Chapter 480: Forging a Blade (3)
Chapter 480: Forging a Blade (3)
The metal slowly began to change shape.
At first, it was merely a thinner, longer, more compact bar. Its internal structure was beginning to align, the metal’s grains orienting themselves in the direction of the hammer strikes.
Then...
One end began to lengthen.
Kyrian’s strikes focused on a specific area, compressing the metal and stretching it. It was a slow process that demanded patience and precision. Many strikes. Many reheatings. A gradual movement, almost imperceptible, yet constant.
The other end became narrower. The future blade was beginning to take shape, its rudimentary form emerging beneath the repeated hammer blows.
An elderly blacksmith’s eyes widened ever so slightly.
"..."
"He’s actually shaping it." His voice was barely above a whisper, as though speaking to himself.
"He’s not just hammering aimlessly. He has a goal."
Another replied quietly, equally astonished.
"This should take a beginner days." His eyes never left the young man.
"How is he doing it?"
"Could he have lied?" the old man frowned, confused.
"Maybe he really does have experience in blacksmithing."
"No." A third blacksmith joined the conversation, his voice firm.
"Look at his shoulders. They’re still tense. His grip is rigid. His movements are hesitant. That’s not someone with experience. That’s..."
He hesitated, as though the conclusion was difficult to accept.
"...that’s someone who’s learning as he goes."
Doubts began to spread everywhere.
"Maybe he really is already a blacksmith," an apprentice said, shaking his head.
"It doesn’t make sense for someone to learn this quickly."
"He’s hiding something," another agreed.
"He must already have experience forging. No one picks up a hammer for the first time and manages to shape a spiritual blade."
"It’s impossible," an older voice added.
"Even with talent, it takes months of practice."
The comments grew louder and louder, a rising murmur that threatened to break the young blacksmith’s concentration.
Kyrian, however, heard absolutely none of it.
His world consisted only of the metal.
Of the heat radiating from the forge. Of the sound of the hammer striking the heated surface. Of the flow of his own Qi through his meridians.
Each strike was a conversation. The metal answered in different ways, producing a higher-pitched sound when its temperature was high, a deeper tone when it began to cool.
Vibrations traveled up through the hammer’s handle and along his arm, conveying information about the metal’s internal state.
Sun Luguo’s notes had said that a blacksmith should feel the metal. Not merely observe it, not merely hammer it, but feel its essence. Understand its structure. Know its limits.
Kyrian finally understood what that meant.
The metal was like a living being. It had its own memory, its own will. Some metals resisted, others yielded. Some preferred to be heated slowly, while others responded better to rapid temperature changes.
Each strike produced a different sound. Each vibration returned through the hammer’s handle. Every change in temperature subtly altered the metal’s resistance, its plasticity, its ability to be shaped.
It was like holding a conversation.
The metal answered. And all he had to do was listen.
His eyes recorded everything. Every spark, every shift in color, every tiny deformation. His mind understood, processing the information and adjusting his next action. His body obeyed, translating that understanding into movement.
Another half hour passed.
Time seemed to have lost all meaning in that space where only the rhythm of the hammer existed. Kyrian felt no fatigue, no awareness of the passing minutes. His entire existence was focused on that small piece of metal.
The original block had practically disappeared. Its edges had been compressed, the metal stretched and shaped into something completely different.
Now there was only a small blade.
Still very simple. Without a defined edge, without a hilt, without inscriptions or aesthetic refinement. Its surface was uneven in a few places, and one side was slightly crooked, a small mistake made during the first few strikes.
But...
It truly was a blade. A weapon.
An extremely basic spiritual weapon, lacking any refinement, yet containing the very essence of what it was meant to be. The metal had been compressed and shaped, its internal structure aligned, its basic form established.
Kyrian delivered the final strikes.
Each one was precise and controlled, reducing the imperfections across the surface. His breathing quickened slightly, his muscles finally beginning to feel the strain of nearly an hour of continuous work.
Then he exhaled slowly.
He heated the blade one final time.
He performed the quenching exactly as described in the notes. He plunged the glowing metal into the bucket of water, and a violent hiss echoed through the square as steam rose in white clouds. The quenching was the most critical step; mistakes there could ruin all the work that had come before.
The metal cooled.
Kyrian lifted it from the water.
Then, at last, he set the hammer down on the workbench.
Silence fell over the square.
Everyone stared at the small blade.
Imperfect. Full of tiny irregularities. Slightly crooked on one side.
But...
No one could deny it. It existed.
Kyrian had truly forged a weapon. On his very first attempt.
An apprentice was the first to speak.
"Th-That’s..." His voice trembled, his eyes wide.
"That’s impossible. It took me weeks to forge something comparable to that blade."
Another slowly shook his head, as though trying to process what he had just witnessed.
"He said he’d never forged before." The apprentice’s voice was filled with disbelief.
"He lied. He definitely lied. There’s no other explanation."
"It’s impossible," the old blacksmith said, his rough voice firm.
"No one learns like that. Not even the disciples of the Blacksmiths’ Association."
"He must be hiding his true past," another added.
"There’s simply no other way."
Several people began to agree, their murmurs swelling like a wave.
"I don’t care what he says, I don’t believe him."
"He trained somewhere. He must have."
"That performance was very convincing."
"It doesn’t make any sense."
Kyrian heard every one of those voices.
But he remained completely silent. His expression was calm, his violet eyes fixed on Sun Luguo. There was no reason to answer the accusations. He didn’t need to convince those people.
Only one opinion truly mattered.
Sun Luguo’s.
The massive blacksmith slowly walked toward the anvil.
Every step was measured, his eyes fixed on the small blade. The crowd fell silent once more, every gaze following his movement.