Infinite Undying [Post-Apocalypse LitRPG]

Zeph had barely stepped into the workshop when one of the club members let out a long sigh.

“You guys seriously love talking too much. We had such a hard time finding a new member, and now that someone finally joins, all you do is scare him off.”

A man from the group spoke up as he slowly rose to his feet, making Zeph stare in surprise.

He looked to be in his early twenties, but... his height...

He was well over two meters tall, his massive frame covered in thick muscles that made him look more like a giant than an ordinary person.

The man walked over to Zeph and offered his hand.

“Nice to meet you. My name is Jester. Fifth Year, Rank 5 Grandmaster,” he introduced himself.

Zeph's eyes widened even more.

“Rank 5?”

“Yes. Why do you look so shocked?”

Zeph immediately gave a respectful bow before looking around at everyone.

“My name is Zeph. First Year, Rank 1 Apprentice.”

“Welcome, Zeph.”

“You're so skinny. Are you sure you picked the right club?”

“Yeah, Zeph, just look at the handle of that hammer. It's thicker than your arm. Hahaha!”

“First make sure you can even lift it,” another member added.

Jester burst into laughter along with the others. After that, he grabbed a chair, turned it around, and sat facing the backrest.

“It'll be easier if I sit like this. You're too short, Zeph.”

Zeph frowned as he heard that.

“So, tell me. Why are you so sure you want to join this club? You know smithing demands incredible physical strength. And it's not just your body. Your mana matters too.”

“I don't fully understand yet how mana affects forging weapons or equipment,” Zeph admitted. “But I feel like this club suits me the best. I can train my body here, and I also know that smithing is a valuable skill to have in the long run. It will also help me train my mana core, so I can improve both at the same time.”

“Good. I like the enthusiasm,” Jester replied.

“But you should understand what everyone else has been saying. Even the hammers we use for basic forging are that big.”

He glanced toward one of the members, who casually lifted his enormous hammer into the air while flexing his arm with a grin.

“These tools weren't made for ordinary people. You'll be swinging that hammer against heated metal hundreds of times a day, sometimes even thousands. It doesn't just wear down your body. It also consumes a huge amount of mana.”

Zeph gave a slow nod.

“I'd like a chance to prove myself. Give me a test, or anything.”

A faint smile appeared on Jester's face.

“Well, I still think you'd be better off coming back after you reach Rank 3 Master. Or at the very least Rank 2 Guardian, though even that would still be pushing it. But if you insist...”

Jester stood and pointed toward one of the workstations.

“Over there is the anvil,” Jester said, pointing toward the thick steel block fixed firmly to the workstation. “Those are the tongs. You'll use them to grip the heated metal. And that's the forge. Keep the metal inside until it's hot enough to shape.”

He picked up a heavy hammer and showed it out to Zeph.

“Your job is simple. Heat the metal, grab it with the tongs, place it on the anvil, then strike it with this hammer. Keep your grip steady, keep your stance balanced, and don't stop just because your arms start shaking.”

Jester lowered the hammer onto the anvil with a solid clang that echoed through the workshop.

“I don't care if your strikes are ugly. I don't care if the metal ends up looking terrible. This isn't about making a weapon. It's about seeing whether your body and your mana can endure the process.”

He looked Zeph straight in the eyes before adding,

“This process is called refining the metal. It's how we remove impurities and strengthen the steel before shaping it into anything useful. It's the most important step in smithing.”

Jester looked at Zeph without the slightest hint of a smile.

“You'll repeat this entire process one thousand times before midnight. If you finish, then we'll talk about whether you deserve to stay.”

“Jester, you're seriously ruthless!”

“He'll quit after the first swing. Hahaha.”

“No way. You're giving him too little credit. He'll make it to the tenth swing.”

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“I bet he gives up after the second.”

“Do yourself a favor, Zeph. Take care of your body. This isn't a place for kids like you. Train your strength first.”

Jester smiled before picking up one of the hammers from the rack and holding it out to Zeph.

The hammer wasn't as enormous as the ones the other members had been carrying. Even so, it was far from ordinary. Its thick iron head was nearly the size of a human head, with a broad, flat striking face polished smooth from years of constant use. The handle was made from reinforced darkwood wrapped with worn leather, thick enough to require a firm grip from both hands, though it was no wider than Zeph's forearm.

“Take it,” Jester said.

Zeph reached for the handle as every pair of eyes in the workshop turned toward him.

The room suddenly became quiet.

Everyone seemed to be waiting for the same thing. Would he actually be able to hold it, or would the hammer immediately slip from his hands?

Zeph tightened his grip.

The moment Jester let go, the hammer's full weight dropped into Zeph's hands.

His arms sank slightly under the sudden burden, but his feet stayed planted. After a brief adjustment, he steadied the hammer without losing his balance.

“Well... not bad,” Jester said with a raised brow.

“Yeah. Better than I expected.”

“So he can actually hold it.”

“That's impressive.”

Misty clapped her hands with an excited smile.

“You can do it, Zeph! I'm rooting for you. When you're done, I'll treat you to a really nice meal. We'll all wait for you until you finish, okay?”

Several people burst into laughter.

“No need to wait until midnight, Misty. You're joking.”

“This isn't the first time someone walked in full of confidence.”

“And it won't be the first time someone leaves halfway through and never shows their face here again.”

Zeph simply smiled. Without saying another word, he walked over to the workstation behind the anvil.

