Douluo Continent III Haotian Wulin

The third blow, the fourth blow, the fifth blow.

The hammer blows were no longer steady and gentle, but began to have a sense of progressive intensity. Each strike was heavier than the last, each one deeper and more resonant. Tang Wulin's feet were firmly planted on the ground, his calves generating power, his back arching like a bow, the force traveling up his spine, then through his shoulders, elbows, and wrists, all the way into the hammer. With each strike, his entire body moved; with each strike, however, his force focused on a single point.

The Sinking Star Hammer in his hand was dark and heavy.

The firelight reflected on the hammer's surface, revealing the faint, dark gold lines deep within the hammer's body, like blood lines buried in iron—quiet, yet impossible to ignore.

The sunken silver began to shrink.

It didn't suddenly shrink, but rather it was a visible "contraction". The edges tightened little by little, and the surface undulations were gradually flattened under the heavy blow. The originally square foot seemed to be slowly pinched by an invisible hand, shrinking inward inch by inch.

This is true purification.

It's not about brute force to smash out impurities, but about gradually forcing away the excess, loose, and superficial elements from the core with each hammer blow. The deeper the forging, the denser the metal; the more stable the pressing, the clearer the texture.

Tang Wulin was not in a hurry.

Even at this point, he remained calm.

He knew the nature of the amber. It was inherently heavy and hard; if one only sought momentary pleasure by smashing and pressing it recklessly, the first thing to break wouldn't be the impurities, but rather the most crucial core within it. At the thousand-fold forging stage, damaging the grain was more regrettable than failing to forge it at all.

So he remained calm.

A steady hand means a steady mind.

Every blow was heavy, yet every blow also left room for maneuver.

Mang Tian stood not far away, remaining silent. His gaze was fixed on the piece of dark silver, but the expression in his eyes deepened imperceptibly.

This child is more than just strong.

What's even more remarkable is that he knows when to be heavy and when to be light; he knows when to press down and when to wait.

This is not something that can be taught in a sentence or two.

This is comprehension.

It is also the most precious talent of a blacksmith.

Time passed little by little.

Three-quarters of an hour.

One hour.

One and a half hours.

Tang Wulin's clothes were soaked with sweat, and his back was also drenched in sweat. The furnace was too strong and the forging room was too quiet; even the slightest sound of sweat dripping from his chin to the ground could be heard clearly.

But his hammer did not malfunction.

Instead of chaos, things went more smoothly.

Gradually, the piece of sunken silver was no longer just a piece of metal in his eyes.

It can "breathe".

With each hammer blow, it would slightly contract; the next instant, it would exhale a breath very softly. At first, this breath was unfamiliar, carrying a stubbornness, a defiant refusal to yield. But as the hammer blows pressed down layer by layer, it finally slowly caught up with Tang Wulin's rhythm.

He calls out, and it calls out too.

He inhales, and it inhales too.

Later, a kind of tacit peace arose between the hammer's fall and the rebound.

The glimmer of light in Tang Wulin's eyes deepened without him even realizing it.

He has lost all sense of time.

I don't feel tired at all.

Or perhaps, the fatigue remains, but it's suppressed by something stronger. Whenever my arms start to feel heavy and my shoulders and back start to tighten, a warm sensation rises quietly from deep within my tailbone, gently spreading along my spine and then into my limbs, gathering back the lingering force that was about to dissipate.

It's not an outbreak.

It's not out of control either.

Like a spring buried very deep, it just happened to hold him back when it should have been gushing out the most.

His face gradually turned pale.

But his eyes grew brighter and brighter.

Outside the door, a figure had appeared out of nowhere.

Tang Ziran stood there, his hand still on the door frame, clearly having searched all the way here. But when he saw the scene inside, he stopped in his tracks and didn't take another step forward.

He had never seen his son forging like that before.

It wasn't a casual, joking trip to the workshop, nor was it just knowing from afar that the boy could swing a hammer and endure hardship. It was actually standing outside the door, watching that small figure hammering away in the firelight, seeing the sweat on his body, and the almost obsessive focus in his eyes.

That's not children playing.

It wasn't an apprentice practicing.

That was a true blacksmith, wrestling with metal.

Tang Ziran suddenly felt a heat rising in her chest.

He didn't disturb them, just stood there quietly. He even breathed very softly, as if afraid of disturbing the rhythm of the hammer blows being piled up inside.

Three hours have passed.

The silver had shrunk by nearly 20%, and the shape of the metal was no longer as angular as it had been initially; instead, it had acquired a restrained, solid feel. The surface was densely covered with uniformly sized circular hammer marks, layer upon layer, almost filling every corner.

Those weren't messy scratches.

It is order, not order.

It was an order that a young boy painstakingly built up inch by inch over three hours.

Mang Tian's hand had been clenched tightly in his sleeve without him even realizing it.

He had thought that getting Tang Wulin to touch the door tonight would be the best possible outcome. But now, the child had not only touched it, but was even walking towards the door.

Moreover, they went even deeper than he had imagined.

