Tang San thought for a moment. "A blacksmith who can forge divine artifacts, I suppose, would be the best." He had heard the villagers mention that divine artifacts existed in this world, though he had no idea what they actually were. But adding the word "divine" to something probably meant it was pretty good.
A flicker of mockery crossed Tang Hao's eyes. "Divine artifacts? Little San knows about divine artifacts now, does he? Then tell me—what are divine artifacts forged from?"
Without hesitation, Tang San answered, "The finest materials, of course."
Tang Hao raised a single index finger and wagged it in front of Tang San's face. "If you want to be a decent blacksmith, remember this: forging divine artifacts from premium materials doesn't make you the best blacksmith. That just makes you an assembler. Forging divine artifacts from common iron—that's what makes a divine craftsman."
"Forging divine artifacts from common iron?" Tang San looked at Tang Hao in surprise. His father rarely said more than a few words to him on a normal day; today was already more than usual.
Tang Hao stood and pointed at a large block of iron on the other side of the room—roughly fifty centimeters square. "You want to become a blacksmith and learn forging from me? Then take a hammer and forge that block ten thousand times. Only then do you have the right."
It was common iron, riddled with impurities—far inferior to the piece containing Iron Mother that Tang San had seen.
"You can still change your mind." Tang Hao's voice was flat as he turned to head back to the inner room for sleep.
"Dad, I'm willing to try." Tang San's voice was clear and calm, yet carried an unmistakable note of resolve.
Tang Hao looked at him with mild surprise. "Good." As he spoke, he walked over, picked up the massive iron block, and placed it directly onto the forge beside the bellows. All he needed to do was light the coals, and he could begin working it.
Having done this, Tang Hao went back to the inner room and fell asleep.
Tang San was a person of firm resolve. Otherwise, he could never have crafted the
He lit the coals, pumped the bellows, and set to work.
The whoosh of the bellows filled the air as flames licked up from the forge, searing the great block of iron. Though Tang San had never practiced forging himself, he had watched Tang Hao make farm implements countless times and knew the process well enough.
Once the iron had been heated to a glowing red, he dragged over the long-handled hammer Tang Hao normally used and set it on the floor. The handle was even taller than he was—far too heavy for an ordinary five- or six-year-old child to lift, let alone swing in a forging motion.
But Tang San lifted it anyway. He channeled the
*Clang!* The hammer met the iron with a crisp ring—the very first strike, and the beginning of his forging journey.
In the inner room, Tang Hao rolled over in bed. Though his eyes remained shut, a trace of surprise lingered on his face, and he murmured in a drowsy voice, "He actually managed to pick up the hammer… born with superhuman strength, is he?"
The rhythmic *clang-clang-clang* of hammering began to echo through the smithy. Father and son continued to live out their unremarkable routine—only now, from this day forward, Tang Hao had set up a second forge in Tang San's room and left him to work the iron block on his own. He offered not a single word of instruction. Yet also starting from this day, Tang Hao drank a little less, and there was a little more food in the house.
Forging was an utterly tedious and exhausting process, but Tang San treated it as training for his body. Eleven days had already passed, and he kept a running count of every strike. To swing the hammer properly, his physical strength alone was not enough—he needed the Mysterious Heaven Skill to sustain him.
His total reserves of inner energy were sufficient for roughly a hundred strikes. Whenever his energy was fully depleted, he would sit cross-legged on the ground to recover, and the moment it returned, he immediately resumed hammering.
This was not merely physical exercise. The repeated cycle of expenditure and recovery served as an excellent tempering of both his Mysterious Heaven Skill and his willpower. Unfortunately, the bottleneck at the first major realm of the Mysterious Heaven Skill stood like an impassable wall. Tang San's cultivation was as rigorous as anyone could ask, and his talent was more than sufficient—yet still he could not break through to the second realm.
But his efforts had not gone to waste. Though the Mysterious Heaven Skill had not advanced, the inner energy itself had grown tougher and more resilient with every hour spent forging the iron block. His recovery rate, too, seemed to have improved slightly compared to before.
Eleven days in, Tang San had struck over eight thousand blows. The iron block had shrunk steadily, now less than one-third of its original size. With the combination of physical training and improved nutrition, his body had become noticeably sturdier. It was as though a force was gradually filling him from the inside out, and with each successive session of forging, the amount of inner energy each hammer blow consumed grew smaller. At the same time, the power behind his full-strength strikes had increased considerably.
By the time he reached the one-thousandth blow, the iron block had already begun to change—shrinking by a full ring. Even though it glowed red-hot in the coals, he could just make out that the impurities inside seemed to have diminished significantly.
*A hundred refinings produce steel.* The phrase surfaced in Tang San's mind, and it only strengthened his resolve to complete all ten thousand strikes. He was already close to that goal.
Tang San's perseverance amazed Tang Hao. In his estimation, even if his son had been born with superhuman strength, there was no way he could have lasted more than three days. The hammer's grip was deliberately roughened to prevent slipping—that constant friction against the palm should have inflicted terrible damage. Yet Tang Hao noticed that although Tang San was genuinely hammering away at the iron, those tiny hands of his looked completely unchanged. He had not developed a single blister.