Honestly, the hammer was heavy.

Very heavy.

But compared to his Sigil Sword...

It still wasn't enough.

This hammer had weight, but it was obedient. Once he found his balance, it stayed exactly where he wanted it.

His Sigil Sword was different. That weapon felt alive.

Its weight shifted constantly, resisting every movement as though it had a will of its own, demanding complete control from the one who wielded it.

Compared to that, this hammer was straightforward. Heavy, yes. But manageable.

Zeph quickly took his position behind the workstation, preparing to follow every instruction Jester had given him.

Even now, he could still feel everyone's eyes fixed on him.

This shouldn't be that difficult... right?

He picked up the heavy tongs, the steel still warm from constant use, and reached into the forge to grip the piece of iron resting among the glowing coals.

Before he could pull it out, Jester stepped beside him and adjusted the air blower connected to the forge.

The flames immediately flared brighter.

“Careful with the fire,” Jester said. “Too much air, and the flames will get hot enough to burn your hands even through the tongs. Too little, and the metal won't heat evenly. Keep the airflow around this level.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now wait.”

The dark iron slowly changed color.

From dull black...

To deep red...

Then gradually to a bright orange glow.

“When it reaches this color, it's ready,” Jester explained. “Don't overheat it, or you'll ruin the metal before you even start forging.”

Zeph nodded, trying to memorize every detail.

“Now bring it over with the tongs and place it on the anvil.”

“Yes, sir.”

Zeph carefully lifted the glowing piece of iron from the forge and carried it to the anvil. The heat radiating from the metal brushed against his face even from a distance.

He laid it flat on the anvil before reaching for the hammer with his right hand.

Jester pointed to a small mechanical strike counter mounted beside the anvil.

“This will keep track of every strike you make, so you'll always know your progress. One thousand strikes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, be careful,” Jester reminded him. “One mistake and you could injure your wrist. Keep your grip firm, too. That metal is hot enough to leave serious burns if it flies toward you.”

“Yes.”

Zeph answered firmly.

He tightened his grip on the tongs with his left hand, holding the glowing piece of iron firmly against the anvil, while his right hand wrapped around the thick handle of the hammer. Slowly, he raised it over his shoulder.

“You can use the hammer's weight to generate more power,” Jester continued. “Don't try to force every swing with your muscles alone. Let gravity help you.”

He pointed at Zeph's hands.

“But the impact will send a strong shock back through the handle every time you strike. If your grip is weak or your posture is unstable, the recoil will throw off your balance or even knock the hammer out of your hands.”

Jester folded his arms.

“So the key isn't just strength. It's control. Control your grip, your posture, your breathing, and the hammer itself.”

“Yes.”

Zeph swallowed once, steadying himself as he focused entirely on the task in front of him. He could control his left hand well, his grip firm and reliable. He was used to holding a massive sword with both hands, and he had even fought a giant skeleton knight using that same weapon.

Now, with the hammer in his right hand, his grip was strong enough to handle its weight. This would be his first strike, something he knew he could do.

At that moment, everyone in the room fell silent, as if they were all bracing themselves for what was about to happen.

Zeph prepared himself. He moved his arm, and the hammer followed.

Clang.

The first strike landed. The impact jolted his hand, the shock racing up his arm and into his shoulder, until even his head seemed to vibrate. His palm throbbed from the force.

But it felt good.

A faint smile appeared on Zeph’s face as he lifted the hammer again.

The nervous beat of his heart from earlier quickly turned into excitement.

“Well, well, well, Zeph. Hahaha,” Jester said. “That was a solid hammer strike. I can see something in you. Now keep going. Nine hundred ninety-nine more, alright?”

Misty clenched both her fists, clearly excited as she cheered him on. “Zeph, I’ll bring you dinner later, so keep going. You can do this!”

Zeph simply nodded. Then he swung the hammer again, this time with a slightly different control than before. It was slow, but he began to feel the flow of the hammer.

He could do this.

He just needed to repeat it. Again and again. He had the endurance, he had regeneration. He only needed to keep going. Before his hands went numb, before he lost consciousness, as long as he could endure, he would crush through the physical pain.

Once more, the hammer struck.

At the same time, Zeph noticed the looks from the people in the room beginning to change.

“Not bad, kid. That’s ten already. Seems like we were wrong.”

“But it’s still a long way to go. This won’t be easy.”

“Jester, that’s too much. The target shouldn’t be that high. A hundred would be enough. Go a little easy on the kid.”

“Hah, you’re all so noisy. Just get back to work! You were the ones doubting Zeph, weren’t you? Hahaha,” Jester replied.

Soon, the workshop came back to life. The ringing of hammers filled the air once more as the blacksmiths returned to forging, metal striking metal in a steady rhythm while the furnaces roared with heat.

Zeph stayed focused. Even though every movement still felt stiff and unfamiliar, he raised the hammer again and brought it down.

Clang.

Only a dozen or so strikes had passed, yet his grip was already beginning to ache. His fingers felt sore, and the muscles in his forearm burned with every swing.

Swinging a massive sword was different. He only needed a few decisive attacks, relying on momentum, timing, and technique. But blacksmithing demanded the same motion over and over without pause.

By this point, he could already feel how brutally exhausting it was. His shoulders grew heavy, his arms trembled, and even his stomach let out a quiet growl.

Could he really endure until the end?