As the saying goes, "There are 360 trades, and every trade has its champion." Jack Young could now confidently tell everyone: not only can you find champions, you can find masters—and even "gods." At this very moment, Ouyezi, with a single swing of his hammer, pulled Jack straight into a mysterious world. Jack’s eyes widened, his pupils shrunk, and he held his breath, staring at everything before him.
Everyone shines in their own field. Jack Young once studied dance, and he vividly remembered a guy who usually looked pretty ordinary, but when he hit the stage, he just exploded with charisma—suddenly the coolest guy in the room. That’s when Jack realized something: a dancer is only their truest self when they’re dancing on stage.
Because his soul, his glory, all live in the dance.
But what Ouyezi showed right now was a thousand times stronger and a thousand times heavier than that guy. If Ouyezi just felt like a mountain before, now he was a volcano—burning hot, passionate, and deadly serious, swinging his hammer with a fiery intensity. Every strike was like magma erupting, sparks flying, heat radiating. The way he hammered the iron felt like a strict father, using the most direct method to shape his son.
In Jack Young’s eyes, Ouyezi’s physical form had already vanished. Jack instinctively ignored all the external movements, focusing on the soul-shaking spirit behind it all, and let himself soak in the overwhelming emotion.
They say every trade has its mountain—if you’re not a master blacksmith, you’d never feel the magic of Ouyezi’s hammer. To regular folks, it was just a guy smashing iron with a hammer, though somehow it made everyone hold their breath and not dare to interrupt. But Jack Young wasn’t a regular guy. He had powerful spiritual strength—and, more importantly, an incredible sense of perception. Especially since Ouyezi also possessed immense spiritual cultivation and was putting his whole soul on display, Jack was instantly pulled into that wondrous world of forging.
The half-melted iron billet kept changing shape under the heavy hammer, each strike different in weight. The lightest taps were like a master carver etching fine details, while the heaviest blows felt like they could shatter the anvil and punch power right into the earth’s core. With this mix of heavy and gentle strikes, the iron billet twisted into different forms, as if each hammer blow was engraving something deep and profound into it.
Boom! After a heart-shaking thunderclap, Jack Young snapped out of that magical world. No words were needed—he just knew Ouyezi’s forging session was over. Sure enough, Ouyezi set down his hammer and tossed the still glowing-hot iron billet back into the furnace.
Then, Ouyezi grabbed a sweat towel, wiped his forehead, and took a swig of water. He hadn’t sweated at all during the entire forging, but the moment he put down the hammer, sweat poured out, soaking his shirt down his back.
“Well?” Ouyezi turned to Jack Young. “Mr. Yang, what do you think?”
Ouyezi had just hammered out eighty-one strikes, and Jack Young matched him—eighty-one blows, each with its own rhythm and force. Handling a hammer this heavy with such finesse, Jack was subconsciously tapping into his Super Touch. Every detail of the iron billet—the grain, the direction, the hardness—was crystal clear to him.
But all this technical skill was happening on autopilot; most of Jack's mind was just soaking in that unique state of flow.
With every strike, Jack felt like he was playing an instrument—maybe not a piano, but close enough. Each blow was fluid and satisfying, like a maestro conducting a massive symphony to play the notes he wanted to hear.
At the same time, it was like practicing martial arts under the vast sky, throwing punches and kicks. Jack was totally lost in his own world. Ouyezi, watching silently from the side, had a gleam in his eye that kept getting brighter. This thousand-pound hammer was no joke—if the folks at Sword Casting Cliff knew Ouyezi let Jack handle it, they'd be floored.
After eighty-one strikes, Jack let out a long breath and set the hammer down. "How was that?" He wiped his forehead, sweating a bit. "Not bad, right?"
Ouyezi watched and nodded nonstop. "Jack, you weren't just hammering iron—you were forging your martial spirit. Each strike made you stronger. This billet is now a true martial embryo."
Ouyezi tossed the billet back into the furnace and motioned for Jack to take a seat. "Master Yang, please sit. Qin Han's not a fighter, so let's move on to the Way of Weapon Forging."
"Alright!" Jack adjusted his robe and took a seat. From pushing open the iron gate to hammering the billet, he’d finally earned Ouyezi’s recognition. Jack didn’t know exactly what it meant, but he was sure it was something important.