Four hours.

Four and a half hours.

Tang Wulin's lips began to turn pale, and his breathing finally became heavy. The soreness in his arms returned, and this time, even though the heat deep in his spine was still helping to relieve it, it couldn't suppress the exhaustion after a long, high-intensity hammer swing.

His hammer finally slowed down by a fraction of an inch.

But it was only half a portion.

He knew he couldn't stop.

At this point, stopping would mean all previous efforts were in vain. The piece of heavy silver had been pushed to its limit, waiting for that final breath, waiting for that final heavy blow that would truly "turn it over."

He gritted his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the hammer.

It falls again.

Start again.

It falls again.

The hammering sound was no longer as clear as before, but carried a dull echo, like muffled thunder rolling in the deep sea, layer upon layer, pressing deeper and deeper.

suddenly--

The piece of sunken silver trembled slightly.

It wasn't caused by being hammered.

And like itself, in a moment of long-accumulated tension, it finally managed to slightly open a crack from within.

Mang Tian's eyes suddenly narrowed.

It's now!

Tang Wulin also sensed it.

In that instant, he almost instinctively mustered his last breath, raised the Sinking Star Hammer high, and then slammed it down!

"boom--"

The entire forging room seemed to tremble slightly with the sound of that hammer blow.

The next instant, a blindingly bright silver light burst forth from the depths of the silver!

That wasn't firelight.

It wasn't the ordinary gleam of metal reflecting light at high temperatures, but a pure, radiant silver-white that burst forth from within, defying the pressure of the furnace fire. The light arrived so suddenly and so cleanly that it instantly suppressed the orange-red hue that filled the room.

Tang Wulin's eyes lit up, but he didn't stop hammering.

The second hammer fell.

With this hammer blow, the silver light not only did not dissipate, but instead surged forth, like a sudden tidal wave, and the entire sunken silver resonated softly within that light.

Yes, a deafening roar.

At this point, it was no longer just cold metal, but seemed to have let out a long-suppressed groan.

Mang Tian rushed to the forging platform almost instantly.

His movements were astonishingly fast; a flash of cold light appeared in his hand, and an extremely thin knife slid out from his sleeve. The next moment, the blade flicked lightly, slicing open Tang Wulin's wrist.

Blood gushed out suddenly.

Not many, but they fell precisely into that surge of silver light.

"laugh--"

A wisp of white smoke rose.

The blood fell into the silver, like water droplets falling into a boiling furnace, instantly swallowed up. But in that very instant, the silver light that was surging outwards seemed to be "pressed" back by something.

Mang Tian quickly turned off the fire with his other hand.

The flames subsided, and the light slowly faded away.

Tang Ziran, watching from outside the door, felt a tightness in his chest and almost cried out, but he forcibly held back. Although he didn't understand the intricacies of forging to this stage, he could tell that Mang Tian's intervention wasn't to harm Wu Lin, but to help him stabilize the metal, which had reached a critical moment.

As the last trace of fire subsided, the piece of sunken silver finally revealed its true form.

It is much smaller than before.

It's not simply a reduction in size; rather, the entire piece seems compressed, heavy, and restrained, no longer possessing its original dazzling silver hue. Instead, it appears somewhat gray, a simple and quiet gray, almost inconspicuous from a distance.

If you take a closer look, you'll discover that its surface is covered with an extremely fine texture.

The textures are neither messy nor broken.

Like a tide.

Like waves.

Layer upon layer, texture upon texture, slowly rolling back from the edges to the center, as if pressing the entire ocean into this piece of metal. Strangely, such a texture should be rough, but its surface is surprisingly smooth, and when you touch it, a cool sensation seems to seep from your fingertips into your bones.

Mang Tian stared at it, remaining silent for a long time.

Silver refined a thousand times.

It truly is a piece of finely refined silver.

Moreover, it's not a finished product that was barely squeezed onto that line. Its texture is complete, refined and clean, and it even brings out the most authentic ocean tide feeling of sunken silver.

This is not a "success".

That was a brilliant success.

Five hours.

A nine-year-old child, encountering the sunken silver for the first time and truly touching the thousand-fold for the first time, managed to damage it to this extent.

Mang Tian's hand, which was gripping Tang Wulin's wrist, tightened slightly at the knuckles.

His greatest regret in life was never being able to step into the realm of a master craftsman. But at this moment, standing in this forging room scorching hot from the furnace, looking at the newly formed piece of Thousand-Refined Silver before him, for the first time, a thought arose so clearly in his mind:

Perhaps, he has finally found his match.

After Tang Wulin landed those last two blows, he was almost completely drained.

He remained in the hammer-wielding posture, his chest heaving violently, sweat dripping down his forehead and chin, his face deathly pale, yet a lingering light still flickered in his eyes.

"Teacher..." he began, his voice already a little hoarse, "Is it done?"

Mang Tian slowly raised his head and looked at him.

After a long silence, he finally uttered four words.

"It's done, Wu Lin."

The voice was not loud.

But it was heavier than any of the hammer blows tonight.