The Genesis of a Masterpiece
Mang Tian's thoughts raced ahead, a future unfolding in his mind's eye. With such innate talent, profound comprehension, and unyielding diligence, Yao Xuan's ascent to the rank of Saint-level Craftsman was not a matter of if, but when. It was a path of steady, inevitable accumulation. And beyond that… the legendary, almost mythical rank of Divine Craftsman, a title held by only one soul in a generation across the entire Douluo Continent. The mere thought that he, Mang Tian, might be the one to guide such a prodigy sent a thrill so potent through his veins that his heart hammered against his ribs and his breath caught in his chest.
Across the workshop, Tang Wulin was equally transfixed, but in a different way. His young mind, sharp and eager, was absorbing the rhythm and flow of Yao Xuan's movements. His own arm began to move unconsciously, mirroring the strikes in the air, his soul resonating with the lesson being imprinted upon it. He was gaining an enlightenment, a foundational understanding that would shape his own future path.
Yao Xuan, however, was blissfully unaware of the grand futures his teacher was envisioning or the inspiration his junior was drawing. He had descended into a state of profound unity. The world had dissolved, leaving only a trinity of existence: himself, the hammer in his hand, and the soul of the Refined Gold awaiting rebirth on the anvil.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The rhythm of the forge intensified, becoming a frantic, passionate heartbeat. Yao Xuan's muscles coiled and released with piston-like precision, the frequency and power of his strikes escalating into a controlled storm. With every earth-shaking impact, the block of gold compacted further, its impurities screaming out in final, brilliant showers of sparks. Deep within its structure, on a level invisible to the naked eye, molecules were being persuaded, cajoled, and commanded into a new, more perfect alignment. The metal was not being broken; it was being awakened.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty. A full hour.
Thousand Refining was never about a mere number. It was about achieving a critical mass of perfection, a tipping point of quality. In that single hour, Yao Xuan's hammers had fallen over five thousand times. The gold had shrunk by nearly fifteen percent, and now it glowed from within, pulsing with a soft, golden light that seemed to breathe. And within its deepest heart, a faint, majestic aura—the signature of the Nine-Colored Ancestral Dragon—had been indelibly forged into its being.
Fatigue was a distant, muted signal. Though his arms only ached dully, Yao Xuan's mind felt stretched thin; he had expended over seventy percent of his mental energy maintaining that deep, spiritual conversation with the metal. But his efforts were not in vain. Through that hard-won connection, he could feel it—a gathering tension, a precipice of transformation. The refined gold was on the cusp. It was ready.
"Thousand Refined Gold, be complete!"
The words tore from Yao Xuan's throat, a raw, triumphant shout born of instinct and certainty. With a final, explosive surge of strength, he brought both hammers down in a simultaneous, devastating blow.
CLANG!
The sound was a physical force, a shockwave that made the very foundations of the workshop shudder. The block of refined gold leaped from the anvil as if alive, hung in the air for a breathtaking moment, and erupted in a sun-bright cascade of golden light. The entire room was bathed in its radiant, victorious hue before the metal settled back onto the anvil, now humming with a quiet, immense power.
"Excellent, Yao Xuan! Now, cut your wrist and offer a blood sacrifice to the metal!"
Mang Tian's voice was sharp with urgency, his eyes blazing with fervent pride. He tossed a sharp dagger to Yao Xuan. The blood sacrifice was a sacred, demanding rite in the world of forging. It created an intimate, unique bond between the creator and the creation, imbuing the metal with a whisper of sentience and often unlocking latent, more powerful properties. Once blooded, the metal would reject all other masters. But this covenant came at a cost—a drain on the blacksmith's own vital energy. It was a rite reserved for masterpieces, for metals of supreme value, and most traditionally, for a blacksmith's first successful forging of a Thousand, Spirit, or Soul Refined item.
Yao Xuan caught the dagger without hesitation. He pressed the edge against the skin of his right forearm and pushed. For a moment, his dragon-tempered skin resisted, but with a slight increase in pressure, a shallow wound opened. A spurt of vibrant crimson blood arced through the air, splashing across the shimmering surface of the gold.
Even as his life essence stained the metal, the incredible vitality granted by his bloodline took over; the wound on his arm began to knit itself closed at a visible rate.
SSSSZZZZZ!
A sharp, sizzling sound filled the air as the gold's temperature plummeted. The incandescent glow faded, replaced by a deep, internal luster, and the block shrunk one last, decisive time.
"Congratulations, Yao Xuan! You succeeded! You truly succeeded!" Mang Tian's voice trembled with emotion as he rushed forward, clasping Yao Xuan's shoulders. "Eight years old! An eight-year-old Level 3 Blacksmith! Do you realize what you've done? You've set a record! A record that eclipses all others, one that will send shockwaves through the entire Sun Moon Federation!"
"Brother Yao Xuan, congratulations!" Tang Wulin exclaimed, his eyes shining with pure, unadulterated hero worship. "You really did it! You are truly my idol!"
The system's notification was a quiet chime of affirmation in the midst of his triumph.
"Thank you for your guidance, Teacher!" Yao Xuan said, his voice thick with gratitude and exhaustion. He then turned to his junior, offering an encouraging smile. "Wu Lin, keep working hard! In another year or two, you will definitely have your own chance to challenge the Thousand Refinement."
His gaze then fell upon the fruit of his labor—his first Thousand Refined creation. The gold that had once blazed so brightly on the surface now seemed subdued, its brilliance turned inward. But to a spiritual sense, it was more dazzling than ever, shot through with faint, ethereal nine-colored specks of light. Its surface was no longer smooth, but etched with rugged, mountainous patterns that gave it a unique, formidable character, inspiring a sense of awe.
Its volume had decreased by a full quarter, and in its place was a hardness that defied imagination. The qualitative leap was absolute. If ordinary refined gold had a density of 10, this Thousand Refined metal boasted a density of at least 20. This was more than a mastered technique; it was the laying of a cornerstone—the very foundation upon which the mighty edifice of one-word battle armor could one day be built. And as he looked at it, Yao Xuan knew this strength was not for his own glory, but for a far more precious purpose: to become the unbreakable shield for the silver-haired girl waiting for him at home.