A week had passed since the molten iron first flowed.
During this time, the "Shahbaz Furnace" had not gone cold.
The roar of the giant bellows had become the constant song of the valley.
A mountain of raw, hard, and gray-colored cast iron ingots was piled up beside it.
The blacksmiths, led by Garshasp, still looked at this new metal with disbelief.
They had tried to hammer it on the anvil using traditional methods, but cast iron, unlike wrought iron, was brittle and shattered under the heavy blows of the sledgehammer.
Whispers of doubt and confusion spread among them.
What use could this hard and untamable metal have?
Just then, Kourosh, along with Arash and his commanders, returned to the valley.
Seeing the mountain of ingots and the worried faces of the blacksmiths, he smiled.
He knew that this was the final stage of resistance from traditional minds against a revolution.
He summoned Garshasp.
"Great master, I see that the Shahbaz has been generous to us. But it seems you have not yet been able to befriend this fiery child of his."
Garshasp bowed respectfully, but there were traces of helplessness in his voice.
"My lord, this metal... this metal has a rebellious spirit."
"It neither softens like iron nor is tamed like bronze. The more we hammer it, the more it breaks. We do not know what to do with it."
Kourosh replied calmly:
"Because you want to speak to it in the language of the hammer, while it only understands the language of fire."
"We do not force it to take shape."
"It must be born from the very beginning in the shape that we desire."
He then led the commanders and blacksmiths to another section of the workshop.
Where dozens of workers were silently making hundreds of small molds from compressed sand and clay.
Each mold held the exact shape of a spearhead or an arrowhead.
This scene was completely foreign to the blacksmiths, who were accustomed to making each weapon individually.
Arash asked in astonishment, "My lord, what are these? Do you want us to make a clay statue for each spear?"
Kourosh laughed.
"No, Arash. These are the wombs in which our iron children will be born."
He then turned to Garshasp and the other blacksmiths and issued his first mass production order:
"From today, the Shahbaz Furnace will be fired up again. But this time, we will not make ingots."
"We will pour the molten blood of the furnace directly into the veins of these molds."
"Our goal is to produce thousands of cast iron spearheads and tens of thousands of arrowheads. Every day, dozens, even hundreds of pieces!"
A cry of disbelief rose from among the blacksmiths.
"Hundreds of pieces a day? My lord, that is impossible! Making one spearhead by hammering takes days!"
Kourosh replied with confidence, "We are not hammering anymore. We are casting."
He picked up one of the sand molds and showed it to Garshasp.
"This molten metal cools in these molds and takes the exact shape of the weapon."
"After that, it only needs a little filing and sharpening of the edges."
"This speed of production, compared to the traditional method, is a revolution."
The order was carried out.
The furnace roared again, and the molten iron flowed.
This time, skilled workers with long, fire-resistant ladles poured the molten material into the neat rows of sand molds.
After a few hours, when the metal had cooled, they broke the molds.
From the heart of the crushed sand, perfectly uniform, flawless, and ready spearheads emerged.
This scene erased the last particles of doubt from the hearts of the blacksmiths.
It was replaced by a manic excitement.
They understood that they were witnessing an industrial miracle.