Mystic Eyes: My Eyes Steal the Laws of Cultivation

Chapter 479: Forging a Blade (2)

The spectators exchanged glances.

“…”

“That stance…” a dark-haired apprentice murmured, frowning.

“It doesn’t look like a beginner’s.”

“He said he’d never held a hammer before,” another replied, incredulous.

“But look at his footing. That’s something you only learn through practice.”

“I don’t understand any of this.” The first shook his head.

“Either he lied, or he’s a genius. There’s no middle ground.”

Sun Luguo said absolutely nothing. His eyes remained fixed on Kyrian, capturing every detail of the young man’s stance.

He noticed the stiffness in his shoulders, the slight tension in his fingers, the way his feet were slightly misaligned. It wasn’t perfect, nor could it be, coming from someone with no experience. But it was… promising.

Then…

Kyrian took a breath.

A deep inhale filled his lungs with the hot air of the forge. He felt Qi flow through his body, warming his muscles, preparing them for the task ahead.

He raised the hammer.

The movement was slow at first, almost hesitant, as his muscles familiarized themselves with the tool’s weight and balance. But then, as if something had clicked inside him, the hesitation vanished.

And he delivered the first strike.

‘CLANG!’

The impact echoed throughout the square, a metallic sound that rang against the stone walls and spread like ripples across a lake. A few sparks leaped from the metal’s surface, orange and gold flashes that glimmered for an instant before fading into the air.

Kyrian immediately noticed something.

Too heavy.

The force had been slightly excessive. His arm had come down with more power than necessary, and the impact had deformed the metal beyond what the notes described as ideal.

Instead of a uniform compression, the strike had created a slight uneven depression, a small mistake that would compromise the structure if left uncorrected.

His eyes registered that tiny flaw instantly.

Without the slightest irritation. Without anxiety. Only a clear awareness of what had happened and what needed to be done.

He simply corrected it.

Second strike.

‘Clang.’

Lighter. The force was reduced by about fifteen percent. The impact was more precise, creating a more uniform deformation. Still not perfect, but better.

Third.

‘Clang.’

Better. The rhythm was beginning to settle. His breathing aligned with the movement.

Fourth.

‘Clang.’

Fifth.

‘Clang.’

Sixth.

‘Clang.’

With each hammer blow, his movements became more natural. The initial stiffness was fading, replaced by a fluidity born from repetition and constant correction. His body was learning, adjusting itself with every strike, finding the most efficient way to channel force through the hammer.

His eyes corrected every tiny mistake.

The slightly twisted wrist, wasting energy. Corrected.

The elbow angle is too open, reducing precision. Corrected.

The hip rotation begins too late, losing power. Corrected.

It was like walking down an unfamiliar road while someone showed him the way step by step. Every correction brought him a little closer to the proper technique, and each following strike was better than the last.

The movements of the other blacksmiths began to surface naturally.

The hip rotation of the old man who danced while forging.

The footwork of the master who worked with surgical precision.

The use of the legs by the blacksmith who drew power from the ground.

The way Sun Luguo used his entire body, every muscle contributing to the impact.

Everything happened almost automatically, as though his body were selecting the best techniques from each observation and fusing them into a style of its own.

The crowd gradually stopped talking.

The murmurs that had once filled the square disappeared, replaced by attentive silence. Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the young man hammering with absolute concentration, ignoring everything around him.

The only sound left was the hammer.

‘Clang.’

‘Clang.’

‘Clang.’

The rhythm became steadier with every strike. It wasn’t Sun Luguo’s hypnotic rhythm, not yet. But there was already a cadence, a regular sequence that showed Kyrian’s body was beginning to understand the task.

Sun Luguo narrowed his eyes.

‘Is he learning while he forges…?’

‘That…’

‘He’s correcting his own mistakes in real time. Is he truly a genius?’

That was far rarer. Many apprentices repeated the exact same mistake hundreds of times, needing a master to point out the flaw over and over before they finally understood.

Kyrian made each mistake only once.

Then he never repeated it again.

The giant began observing even more closely. Every detail mattered. The position of the young man’s shoulders, the way his fingers adjusted around the hammer’s handle, and the angle of his body in relation to the anvil.

The young man truly possessed no technique. That was obvious to any well-trained observer. There were still small wastes of strength, moments when his muscles worked against themselves instead of in harmony.

His breathing wasn’t perfect. At times he held his breath during the impact, creating unnecessary tension. His Qi flow still showed small interruptions, moments when the energy scattered instead of concentrating into the strike.

But…

Each problem disappeared just a few blows later.

As if his body simply understood.

As if his mind observed, analyzed, and corrected with astonishing speed.

Sun Luguo felt something stir within his chest. An excitement he hadn’t felt in many years.

After dozens of hammer strikes…

Kyrian placed the metal back into the forge.

The block had already changed shape. What had once been a solid rectangle was now a thinner, longer bar, its edges beginning to take form.

He waited for exactly the amount of time indicated in the notes. Not a second longer. Not a second shorter. His eyes followed the changing color of the metal, the glow that signaled the correct temperature.

When the metal once again reached the ideal point, he removed it with the tongs.

He began again.

‘CLANG!’

Now his strikes carried rhythm. It wasn’t Sun Luguo’s perfect rhythm, the hypnotic cadence of someone who had devoted decades to the art of blacksmithing. But there was already a sequence, a pattern that showed his body had internalized part of what he had learned.