Mang Tian's Hypocrisy.

Lin Qingzhou changed into his coarse, washed-out linen tunic; he did not wear his usual proper attire, as this was his habit.

He picked up his worn-out but polished toolbox, glanced back at Na'er, who was obediently tidying up the bowls and chopsticks, and only then pushed the door open to leave.

The early morning Proud Arrival City was shrouded in a thin layer of mist, the air a mixture of the salty tang of the sea breeze and the steam drifting from breakfast stalls.

The streetlights along the road had just flickered out, and occasionally, a few hovercars glided silently through the air, casting fleeting shadows.

As a small city on the eastern coast of the Sun Moon Federation, it was far from as prosperous as Mingdu, yet it still possessed the basic appearance of a modern metropolis, with vending machines standing at the street corners.

The shops along the street used automatic sensor doors, and the distant Spirit Pagoda branch building reflected a cold, metallic luster in the morning light.

He walked briskly along the familiar streets. The few crumpled Federation banknotes in his pocket made a faint rustling sound; they were from last month, after he had helped Master Mang Tian rush through a batch of orders.

The master had stuffed them into his hand expressionlessly, while saying, "This is the pay you deserve; don't expect me to praise you."

Thinking of his master's face—clearly satisfied yet insisting on keeping a straight expression—Lin Qingzhou's lips curled up involuntarily, and his pace lightened a little.

Pushing open the glass door with the "Mang Tian Forging Studio" sign, a unique scent mixed with machine oil, coolant, and metal dust rushed to meet him.

The studio was not small, covering about two hundred square meters.

To the left of the entrance was a full row of metal shelves against the wall, stacked with various specifications of steel and semi-finished products categorized by type.

On the right was the work area Mang Tian was most proud of: a high-precision CNC forging machine sat quietly, next to a hydraulic forming system, and further in were a laser cutting table and a heat treatment furnace.

The ventilation system on the ceiling emitted a continuous, low hum, tirelessly extracting the dust and heat from the room.

However, in this modern-looking studio, the most prominent position was occupied by a set of ancient equipment.

Beside the workbench in the center stood an old-fashioned anvil, its surface polished mirror-bright by years of hammering.

Neatly hung beside the anvil were a dozen handmade hammers of various sizes, each handle worn down with deep imprints of a grip.

The quenching tank nearby emitted wisps of steam, with several raw workpieces just out of the mold soaking inside.

This was Mang Tian's rule: machines could do the rough work, but the fine work that truly required craftsmanship had to be hammered out, blow by blow.

He often grumbled that things made by machines had no soul.

Because of this, he was often mocked by his peers as an old fogey, yet strangely, it was this very old fogey who had the best business, with Soul Masters from neighboring cities even traveling specifically to order his goods.

Others didn't know, but Lin Qingzhou did.

Mang Tian was a true Forging Master, while his peers were at best mere blacksmiths; this was why Mang Tian's business could often attract Soul Masters.

Lin Qingzhou had just put down his toolbox and hadn't even had time to light the fire when he heard a vigorous, angry shout from inside.

"Three minutes late!"

Mang Tian's figure strode out from the office in the back.

He looked to be in his early fifties, his temples slightly gray, wearing a dark blue work jacket with several small holes burned by sparks, and a pair of steel-toed work boots on his feet.

His fingers, having dealt with metal for years, were as thick as the roots of an old tree, with stubborn oil stains forever embedded in his fingernails.

Every wrinkle on his face looked as if it had been carved by a lathe—deep and hard—yet his eyes were as sharp as quenched blades, carrying an air of natural authority whenever he looked at someone.

Lin Qingzhou subconsciously glanced at the electronic clock on the wall and couldn't help but defend himself.

"Master, it's not yet..."

"I said you were late, so you were late."

Mang Tian interrupted him without changing his expression, strode to the workbench, and picked up a wrench to weigh it in his hand.

"The order sent by the city south agricultural machinery station yesterday requires a full set of drive shafts for grain dryers. The precision requirements are high, the volume is large, and the work is urgent. You'll be working on this with me today."

After speaking, he threw a hammer toward Lin Qingzhou without looking back. The hammer weighed at least twenty pounds, but Lin Qingzhou caught it with one hand, steady and firm, without even a hint of strain on his face.

Mang Tian caught a glimpse of this out of the corner of his eye, his mouth twitching imperceptibly, but he quickly returned to his cold, unapproachable demeanor and snorted.

"What's the use of having strength? If you have strength, go move cargo at the docks; why come here?"

Lin Qingzhou was long used to his master's sharp tongue and just smiled, not taking the bait.

Come to think of it, this innate divine strength of his could be considered a small window left open for him in a desperate situation.

At that time, he had just failed to awaken his Martial Soul and discovered that Tang Wulin was in this city, so he used the opportunity of monitoring the protagonist's movements to scout the area, while also calculating his own path forward.

Later, he had wandered to the door of Mang Tian's studio by chance and saw this middle-aged man swinging a hammer to forge iron; with every strike, the patterns on the iron billet seemed to come alive.

