Chapter 784: Detour to the Secret Workshop South of Cheng Nan

Thirty li south of Tongwan City, that hidden area wedged in the valley by three towering mountains, is an absolute forbidden zone in the entire Xiazhou defense sector, even Lu Ming has no right to enter at will.

Eight swift cavalry horses raced along the narrow path known only to the Hidden Agents of the Mingjing Office for a little less than a Half Hour Rest; when they crossed the last ridge riddled with hidden sentries, Chen Yan was the first to pull the reins.

The Zaojia Horse paced back and forth twice before settling, its hooves carving a few white marks into the broken stones.

Night fog surged up from the valley, carrying a chokingly strong smell of iron rust and scorched sulfur; the heat wave, even a hundred zhang away, already slapped against the cheeks.

At the valley mouth stood three iron‑brick walls three zhang high, each separated by a moat filled with icy water; behind the arrow slits atop the walls, vague black silhouettes of the Mingjing Office Hidden Agents could be seen.

The patrol spacing was so tight that even a mouse could not squeeze through.

Chen Yan dismounted, tossed the reins to the Beiwei Dead Guards behind him, and strode toward the iron Damen that was three times thicker than the city gate.

Token verified.

The three Iron Gates rose in succession, the massive iron chains shrieking a sharp metallic screech within the pulleys.

The moment the Damen swung open to both sides, a scorching gust capable of singeing eyebrows, wrapped in the violent clang of the Iron Anvil, slammed into the face.

Chen Yan squinted, then stepped over the threshold.

Even for him, a time‑traveler accustomed to modern factory assembly lines, the scene before his eyes stirred a faint emotion deep within.

Hundreds of massive blast furnaces built from fire‑resistant bricks lined up in a row, their tops belching dark‑red flames and billowing black smoke, turning the valley night sky into a bewitching orange‑red hue.

Molten iron, a vivid red, poured out from the furnace's tap, flowing along the Shicao like scorching lava, branching toward each Forge Table.

The swift water introduced at the side of the valley drove a row of massive hydraulic hammers; those iron hammerheads weighing hundreds of jin were lifted high by cam mechanisms, then slammed down heavily, the booming roar causing the ground beneath the feet to tremble slightly.

The assembly‑line workflow Chen Yan had previously forced into practice had already taken shape in this massive Workshop built against the mountain.

The casting section just cast, the quenching section just quenched, the polishing section just polished; each stage was linked by wooden‑track carts, allowing semi‑finished pieces to flow to the next step without ever touching the ground.

The Western Regions blacksmiths brought back from Heishui Horse Farm, torso bare, their bronze‑colored skin drenched in rivers of sweat, were in charge of the most labor‑intensive casting forging.

And the master craftsmen who, clutching the "Seeking Virtue Recruitment Decree", had run themselves to death from Qi State, handled the finer quenching and polishing work, their techniques infused with a self‑effacing fervor born of being pushed to the limit.

Although the two groups could not understand each other's language, under the coordination of several Hidden Agents from the Mingjing Office who acted as translators and supervisors, they meshed together like gears.

Chen Yan, hands behind his back, walked from the Da Pei Qu through the quenching area, his boot soles treading the mixed slurry of iron shavings and cooling water, his gaze lingering a moment on each process.

When he reached the outside of the core Forge Room, his steps slowed.

This Forge Room was the heart of the entire Workshop, dedicated to developing the special weapons Chen Yan had ordered, which surpassed the era's specifications.

The door was half‑closed, and no expected hammering sounds came from within.

Chen Yan's brows furrowed.

He reached out and pushed open the heavy iron door.

A piercing sense of emptiness emanated from the interior of the iron door.

The fire basin's light illuminated the whole room, but what met the eye was not gleaming finished weapons, but a floor strewn with wrecked scrap iron.

A long sword broken into two pieces.

A horse‑spear head with a rolled blade.

A hammer head shattered into fragments.

These semi‑finished pieces piled around the Forge Tables like trash; some still bore the blue‑black oxide skin from quenching, others had been violently snapped during testing, their fracture surfaces rough as low‑grade cast iron.

The scrap iron was piled half a person's height, a shocking sight.

