"Yes, Master Mang Tian," Yao Xuan replied. His voice was calm, his demeanor composed. There was no boastful pride in his achievement, nor any false humility—just a simple statement of fact.
Mang Tian studied him for a long moment, his bearded face unreadable. "Alright then," he finally grunted. "Take me to see." A part of him refused to believe it. A child completing such a grueling test in under twenty minutes defied all his experience. He pushed himself up from the sofa with a grunt and gestured for Yao Xuan to lead the way back to the practice forge.
The rhythmic, struggling *CLANG* of Tang Wulin's hammer grew louder as they approached. Mang Tian's eyes went first to the boy, drenched in sweat and fighting for every strike, his counter reading '650'. A flicker of respect passed through the master blacksmith's gaze. That, in itself, was impressive endurance for a child.
Then, his eyes shifted to Yao Xuan's station. They landed on the soul-guided screen, and the large, bright red '1000' seemed to burn itself into his retinas.
"My God," Mang Tian breathed, the words escaping him in a rush of stunned air. His jaw went slack, his formidable presence momentarily diminished by sheer disbelief. "You finished. You actually finished."
The test he had devised was meant to be a gentle, unassailable refusal. Each of those hammers was a solid five kilograms. A thousand swings was a trial that would leave a grown man's arms feeling like lead, his back screaming in protest. To complete it in twenty minutes was a feat of raw, physical power that should have been impossible for a six-year-old frame. Yet, the evidence was irrefutable. There was no one else in the room, no chance of deception. This could only be one thing: a once-in-a-generation kind of innate strength.
His gaze swept back to Tang Wulin, now pushing past 700 strikes. *Two of them?* The thought was staggering. *Have I stumbled upon two prodigies in a single afternoon?*
"Yao Xuan," Mang Tian's voice was different now. The gruffness remained, but the icy edge had melted, replaced by a deep, resonant intensity. "Show me again. Pick up the hammer and strike. Don't stop until I tell you to."
"Yes, Master Mang Tian."
Without a moment's hesitation, Yao Xuan returned to his station. He picked up the hammers, their familiar weight settling into his palms. He took a centering breath, and then the rhythm began again. *CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.*
The strikes were clean, efficient, and powerful. Mang Tian watched, his experienced eyes missing nothing. The way the boy's body moved, the transfer of force from his core through his shoulders and into the hammer—it was unrefined, but the foundational power was undeniable, a raw diamond waiting to be cut and polished. He no longer doubted Yao Xuan's capability; he was now measuring his potential.
He did not call a stop. He stood like a statue, his arms crossed, silently observing as the numbers on the screen began to climb once more. *1100... 1250... 1400...*
Another ten minutes slipped by. Yao Xuan had added over five hundred strikes to his total. Now, the strain began to show. A faint tremble appeared in his arms, his tunic was plastered to his back with sweat, and his breaths came in deeper, more audible draws. The seemingly bottomless well of strength finally had a visible limit.
"Uncle Mang Tian!" a voice gasped from the other station. Tang Wulin finally lowered his hammers, his entire body slumping with exhaustion. He looked at the '1000' on his own screen with a mixture of relief and awe. As he shuffled towards Mang Tian, he passed Yao Xuan's station and saw the number: 1512. His eyes widened. *Brother Xuan... he's not just strong, he's a monster. And he's still going!* The admiration he felt was tinged with a fresh, burning motivation. He couldn't just keep up; he had to strive to close that gap.
"Not bad at all, Wulin. You have tenacity," Mang Tian acknowledged, giving the boy a firm nod. Then, he turned his attention back to Yao Xuan. "Alright, Yao Xuan. That's enough. You can stop now."
The hammers fell silent as Yao Xuan set them down. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the deep, throbbing ache of overworked muscle, a sensation that was already being gently soothed by the circulating warmth within him.
Mang Tian looked at the two boys—one heaving with exhaustion, the other breathing deeply but steadily. His initial plan to send them away was gone, replaced by a surge of excitement he hadn't felt in years. To find one such talent was a blessing. To find two was a legacy. These boys weren't just capable; they were the keys to reaching heights he himself had never attained—the legendary rank of Divine Craftsman.
"I'll take you on," he announced, his voice brooking no argument. "Both of you. Be here every evening at this time. I will teach you myself." He walked to a cabinet and retrieved two ceramic jars of a dark, pungent ointment. "For now, rub this on your arms. Rest for five minutes. Then, I will explain what forging truly is."
The system's message was a quiet confirmation of his success. With these points, his total now reached 16. It was a substantial haul, though he knew such windfalls from Na'er's proximity were likely a one-time boon. Future gains would require more deliberate effort.
"Thank you, Teacher!" both boys chorused, their voices filled with genuine respect. They took the jars and applied the salve. A immediate, cooling sensation seeped into their muscles, dialing the pain from a sharp protest to a dull, manageable throb.
"Alright, listen closely," Mang Tian began, his voice taking on the cadence of a lecturer. "Forging is not casting. It is not about machines pressing molten metal into a mold." He picked up a rough metal block, holding it with a sort of reverence. "Forging is a dialogue. It is a conversation between the smith and the metal. With every hammer stroke, you are not just shaping it; you are speaking to it, driving out its impurities, aligning its spirit. You are giving it purpose, and if you are skilled enough, a fragment of your own will. That is why the core components of the finest battle armors, the very heart of a powerful mecha, must be born from the hand of a master forger. No machine can instill a soul."
Yao Xuan and Tang Wulin listened, utterly captivated. This was no longer just a test of strength; it was an introduction to an art form.
For the next while, Mang Tian began their first real lesson. He demonstrated the proper stance, the way to grip the hammer not just with the hands but with the entire body, how to let the weight of the tool do the work, and how to channel the recoil through the body to avoid injury.
Finally, he laid out their path forward. "Your training, for now, is simple. You will build your foundation. Yao Xuan," he said, his eyes resting on the boy who had shattered his expectations, "your task is three thousand strikes per day. Wulin, yours is two thousand. You will hammer these iron blocks until the motion is as natural as breathing, until your bodies understand the language of the metal before your minds do."
It was a daunting regimen, but as Yao Xuan met his new teacher's gaze, he felt not dread, but anticipation. This was another anvil upon which he would forge his destiny.