohesive unit, every muscle working in harmony.
The way the hammer seemed like a natural extension of his arm, the metal responding to every touch as though it possessed a life of its own. The hypnotic rhythm of his movements, a dance of power and precision that transformed blacksmithing into art.
Kyrian slowly closed his eyes for a brief moment.
When he opened them again...
It was as though he were watching all those scenes at once. The images overlapped within his mind, forming a mosaic of movements, techniques, and different approaches. Every blacksmith he had observed had contributed something, adding another piece to the puzzle he was now trying to assemble.
The metal reached the perfect temperature.
The dark red glow was flawless, exactly as described in the notes. A thin layer of oxide had begun forming across the surface, a sign that the heat had penetrated evenly throughout the entire block.
Without the slightest hesitation, Kyrian picked up the tongs.
The movement was still somewhat stiff. His fingers closed around the wooden handle with a grip bordering on excessive, and his shoulders were slightly tense. It was obvious he had never done this before. There was none of the natural fluidity of someone who performed this task hundreds of times every day.
He carefully removed the block from the forge and placed it on the anvil. The heated metal hissed softly as it touched the cold iron surface, a sound that resembled a greeting between old acquaintances.
Then he grasped the hammer.
Its weight felt satisfying. Heavy enough to deliver force, yet balanced so well that the handle never felt like a burden. The metal head, polished smooth by constant use, reflected the flames like an imperfect mirror.
Very different from a spear or a sword. Very different from any weapon he was accustomed to.
Kyrian naturally adjusted his stance.
He moved his left leg slightly outward, distributing his weight evenly. He rotated his hips just a little, aligning them with the anvil. He relaxed his shoulders, allowing the tension to flow down through his arms.
That entire posture had emerged without conscious thought. His body simply reproduced what he had observed for hours: the stances of the masters, the way they positioned themselves before the first strike, the way they established a solid foundation before beginning their work.