Mystic Eyes: My Eyes Steal the Laws of Cultivation Chapter 557: Forging a Perfect Blade (4)

Kyrian did exactly that, his fingers gliding over the cold metal. At first, nothing. After a few seconds, however, he noticed the slightest difference, a ripple so tiny it almost didn’t exist, an irregularity smaller than the width of a single strand of hair.

"I found it."

"Two-tenths of a millimeter," Sun Luguo said, his voice carrying approval.

"It seems insignificant, almost nothing. But it’s already enough to keep it from being perfect. Every one of those tiny flaws accumulates, weakening the structure as a whole."

Kyrian carefully stored that observation away, engraving it into his memory as a valuable lesson.

The old man pointed toward the forge once more.

"Another."

Without complaining, without showing any sign of fatigue, Kyrian started over from the beginning. Another iron bar, more heat, more hammer strikes. The rest of the afternoon passed that way, one sword after another, each attempt correcting the flaws of the previous one.

Kyrian’s movements became more precise with every repetition, his control over the hammer more refined, and his perception of the metal sharper.

As the sun slowly began to descend toward the horizon, bathing the inside of the workshop in a reddish glow that seeped through the cracks in the door. Sun Luguo realized that Kyrian’s talent was even greater than he had imagined.

It didn’t matter how many mistakes he pointed out, nor how many flaws he found, the young man never repeated the same mistake a second time.

It was as if every lesson was absorbed instantly, as though his body and mind learned in perfect harmony.

Like a sponge soaking up water, he assimilated every teaching, refining his technique at an almost absurd speed.

The old man couldn’t help but think, in silence, that perhaps he was standing before a blacksmith whose future fame would far surpass his own. The name Kyrian would be remembered long after his own works had been forgotten.

Kyrian took a slow breath, feeling the hot air of the workshop fill his lungs. His eyes settled on another iron bar resting beside the forge. There was no anxiety, no haste, only focus.

Sun Luguo’s words still echoed in his mind, repeating themselves like a mantra.

’A perfect sword isn’t the one that receives the highest praise... it’s the one that has no flaws.’

He picked up the metal with the tongs and carefully placed it inside the forge, feeling the familiar heat envelop the cold iron. The spiritual flames immediately surrounded the metal, licking its surface with tongues of fire.

A dark red hue began to appear, gradually spreading. Little by little, it became bright red, then a vivid orange.

Kyrian didn’t remove the piece immediately as he had during his first attempts. He continued watching, his violet eyes carefully following the shifting shades, the radiant heat, the distribution of energy throughout the metal, and the subtle deformations caused by thermal expansion.

Over the past few days, he had learned that metal truly "spoke," not with words, but through its color, its vibrations, its sound, and its resistance. Everything revealed its condition to those who knew how to observe.

When he judged that it had reached exactly the ideal temperature, he slowly removed the bar from the forge, moving with careful precision. He placed it on the anvil, the hot metal hissing against the cold surface. He raised the hammer, feeling its familiar weight in his hand.

’CLANG!’

The first strike echoed through the workshop, the sound pure and clear. Neither too strong nor too weak, exactly what was needed.

’CLANG!’

The second strike landed a few centimeters farther along, a natural progression.

’CLANG!’

The third came from another angle, attacking the metal from a different direction.

Sun Luguo remained completely silent, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his eyes fixed on every movement Kyrian made.

There was no correction to offer, no suggestion to make. The young man had found his own rhythm, following his own path of discovery.

Kyrian continued, every strike carrying a purpose, a clear intention.

After dozens of hammer blows, he returned the metal to the fire, waited once again, took it out, and hammered it anew.

The process repeated countless times, a cycle of heat and pressure that slowly transformed the shapeless block into a work of art.

The workshop grew steadily hotter, sweat slowly trickling down Kyrian’s forehead. Even so, his breathing remained steady, his movements never slowed, never became careless. On the contrary, the more time passed, the more precise his strikes became, the more refined his technique.

At one point, Sun Luguo subtly narrowed his eyes. Something had changed. Kyrian had stopped merely reproducing what he had been taught.

Now, he understood. Every new strike was no longer simple imitation but a decision made by Kyrian himself, based on his own understanding of the process.

A slight adjustment here, a tiny change in angle there, a slightly longer pause before the next hammer strike. Everything had logic. Everything had a reason.

The old blacksmith remained silent, unwilling to interrupt that state of flow. It was the moment when the apprentice became a creator, when technique transformed into art.

More than forty minutes passed in the blink of an eye. The sword finally began to reveal its true form beneath Kyrian’s hammer. The blade was straight, elegant, and simple. Without any decoration, without any ornamentation, exactly as an ordinary sword should be. Yet Kyrian was still not satisfied.

He picked up a small polishing stone, his fingers wrapping around it with practiced familiarity, and slowly began working the surface. Each movement removed nearly invisible imperfections, polishing the metal until it shone like a mirror. Then he moved on to the fine polishing, slower and more meticulous, until he finally finished.

The sword perfectly reflected the flames of the forge, its surface capturing and returning the light in a dazzling display of brilliance. Kyrian took a deep breath, feeling exhaustion and satisfaction mingle within his chest. Then he handed the weapon to Sun Luguo.

The old man accepted the sword without saying a single word. First, he held it up against the light, his eyes traveling along the blade from tip to hilt.

Next, he balanced it with only two fingers at its center of gravity. The sword remained perfectly level, without tilting in the slightest. Then he ran his thumb along the edge, the sharpness even and flawless.

Finally, he lightly tapped another metal bar against the blade.

’TING...’