Chapter 786: Day and Night the Furnace Rages, the Mysterious Blade Appears, Shattering Cold Light

After that order slammed down, the entire Southern City Valley turned into a night‑and‑day infernal battlefield.

In the hearths of hundreds of giant high furnaces, newly added premium ore was scorched by the raging hot flow pumped in by the blowers into a blazing, translucent red, and towering flames reflected the night sky above the valley into a bewitchingly terrifying dark‑red hue.

The hydraulic forging hammer, driven by a cam, rose and fell day and night without pause; each strike of the several‑hundred‑kilogram iron hammerhead made the stones beneath the feet jump.

Hongye stood on the Gaotai outside the Forge Room, back against an iron‑wrapped wooden pillar, arms crossed over her chest, her cold eyes seeing through the rolling heat to take in every craftsman's movements and expressions below.

Her duty wasn't supervision but preventing anyone from causing trouble at this most sensitive juncture.

The atmosphere inside the Forge Room was completely different from that half a month ago.

Song Lao Han now crouched beside the Number One Main Furnace, his hands covered with blood blisters gripping an iron pick, staring intently through a fist‑sized viewing port in the furnace wall at the swirling molten iron deep inside.

His lips were chapped from the heat, and his throat was hoarse as if he'd swallowed a mouthful of sand.

"A hair's breadth off in timing, and all the previous work is wasted."

He turned his head and shouted at Da Tu Di, who stood nearby.

"Increase the bellows' force by twenty percent, and crank the temperature up for me!"

Sweat drenched Da Tu Di's back, his bare arms bulging with veins from three continuous hours of pulling the bellows; he clenched his teeth and thrust the bellows lever another two inches forward.

The flame inside the furnace leapt from dark red to a blinding orange‑yellow in an instant, the heat wave slamming his face, forcing Song Lao Han to turn his head and shield himself with his elbow.

"Enough!"

Song Lao Han grabbed the apprentice's arm and held the bellows steady at its current position.

"This is the temperature—keep it steady, not a single shift!"

He turned and gestured to the Western Regions old iron‑smith leader squatting on the other side of the furnace.

"Brother, are you ready over there?"

Fanyi Anzhang crouched between them, wiping sweat beads evaporated from his forehead and relaying the words at speed.

The Western Regions old iron‑smith lifted his soot‑blackened, glossy face, flashing a set of uneven yellow teeth worn from years of gnawing hard things, and gave a grin.

He forced out three words in broken, off‑key Mandarin.

"Ready… done."

After speaking, he turned and gestured to the two shirt‑less Western Regions craftsmen behind him.

The two together clamped a small crucible filled with molten pig iron using iron tongs; the scorching iron glowed with a terrifying orange‑white light, its surface bubbling with fine bubbles.

Song Lao Han inhaled a breath of scorching air, lifted a piece of finely refined, repeatedly folded and forged wrought‑iron billet, and placed it steadily with iron tongs into the specially made Shicao mould beneath the main furnace's outlet.

The wrought‑iron billet warmed in the hot Shicao to a faint red, its surface emitting a dim dark‑red halo.

"Pour!"

Song Lao Han shouted.

The Western Regions old iron‑smith's hands were steady as ancient tree roots as he tilted the crucible, a stream of orange‑white molten iron flowing like a scorching light serpent, precisely pouring over the dark‑red wrought‑iron billet's surface through the crucible's spout.

Zila!

A piercing, eardrum‑splitting blast erupted inside the Forge Room.

A massive plume of white steam rose from the metal's surface, mixed with a sharp metallic scorch smell, instantly engulfing the two figures in white mist.

Song Lao Han stared intently at the metal's transformation within the white fog, his heart pounding as if it would burst out of his throat.

The high‑carbon molecules in the molten pig iron, driven by the extreme heat, surged wildly into the low‑carbon wrought iron interior, the two vastly different metals undergoing violent chemical transformation at this temperature.

"Flip! Flip quickly!"

Without waiting for Fanyi Anzhang's relay, the Western Regions old iron‑smith understood Song Lao Han's shout, wielded a long‑handled iron tong, clamped the billet's edge precisely, and flipped it at a masterful angle.

Song Lao Han immediately added the second ladle of molten iron.

Zila!

Another deafening blast.

Third ladle.

Fourth ladle.

With each ladle poured, Song Lao Han, under the extreme heat, watched the minute color changes at the metal's cross‑section with his naked eye, using the supreme sensitivity to timing he'd honed over half his life to judge the degree of carbon infiltration.

Meanwhile, the Western Regions old iron‑smith controlled the pouring speed and angle, each tilt of the crucible measured to the finest fraction.

The two world‑class techniques, before this furnace scorching at several thousand degrees, finally produced a genuine chemical reaction.

Hongye, standing on the Gaotai, watched the whole scene.

In her usually indifferent eyes, a rare hint of emotion flickered.

Ten days later.

Late night.

All the hammers in the valley Workshop stopped, and the bellows' roar fell silent at the same moment.

Hundreds of craftsmen set down their tasks, crowding the specially made Ice Water Quenching Pool's rim in a black mass, each stretching their necks, daring not even a breath.

Song Lao Han knelt beside the quenching pool, both hands gripping a Long Sword Blank that had just finished its final forging.

The blade blank was entirely crimson, a full zhang long, its blade slender yet hefty, radiating a dazzling, scorching glow.

He turned his head to glance at Chen Yan, standing behind the crowd with his hands behind his back.

No expression could be read on Chen Yan's face.

He gave a slight nod.

Song Lao Han clenched his teeth, thrust his arms forward, and plunged the crimson sword blank whole into the Ice Water Quenching Pool.

Zila!

A piercing metallic screech ripped the midnight silence, and a massive white steam burst from the pool like an explosion, enveloping several meters around in scalding white fog.

Everyone's breathing halted.

The white fog slowly dissipated.

When Song Lao Han lifted that long sword out of the ice water with both hands, his whole body convulsed uncontrollably.

He lowered his head and looked at the thing in his hand.

The Horse-slaying Long Sword was a chi long, its blade narrow and heavy, and the single-handed weight was over thirty jin.

The blade surface, forged through the Steel Pouring Method thousands of times, emitted a faint blue cold light that sent a chill down one's spine.

At the edge no speck of sand could be found; perfect frost‑snow patterns stretched from the hilt to the tip, each line so clear it seemed etched with an embroidery needle.

Song Lao Han's knees gave way.

He and the nearby Western Regions old blacksmith fell to their knees almost simultaneously, their four hands, swollen with blood blisters and burns, hoisting the long sword high above their heads.

The two old men's tears, mixed with coal ash, rained down madly onto the Shiban beneath their feet, leaving a series of gray‑black water stains.

Song Lao Han's lips trembled so that he could not utter a single complete sentence, only a series of whimpers forced from deep in his throat.

Chen Yan's boot soles stepped over broken iron and pooled water, and he strode forward like a comet toward the long sword.

With each step he took, the terrifying pressure radiating from him grew heavier, forcing the craftsmen on either side to involuntarily retreat half a step, clearing a straight passage for him.