"Whew."
Iron Hammer let out a long breath and glanced down at the burn on his arm.
Then he raised a hand and wiped the blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
The heat had dried half of it, leaving only a dark red streak against his lips.
His gaze remained as calm as the water of a deep pool, that composure rising from his very bones.
It was as though the flames and burns before him were no different from the quenching and hammering he faced every day in his smithy.
Zhurong looked into his eyes and suddenly felt something strange.
This blacksmith did not seem to care whether he burned to death.
He cared about only one thing: when that hammer fell again,
could he beat the piece of iron before him into the shape he wanted?
As expected of a contestant who had found his path through smithing, he had all but fallen into obsession.
"You still have something up your sleeve."
Zhurong gave Iron Hammer a long look before speaking.
Iron Hammer grinned, his big white teeth dazzling in the firelight.
He did not answer. He merely hoisted the giant hammer onto his shoulder again, bent his knees slightly, and sank half an inch.
Like a blacksmith gathering strength to swing his heaviest blow.
The power of law throughout his body began pouring into the giant hammer at a rate it never had before.
The dull black-gray surface of the hammerhead peeled away layer by layer, revealing the silvery metal beneath.
Ancient forging patterns emerged across the hammer.
Each pattern was a tangible trace of the years he had spent hammering iron, day after day.
"Nine Ironworking Forms: Seventh Form—Heaven Forge."
The instant he raised the hammerhead above his head, every chain of law across