Two weeks later.
A narrow alley, just wide enough for four men to walk side by side, led to a cobbled street—the most well-known in Tianjin Town, a small city of roughly 10,000 people.
Shops and businesses lined both sides of the street, but none were as renowned for their craftsmanship as the town's blacksmith.
At the far end of the alley, where it opened into another road, stood a large forge.
It was built a bit apart from the wooden houses nearby.
Its entrance opened and closed with a sliding mechanism.
During work hours, however, it always remained open.
Today was no exception.
The sound of hammering rang through the air—iron striking iron.
People kept their distance from the forge's entrance, where intense heat poured out.
The sun was already hot enough; they didn't need any more warmth.
Every so often, the voices of protest or scolding echoed from inside.
Yet the clanging rarely stopped.
The forge had three floors.
The middle floor was used to sell products, accessible by a staircase away from the main workshop. The top floor served as living quarters.
Inside the workshop, as expected, iron dominated the space.
Half-finished items were scattered about—some broken, some deformed.
It might have looked like amateur work.
But it wasn't.
These were the remnants of failed experiments.
At the rear of the workshop, where the hammering was loudest, sparks flew in all directions.
A glowing chunk of metal was held in place on the anvil by a pair of tongs, while Feng Yanlou hammered it with a precise rhythm.
The old man's muscles flexed and released. Sometimes he struck with great force, sometimes gently.
His strikes followed a pattern—as though he wasn't using brute strength, but persuading the metal to change.
The piece looked like a single bar, but up close, you could see it was formed from two molten sections being fused by the hammer's rhythm.
Soul power surged through Feng Yanlou's body. His focus was absolute.
After a while, he picked the metal up again with the tongs and returned it to the furnace.
He stepped down on the bellows, intensifying the flames, and glanced to his right.
There, Lin Zhechen was operating a smaller bellows with all his strength.
The cotton shirt the old man had given him was soaked in sweat. Completely drenched. The boy's thin frame struggled to stay upright.
The old man, despite being pleased for some reason, didn't lose any harshness in his voice.
"More precision, Xiao Chen. Strength only matters up to a point. After that, it's all about rhythm."
The boy looked at his grandfather, exhausted. The old man, smug as ever.
"Hah. Still want to be a blacksmith? Not any time soon, kid."
Zhechen wanted to clap back but preferred to save his energy for keeping the bellows moving in rhythm.
The cursed device was so stiff he had to use Soul Power to even move it.
The last half hour had been grueling. Yet what impressed the old man was that the boy hadn't uttered a single complaint.
He liked his grandson's willpower.
So while the boy spent the last of his soul power, the old man kept giving him tips.
"Blacksmithing has three core stages—smelting, refining, shaping. That's how your training will go."
He watched the boy's struggle with admiration.
"Let me tell you about smelting. Different metals require different temperatures to melt. Each reacts differently to heat."
He paused.
"Some melt quickly, but if you overheat them, no matter how skilled you are, the final product will be brittle. You need experience to know the right temperature and how to control it."
Eventually, the boy let go of the bellows and asked tiredly, "Why not use... soul-powered tools? I'm sure there are proper furnaces for this."
"They exist. But I don't need them. For low-temperature metals, this furnace works fine. And for the high-end stuff... I've got my own methods."
He pulled the metal out of the furnace and placed it on the anvil. Then gave Zhechen a wink.
In the next instant, it was as if the heat inside the workshop had doubled.
Even though the old man was restraining his aura, Zhechen felt like a hammer was pounding on his skull.
A crimson aura enveloped Feng Yanlou. A black hammer appeared in his hands.
It was the length of Zhechen's arm. Glowing red veins, like molten lava, danced along the head of the rectangular hammer.
Six soul rings orbited it.
They weren't standard—there was a white ring among the usual colors.
Still, it was a sight to behold.
The white ring activated. The red veins on the hammer flared, and soon the entire weapon glowed crimson.
It absorbed the aura from the old man and burned brighter.
Feng Yanlou focused entirely on the metal and began hammering with a special pattern.
Though violent, the sound felt oddly musical to the boy's ears.
The red glow of the metal, the hammer, and its sparks, reflected in Zhechen's eyes.
Watching it felt like witnessing a masterful performance.
Time seemed to slow.
Zhechen's senses sharpened.
The world moved gently. Beneath this calm, as the hammer fell, he suddenly sensed something.
Something like... a mind.
Two minds with different wills.
Like two people—one who welcomed pain and used it to grow stronger, and one who fled from it in fear.
What is this...
With that thought, Zhechen snapped back. The world returned to normal.
He was panting, drained of energy.
Maybe he'd only been in that state for a moment, but the feeling was unforgettable.
Like he had touched something—yet couldn't remember what.
He whispered, "What was that? Where did it come from?"
The sound of metal shattering turned his attention back to his grandfather.
The old man's pressure had vanished. Even his martial soul now felt like a regular tool.
On the anvil and surrounding floor, shards of broken metal scattered. Nothing remained.
His shoulders slumped. "Another failure... Where did I go wrong? Why..."
"Grandpa...!"
After a brief pause, the look of disappointment left the old man's face. He turned toward the voice of his grandson.
Zhechen sat cross-legged on the ground, pale and weak, watching him.
The old man offered a faint smile. "It's nothing, Xiao Chen." His gray eyebrows furrowed when he saw the boy's condition.
A moment later, he seemed to recover his energy. "This is the perfect time to use the medicinal bath."
Then his lips curled into a strange grin.
"And I've got something to help strengthen your body. I bet you'll like it."
Zhechen shivered a little at the sight of that grin.
He wasn't sure whether to feel excited or terrified.
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