Chapter 785: Survival in the Abyss: Presenting the Diagram, a Cross‑Era Dimensional Steel‑Infusing Technique

The Forge Room was so quiet you could hear the faint sound of iron slag sliding off the tabletop.

Song Lao Han's wail was like a rusted steel needle, piercing the hearts of every craftsman present.

A few middle‑aged blacksmiths who had fled for dear life from the Qi State Armory knelt until their knees went numb, and now, staring at the ground littered with broken iron blade halves and twisted gunheads, their faces were ashen.

A slightly younger craftsman could not hold back and spoke, his voice tinged with sobbing.

"Master Song, please stop blaming yourself; it's not your fault, the iron material is flawed from the root."

He reached into the pile of scrap iron, rummaged a bit, and lifted a hammer head broken in half, holding it up.

"Look at the fracture pattern: a grayish smear; when the carbon content is high it's as brittle as winter ice, when low it's so soft even seasoned cattle hide can't be pierced."

"We've spent most of our lives at the Qi State Armory, forged every kind of blade, handled every kind of iron, but the iron from Xiazhou's mines is born with an irreducible impurity."

He tossed the hammer head onto the ground; the piece bounced twice on the Shiban and rolled into the depths of the scrap pile.

"The Prime Minister's standard—one strike that splits Iron Armor without chipping—no matter how we stake our lives in this furnace, we can't forge such iron."

Those words pierced the last layer of paper; the kneeling craftsmen lowered their heads, and several older ones began to silently wipe away tears.

They aren't afraid of death; when they fled Qi State they already tied their lives to their belt loops.

What they fear is betraying the promise written in black on the white paper of the "Seeking Talent Recruitment Order," fearing Chen Yan will deem them freeloading waste, fearing their hard‑won upright backs will be trampled back into the Mudi.

Chen Yan crouched before Song Lao Han, still clutching the rough‑edged scrap piece in his hand.

He said nothing.

The charcoal in the fire basin occasionally burst with a crisp crack, casting alternating light and shadow on his stern face.

Hongye stood at the doorway, her right hand's five fingers loosely resting on the hilt of the waist‑short blade, her alert eyes slowly scanning the Forge Room.

Chen Yan finally rose to his feet.

He casually tossed the scrap iron into the nearby fire basin; the chunk struck the coals, spraying a burst of sparks, a few scorching embers bounced onto his martial‑clothing sleeve, and he didn't even blink.

His voice came down from above, carrying an icy chill that could freeze a person's spine.

"Who told you that this iron can't produce a fine blade?"

Song Lao Han's wail abruptly ceased.

He lifted his mud‑streaked old face, his clouded eyes reflecting the fire basin's dancing light.

"Prime… Prime Minister, I have tried seventeen ratios…"

Chen Yan lifted a finger.

The finger trembled slightly in mid‑air, and Song Lao Han's mouth snapped shut.

"The seventeen ratios you tested have been looping on a dead end from start to finish."

Chen Yan's boot soles crushed a broken blade fragment on the ground, the metal screeching against leather; he bent down, picking another raw iron billet and a forged iron plate from the scrap heap.

He raised the two pieces to the fire basin's bright spot, flipped them twice, so every craftsman could see clearly.

"You've been using the same iron repeatedly, folding and hammering, hoping the hammer will crush out the impurity inside."

He handed the raw iron billet to the left.

"This raw iron has high carbon, hard but brittle."

Then he passed the forged iron plate to the right.

"This forged iron has low carbon, tough but soft."

Chen Yan pressed the two pieces together in one palm, his five fingers clenched hard, the knuckles whitening from the force.

"There is no iron inherently wasteful; only your method of smelting is wrong."

He released his grip, tossing the two pieces back onto the Shiban before Song Lao Han, the metal clashing with two crisp, bouncing sounds.

"If such scrap iron is your limit, then why does this Duke provide you with fine food and spicy drink, grant Official Status and land—what use is that?"

The words struck like a hammer; the kneeling craftsmen shuddered, and several faces turned as white as if just pulled from a snowdrift.

Song Lao Han's lips trembled twice; the fresh wound on his forehead continued to ooze dark‑red blood beads, and though he opened his mouth, not a single word could emerge.

At the moment the suffocating silence threatened to crush everyone's hearts, a heavy, rapid scraping of knees against the scorching Shiban echoed from the side door leading to the Da Pei Qu behind the Forge Room.

A few torso‑bare figures, disregarding everything, shoved aside the kneeling Qi State craftsmen ahead, rolling and crawling straight to Chen Yan's feet.

Hongye's fingers instantly tightened around the short blade's hilt, her whole weight shifting onto her forefoot.

Three gray‑haired Western Regions veteran blacksmiths arrived.

Their skin, baked by years of furnace fire, had turned deep brown; their bare chests and arms were covered with old burn scars, ten times denser than those on Song Lao Han.