He watched for an entire afternoon, and a thought suddenly popped into his head.

He had no soul power, but he possessed a strange strength far exceeding that of his peers. Wasn't the trade of blacksmithing all about strength and a keen eye?

So, he gritted his teeth and braced himself to ask for an apprenticeship.

Only later did he learn that the middle-aged man forging iron before him was Mang Tian, the first forging master of Tang Wulin in the original work.

He still remembered the scene that day.

"Not taking any." Mang Tian hadn't even lifted his eyelids, sitting on a folding chair at the door holding a cup of tea, his tone colder than the anvil in winter. "My place is small; I can't afford to feed an idler."

"I can be an apprentice, just feed me..."

"Not taking any."

Mang Tian cut him off, "I've seen plenty of brats like you. Everything looks fresh at first, but you'll run off before three days are up. An impatient apprentice is just a waste of my tea leaves."

But Lin Qingzhou did not leave. He stood at the entrance of the studio, from morning until nightfall.

He came back the next day.

And the third day as well.

By the fourth day, Mang Tian finally snapped. He slammed his teacup onto the ground and cursed.

"Are you a mule, kid? So stubborn!" Then, he huffily tossed a grease-stained apron at him and pointed toward the mountain of steel billets piled in the corner, barking, "Move all of these to the warehouse and stack them properly. You don't eat until you're finished."

Just like that, Lin Qingzhou became the only apprentice at Mang Tian Forging Studio.

It was just that Mang Tian never called him by his name, occasionally pointing at a piece of scrap and saying, "This waste is only fit for you to practice on," or grunting when he managed to forge something decent, "At least you didn't eat my food for nothing."

Yet, this man with a sharp tongue and a soft heart would silently toss him a bottle of imported hand cream upon seeing Lin Qingzhou's hands covered in blood blisters.

When settling wages at the end of the month, he would stuff in a few extra federal bills, insisting it was because his "old eyes were failing and he miscounted."

Mang Tian was an alumnus of Eastsea Academy, a graduate of a proper forging program, and back in Proud Arrival City, he had been a blacksmith of some renown.

He was a genuine Master-level smith.

It was just that his luck had run dry; his soul power had stalled at level forty, unable to break through, and just as the Blacksmith Association underwent reforms, someone like him without connections was marginalized. Eventually, he simply quit and opened this studio himself.

He claimed he didn't care, but occasionally, when he had too much to drink, his eyes would turn red as he rambled to Lin Qingzhou about the time he had almost made it to the Blacksmith Convention.

Of course, that was Mang Tian's version of the story. Lin Qingzhou held a different view.

One had to know that in the original work, Mang Tian could hold his own in conversation with the president of the Eastsea City Blacksmith Association. This wasn't a lack of connections; it was simply that his master was too proud to accept reality.

"Clang!"

Lin Qingzhou brought his hammer down, sending sparks flying violently.

He held the glowing red steel billet firmly on the anvil with his tongs, raising his hammer high.

His movements were clean and focused, each strike carrying his innate, monstrous strength, landing on the steel with a dull, resonant thud.

Today, his heart felt increasingly restless, as dark and gloomy as the haze outside the window. He didn't understand what was happening, but he felt a vague sense that something bad was about to occur.

This strike was meant to suppress the trepidation in his heart.

"Clang!"

With the next strike, he thought of the bowl of egg-fried rice Na'er had gobbled down, and the trembling yet incredibly firm "Brother" she had whispered while hugging him.

He thought of how he had approached her with calculated intentions, only to have the ice in his heart melted away by her clumsy reliance on him.

This strike was to protect the hard-won warmth he held now.

"Clang! Clang! Clang!"

Mang Tian stood to the side, watching Lin Qingzhou's focus, which bordered on desperate, and he was slightly taken aback.

Though the kid was a bit dim, that refusal to admit defeat reminded him of his own days studying at Eastsea Academy in his youth.

He often wondered, if this kid could awaken a forging-related Martial Soul, even a support-type one, his future would be limitless.

But he never said those words aloud, only drinking a few extra cups of bitter wine in the dead of night.

He stood in silence for a moment, then turned and walked back to his office, taking a small metal bracer from his drawer.

The bracer was dark silver, engraved with fine patterns, and featured micro-cushioning pads at the joints. It was protective gear specifically designed for blacksmiths, capable of absorbing a portion of the recoil from hammer strikes.

It wasn't cheap; he had saved his private money for three whole months to buy it.

Mang Tian gripped the bracer and walked behind Lin Qingzhou, opening his mouth, but suddenly finding himself at a loss for words.

In his hesitation, he simply placed the bracer on Lin Qingzhou's toolbox and grunted, "Picked it up from the scrap pile. I don't have a use for it anyway. Wear it or don't."

Lin Qingzhou stopped his work and glanced at the bracer.

He recognized the brand. When he had accompanied Mang Tian to the equipment store last month, his master had stood there for a long time, yet left without buying anything.

He picked up the bracer and flipped it over to the inside, and sure enough, he saw the brand-new manufacturing date—it was indeed from three days ago.