"Mr. Yang, let me be blunt," Ouyezi said directly. "Are you willing to learn the Way of Weapon Forging?"
Ouyezi had just hammered out eighty-one strikes, and Jack Young matched him—eighty-one blows, each with its own rhythm and force. Handling a hammer this heavy with such finesse, Jack was subconsciously tapping into his Super Touch. Every detail of the iron billet—the grain, the direction, the hardness—was crystal clear to him.
But all this technical skill was happening on autopilot; most of Jack's mind was just soaking in that unique state of flow.
With every strike, Jack felt like he was playing an instrument—maybe not a piano, but close enough. Each blow was fluid and satisfying, like a maestro conducting a massive symphony to play the notes he wanted to hear.
At the same time, it was like practicing martial arts under the vast sky, throwing punches and kicks. Jack was totally lost in his own world. Ouyezi, watching silently from the side, had a gleam in his eye that kept getting brighter. This thousand-pound hammer was no joke—if the folks at Sword Casting Cliff knew Ouyezi let Jack handle it, they'd be floored.
After eighty-one strikes, Jack let out a long breath and set the hammer down. "How was that?" He wiped his forehead, sweating a bit. "Not bad, right?"
Ouyezi watched and nodded nonstop. "Jack, you weren't just hammering iron—you were forging your martial spirit. Each strike made you stronger. This billet is now a true martial embryo."
Ouyezi tossed the billet back into the furnace and motioned for Jack to take a seat. "Master Yang, please sit. Qin Han's not a fighter, so let's move on to the Way of Weapon Forging."
"Alright!" Jack adjusted his robe and took a seat. From pushing open the iron gate to hammering the billet, he’d finally earned Ouyezi’s recognition. Jack didn’t know exactly what it meant, but he was sure it was something important.
"Mr. Yang, let me be blunt," Ouyezi said directly. "Are you willing to learn the Way of Weapon Forging?"
"Of course I do. Today’s been eye-opening, and I’ve learned a ton." Jack nodded, then hesitated. "But I gotta ask—why teach me the Way of Weapon Forging?"
Ouyezi nodded. "True, it’s sudden for you, Mr. Yang. But fate brought us together here and now—that’s destiny."
"Destiny?" Jack believed in fate, but not in random love or hate. Ouyezi had called him over, put him through a bunch of tests, and now wanted to pass on his forging secrets—Jack found it all pretty puzzling.
"Exactly." Ouyezi nodded firmly. "I’m old, and time’s running out. I’m afraid there’ll be no one to carry on after me. Sword Casting Cliff, like the Hundred Arms Pool, has passed down the legacy for generations. I’m worried that once I’m gone, there’ll be no more Ouyezi."
Jack frowned. "With your reputation, if you wanted to teach the Way of Weapon Forging, you’d have people lining up out the door. There are plenty of blacksmith families and talented folks in the martial world. Plus, from what I’ve seen, Qin Han’s got a sharp eye for weapons and a focused mind—she’ll be great with a little more training. As for me, my situation’s pretty unique. I’m not sure I can take on Ouyezi’s legacy."
Anyone else would jump at the chance, but Jack hesitated. Accepting this wasn’t just about benefits—it came with responsibility and consequences.
"None of them can do it—not a single one." Ouyezi shook his head. "Qin Han holds a Weapon Appraisal Conference every year, not just to keep her reputation, but to scout for craftsmen. For a hundred years, there’s been no one in the Central Plains I could trust with the Way of Weapon Forging. As for Han’er, she’s still young. Forging isn’t about skill—it’s about heart. If you don’t have the vision, the spirit, the mindset, you’re nowhere close. She might make it someday, but I won’t live to see it."
Ouyezi took a drink and looked at Jack. "Weapons are inseparable from martial arts. The best weapon forger is a fighter. I’m not a fighter myself, so my greatest work is just a forging hammer. But you, Mr. Yang, you’re one of a kind."
"One of a kind?" Jack was curious. "How so?"
"You’ve got the right materials, you’re a martial arts master, and most importantly—you’re from the Southern Wasteland." Ouyezi looked at Jack with a straight gaze. "Qin Han herself is a Southern Wasteland descendant, and the Way of Weapon Forging has always been passed down to people from there. The Ouyezi name isn’t important, but I don’t want the forging tradition to die out. You’re the only one who fits the bill."