Chen Yan's steps halted at the doorway for two breaths; something churning in his eyes caused Hongye behind him to instinctively press his hand to the short blade at his waist.

A dull thud of a knee striking the floor echoed from a corner of the Forge Room.

Song Lao Han knelt there.

This veteran craftsman from Qi State, who had just been exceptionally granted the Great Zhou Seventh‑Rank Military Equipment Supervisor official status, was not wearing the brand‑new official uniform at this moment.

He was bare‑torso, his lean frame covered with fresh and old scars from splattered iron slag, his round bald head slick with sweat, a filthy hemp apron tied at his waist, his hands blackened, iron powder filling his fingertips.

When he saw Chen Yan's figure at the doorway, the old face, riddled with knife‑like wrinkles, turned ashen instantly, his whole body collapsed onto the scorching Shiban floor, his forehead producing a dull thud.

"Minister, I accept the punishment; I am incompetent!"

His voice carried a desperation and guilt that erupted after he had driven himself to a dead end, his lips moving above the scorching Shiban, each word seeming torn from deep within his throat, blood and flesh included.

Chen Yan said nothing, entered the Forge Room, his boot soles treading over a broken blade fragment, the metal shards emitting a faint crushing sound beneath the leather.

He bent down, picked up the upper half of a long sword broken into two pieces, his fingers slowly sliding along the fracture.

The broken surface was rough, grains distinct, with a visibly gray‑black impurity layer at the metal's structural boundaries.

He then lifted another rolled‑blade horse‑spear head, his thumb lightly brushed the edge, his nail leaving a clear white mark on the softened blade.

Chen Yan tossed the spear head back into the scrap pile, the iron pieces clashing with a series of sharp, brittle metallic sounds.

He squatted, meeting Song Lao Han's eyes at the same level.

"State your words clearly."

Song Lao Han's forehead pressed to the ground, his voice muffled, emanating from the crevice of his arm.

"Minister, it's not that I'm slacking; these past days I and a few veteran workers from Qi State have forged over three hundred knives and spears, a full three hundred plus."

He lifted his head, his face a gray sludge of iron powder and sweat, his eye sockets reddened as if scorched by flames.

"Yet fewer than thirty met the standards."

Chen Yan tapped his fingers twice on his knee.

"Why?"

Song Lao Han swallowed hard, reached for a piece of scrap iron from the ground, and held it up before Chen Yan.

"Minister, look at the fracture of this piece of iron."

His rough nail scraped the gray‑black impurity band on the broken surface.

"Although Xiazhou's pig iron is abundant and the veins are good, the slag never clears fully, and the iron contains a great deal of impurities."

He flipped the scrap iron, revealing the opposite side, a metal surface riddled with fine cracks.

"A blade forged from this iron must have hardness, and it can chop firewood and cut bone without issue, but when gravity comes into play, especially the extreme standard you, Minister, demand—one strike to break bone without the blade rolling—its performance falls short."

Song Lao Han slammed the scrap iron heavily onto the ground, the iron chunk bounced twice.

"Either it's as brittle as a tile and snaps cleanly in two, or, to keep it from breaking, you have to reduce the carbon, and with less carbon the edge becomes as soft as noodles."

His voice grew hoarser as he spoke, and by the end it was almost forced out with breathy tones.

"When it's hard it's brittle, when it's soft it bends; I've tried seventeen ratios, switched to three quenching methods, all dead ends."

His two hands rested on the scorching Shiban, his knuckles whitening from the pressure.

"The Pillar of the State wants a divine weapon that can cleave through Qi State's Iron Armor in one strike, but with this kind of iron material I can't forge it."

As Song Lao Han finished the last word, his whole body seemed to have its spine ripped out, and he collapsed, letting out a suppressed, extreme dry howl.

"I, an old man, have failed the Pillar of the State's official robes, failed those twenty mu of premium farmland; I'm just a useless waste…"

The other craftsmen in the Forge Room also knelt on the ground, and a middle‑aged blacksmith who had fled from the Qi State even began to sob.

"Pillar of the State, it's not that Master Song's skill is lacking; it's that this iron material's base is too poor—like a clever housewife trying to cook without rice!"