Mystic Eyes: My Eyes Steal the Laws of Cultivation Chapter 556: Forging a Perfect Blade (3)

"It’s a good sword."

"Yes." The old man took the weapon back, his fingers wrapping around the hilt with the familiarity of years of use. Then he removed another one from the wall, visually almost identical to the first. He handed it to Kyrian once more.

The instant he gripped the hilt, Kyrian noticed an almost imperceptible difference. The center of balance was shifted a few millimeters away from the geometric center of the blade.

It was something insignificant to an ordinary cultivator, a variation that most people would never notice. But to his trained eyes, to his sharpened senses, it was as obvious as a mountain.

"The balance..."

"It’s a little different."

Sun Luguo smiled, a smile that blended satisfaction and pride.

"Exactly."

He took the sword back once again, holding it with the same ease as always.

"This tiny flaw causes the user to waste a little more strength with every strike. After thousands of attacks, the fatigue will be much greater. It isn’t something that will kill you, nor something that prevents the sword from being used, but it is a flaw. An imperfection."

Next, he showed another sword, its blade slightly darker than the previous ones.

"This one has an almost invisible impurity in its internal structure, a microscopic air bubble trapped during the forging process. It won’t affect its use today or tomorrow. But a few years from now, under repeated stress, it may break during a battle. At the most critical moment, the metal will fail."

Then he presented another sword, its surface slightly brighter.

"This one received too much heat for a few seconds. Its hardness increased, which seems like a good thing, but it lost flexibility. When it clashes against a heavy weapon, it may chip instead of absorbing the impact."

Kyrian began to fully understand, Sun Luguo’s perspective unfolding before him like a scroll of wisdom.

Sun Luguo crossed his arms, his expression turning serious.

"None of these weapons are bad. Every one of them can be sold, every one of them works, and every one of them fulfills its purpose. But..." He raised a finger, emphasizing his words.

"None of them are perfect."

The old man returned to the forge, warming his hands over the flames.

"Perfection isn’t about making something beautiful. It’s about eliminating every tiny mistake, one at a time. It’s about understanding that every detail matters, that every deviation, no matter how small, is a flaw that weakens the whole."

His words continued to echo in Kyrian’s mind, resonating with a truth that transcended blacksmithing.

It was exactly the same principle as cultivation. A tiny flaw in the flow of Qi, a slight misalignment in a meridian, a moment of hesitation while executing a technique, each one seemed insignificant on its own.

But dozens of them, hundreds of them, accumulated over time, turning a solid foundation into quicksand.

Sun Luguo placed the iron block into the forge, the spiritual flames immediately enveloping the metal.

"Watch."

For several minutes, he explained absolutely nothing. He simply worked, his concentration absolute. He slowly rotated the iron, waited for the temperature to rise, adjusted its position ever so slightly, then waited again. Every action was deliberate, every pause carefully calculated.

Only when the metal reached exactly the desired reddish-orange hue, a shade Kyrian had already learned to recognize as ideal, did he remove the piece from the forge.

The first strike landed heavily, the sound echoing through the workshop like thunder.

The second came a few centimeters farther along, a precise progression.

The third changed the angle entirely, striking the metal from an unexpected direction.

Kyrian watched attentively, his eyes absorbing every detail. Now he could perceive something he had completely overlooked before.

Sun Luguo never struck exactly at the center of the metal. Every hammer blow had a specific purpose, some spread the pressure toward the edges, others concentrated force into the core, while others corrected slight deformations caused by previous strikes.

It was like solving an enormous three-dimensional puzzle, where every action prepared the next, and every movement laid the foundation for what would follow.

After a few minutes, Sun Luguo stopped working, the blade already beginning to take shape.

"Your turn."

Kyrian stepped up to the anvil, his footsteps steady and confident. He picked up the iron block with the tongs, feeling its familiar weight. He breathed slowly, centering his mind, silencing all distractions.

He placed it into the forge, the flames licking at the cold metal. There was no anxiety in his heart, no haste in his movements. He had learned that haste was the enemy of perfection.

He patiently waited for the correct temperature, his eyes fixed on the changing color of the metal. When he judged it ready, he removed the piece.

The first strike fell, precise and firm.

The second, a fraction of a second later.

The third, from a different angle.

Sun Luguo remained completely silent, his arms crossed, his eyes observing every movement with intense focus. He did not say a single word, nor did he offer any corrections. He simply watched.

Kyrian continued, his body moving naturally, as though the dance of forging had already become a part of him. Every movement was steady, every pause calculated, and every strike served a purpose. After dozens of hammer blows, he reheated the metal, repeating the process. Again, and again, and again, each cycle refining the piece a little further.

Time passed slowly, the sun moving across the sky outside. The workshop remained filled only with the constant sound of hammer strikes, a hypnotic rhythm that filled the air.

Gradually, the iron bar began to take shape. First, a crude, shapeless piece. Then a recognizable blade. Then a sword, its elegant silhouette emerging from the raw metal.

Sun Luguo finally broke the silence, his voice cutting through the rhythm of the hammer blows.

"Stop."

Kyrian lowered the hammer, his chest rising and falling with his breathing. Sweat streamed down his forehead, but his eyes remained sharp and focused.

The old man approached the anvil, his movements slow and deliberate. He slowly ran his fingers across the surface of the sword, feeling every curve, every texture.

He examined the edge against the light, his hawk-like eyes catching details invisible to most people. Then he shook his head, a gesture Kyrian had already learned to interpret.

"Good. But not perfect."

He pointed to the area near the tip, his fingernail touching a specific spot on the blade.

"Here."

Kyrian looked carefully at the indicated spot, his violet eyes narrowing. He found nothing visible, the surface appeared perfectly smooth, the polish flawless.

Sun Luguo smiled, a smile that acknowledged the difficulty.

"Of course you didn’t find it. Not yet."

He handed the sword back to Kyrian.

"Run your fingertips over it slowly, feeling every millimeter."