Chapter 137: Trial of Forge
"I should have studied more about forging," he grumbled under his breath. But there was no point crying over spilled milk.
One month. That was all the trial allowed him.
He turned the dagger in his hand, watching its faint glow flicker like a candle in the storm. "Spirit-Rank is the threshold. Earth-Rank is the true gateway. And Heaven-Rank..." his emerald eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly, "...Heaven-Rank will make me undisputed."
The forge roared in agreement, embers leaping as if stirred by his will.
For the next days, Tian Lei pushed his vessel’s body beyond its limits. Hammer strokes cracked the air like thunder. Flames bellowed and shrieked under his command. With each attempt, failures piled—cracked blades, warped hilts, molten slag that never took shape.
But every failure carved understanding deeper into his bones. He began to weave the two arts together, letting the Heavenly Mountain Hammer steady his rhythm while the Crimson Flame Art sculpted with finer precision. Slowly, his forging transcended clumsy brute strength and began echoing his true self.
On the tenth day, he birthed his first true Spirit-Rank longsword. Its glow was firmer, its edge sharp enough to hum with qi.
On the twentieth day, his forge fire condensed into a deep crimson core flame, stronger than what the vessel’s body should have ever commanded. His strokes carried not just power, but intent—his will to dominate, to rise.
By the thirtieth day, Tian Lei stood before the forge once more, sweat streaking down his arms, his eyes calm and resolute. Before him lay the same materials every outer disciple was issued: coarse black iron, rough spirit ore, and common tempering stone. To most, these were only fit for Spirit-Rank weapons at best.
But Tian Lei’s hands did not tremble.
"These will be enough," he murmured, a cold certainty in his tone. "If others see limits, I will see a path."
The furnace roared as he fed the materials inside. Ordinary iron screeched and warped, spirit ore crackled like thunder, and the tempering stone resisted the flames. Yet under his control—his Crimson Flame Art coaxing, his Heavenly Mountain Hammer steadying—the chaos slowly turned harmonious.
Hammer strikes fell, each one like a drumbeat of destiny. Sparks cascaded with emerald light, as if the forge itself bowed to his will. The crude blend of ores, smelted beyond their natural ceiling, began to sing—a resonance only Earth-Rank weapons carried.
Hours passed. His arms were leaden, but his strikes never wavered. Finally, with a thunderous blow, the blade took form: a longsword—simple in shape, but radiant in aura. When he quenched it, a surge of qi burst outward, shaking the hut’s walls. The glow was not faint like his first Spirit-Rank dagger—it was sharp, steady, alive.
"Earth-Rank," Tian Lei exhaled, eyes narrowing as he set the longsword aside. "From mere scraps."
But there was no pride in his expression, only cold hunger. This was just the beginning. His true aim lay higher.
He turned back to the furnace, flames still roaring. "My goal... is Heaven-Rank. Until then, I will not stop."
After forging the Earth-Rank longsword, Tian Lei did not stop. He kept working day after day, pouring his blood, sweat, and spirit into the furnace.
At first, his results wavered. Some days, his weapons shone with Earth-Rank brilliance. Other days, when his focus slipped, the materials collapsed and he produced only Spirit-Rank blades. Each failure cut at his pride, but he refused to slow down.
"Even failure is a path," he muttered, hammer striking again and again. "Every mistake brings me closer."
The days blurred together. His arms grew heavy, his body bruised, his qi nearly exhausted each night. Yet with every weapon he forged—whether Earth-Rank or Spirit-Rank—his technique grew sharper. His hammer strikes became cleaner. His flame control more precise.
On the twenty-first day, he managed to create three Earth-Rank weapons in a row, each one sturdier and purer than the last. But he still felt the gap. Heaven-Rank was like a mountain towering above him—distant, untouchable.
Still, he pressed on.
On the twenty-fifth day, something changed. As his hammer fell, the flames inside the furnace bent toward him, as if answering his will. The metals did not resist—they harmonized. The forge felt alive. For a moment, Tian Lei thought he had touched the threshold of Heaven-Rank. But when he quenched the weapon, it trembled and collapsed, breaking in half.
He stared at the shards, his chest heaving, then laughed softly.
"So close... then closer I must go."
Finally, on the twenty-eighth day, it happened.
The ordinary ores melted under his flames, not as stubborn scraps but as if eager to obey. His hammer strokes flowed like water, each one perfectly balanced. Sparks of jade, silver, and crimson danced in the air, painting the forge in radiant colors. Hours passed, yet Tian Lei felt no fatigue—only clarity, as though the forge and his heart had become one.
When the last strike fell, the weapon sang. Not the rough hum of Spirit-Rank, nor the deep echo of Earth-Rank. This was higher, purer, sharper. The air itself trembled, the walls of the hut quaking under the pressure.
He quenched the blade. Steam hissed, the light flared, and then... silence.
In his hands lay a longsword unlike any before. Its edge gleamed with cold light, its aura vast and unshakable. It was not just strong—it carried dignity, as if it stood above all others.
Tian Lei whispered the words with awe.
"Heaven-Rank... at last."
But even then, he did not smile. His eyes burned with the same hunger as before.
"This is only the first. I will go higher still."
The weight of the longsword settled into Tian Lei’s hands, firm yet strangely light, as though the metal itself recognized him as its master. He slowly raised it to the glow of the forge, letting the firelight spill across its surface.
The blade was seamless. Not a single flaw marred its edge. The steel shimmered with shifting hues—at one angle a cool silver, at another, a faint undertone of jade and crimson sparks, remnants of the flames that had birthed it. The edge was so fine that even his sharpened senses could not catch its limit; it seemed less like metal and more like a line carved between heaven and earth.