These men were Western Regions blacksmith slaves Chen Yan had earlier brought back from Heishui Horse Farm, assigned in the Workshop only to the heaviest forging tasks, not even allowed near the quenching platform.

The leading old blacksmith, his face streaked with tears, barely grasped Chen Yan's exact wording, but he understood the term "waste."

He lay on the scorching Shiban, babbling a clumsy string of Western Regions language, speaking so fast that even Fanyi Anzhang of the Mingjing Department couldn't keep up.

Hongye's brow furrowed slightly, and she turned to look at the messenger in embroidered clothes at the doorway, now in civilian garb serving as translator.

The Hidden Agent hurried forward, leaning close to Chen Yan's ear to whisper the report.

Chen Yan narrowed his eyes.

Halfway through speaking, the old blacksmith suddenly stopped, extending his rough, calloused, burn‑scarred hands, and from deep within the compartment of his belt, he carefully retrieved a roll of sheepskin blackened by sweat and oil.

He held the roll aloft above his head, his hands trembling violently with emotion, his Western Regions words turning into a near‑howling sob.

Fanyi Anzhang's complexion changed; he swallowed twice, his voice tightening as he relayed.

"Prime Minister, he says this is something passed down from his master's master, lost in the Western Regions for over a hundred years."

Chen Yan extended his hand.

Hongye stepped forward half a step, but Chen Yan's palm had already caught that roll of Sheep skin emitting a sour stench.

He spread the sheepskin beside the fire basin.

The rough surface bore dense markings drawn with mineral pigment, indicating furnace temperature scales, iron‑pouring angles, and cooling time intervals.

Chen Yan's gaze flicked rapidly over those diagrams.

His pupils tightened in an instant.

He had seen the procedures drawn in those diagrams in metallurgical records from his previous life.

The pig iron melted into molten iron.

The molten iron was poured onto the surface of low‑carbon wrought iron that had been repeatedly forged.

The two iron alloys, whose carbon contents differed vastly, penetrated and fused at high temperature, the carbon particles diffusing uniformly into the fibrous structure of the wrought iron, ultimately producing neither pig iron as brittle as a tile nor wrought iron as soft as noodles.

Instead, it became high‑carbon steel, both hard and supple.

Hundred‑refinement Steel Pouring Method.

The roll of sheepskin in Chen Yan's hand quivered slightly, not from fear but because the force on his finger bones had been twisted to the limit in an instant.

He slammed the sheepskin roll shut, his chest heaving violently twice, then lifted his head and let out a boisterous laugh that could shatter the furnace's black smoke, aimed at the massive beams overhead in the Forge Room, covered in rust and coal ash.

The laughter ricocheted between the enclosed stone walls, shaking the charcoal ash in the fire basin into a spray.

Song Lao Han and the Qi State craftsmen were so frightened they dared not breathe, kneeling on the ground and staring at each other.

Chen Yan stifled his laugh; the thing churning in his eyes was no longer anger but a frenzy that could make one's scalp explode.

He kicked aside the wooden basket beside him filled with scrap iron, and with a deafening crash, broken knives and shattered iron scattered across the ground.

"Hongye."

Hongye's figure flashed in from the doorway.

"Send someone to the storeroom to bring over a box of gold ingots."

Hongye turned and left, his footsteps leaving no extra echo on the Shiban.

In less than half a incense stick's time, two Beiwei Dead Guards together hoisted a heavy iron‑clad wooden box into the Forge Room.

Someone ripped open the box's latch, and the moment the lid lifted, a dazzling golden light burst forth under the fire basin's glow, illuminating the dim Forge Room as if it were daylight.

One hundred taels of solid gold were neatly stacked on the red cloth at the bottom of the box, each ingot bright enough to blind the eyes.

Chen Yan pointed at the box of gold, his gaze landing on the three Western Regions old blacksmiths lying on the ground.

"Tell them that from today onward, they stand equal with Song Lao Han and will jointly oversee the core forging of the Bingqi Fang."

Fanyi Anzhang's words barely left his mouth when the three Western Regions old blacksmiths began to tremble uncontrollably.

Chen Yan's voice dropped even lower, each word sounding as if plucked from his throat with red‑hot iron tongs.

"Half a month; this Duke gives you only half a month."

He reached down, picked up a broken scrap knife split in two, twirled it between his fingers, then hurled the broken blade hard onto the Shiban before Song Lao Han, the iron piece bouncing up and down, producing two crisp metallic clinks.

"Within half a month, use this Steel Pouring Method to forge the first batch of products capable of cleaving heavy armor for this Duke."

His gaze swept from Song Lao Han's face to the faces of the Western Regions old blacksmiths, then across all the craftsmen kneeling on the ground.

"Done; this Duke will clothe each of you in official robes with decorative trims."

He paused for a beat.

"If not, you'll never in this lifetime think of leaving this valley again!"