He did the exact same thing for the next three hours—melting, hammering, quenching—until every tiny mistake was burned out of his hands. This time, though, he channelled solar essence through the furnace, the hammer, and even his own muscles, polishing each step until it felt perfectly natural.
When the final blade cooled in the Essence‑rich water and he drew it out, the metal no longer looked ordinary. Faint golden lines ran along the spine like sunlight frozen inside steel, and just holding it gave the illusion that the air around the edge had become thinner.
"This one can cut a mountain like paper," Solar Clone judged quietly.
He raised the sword and let it rest across his palms, mind already moving to the next layer.
"Power is fine," he thought, "but without runes and Vyuhas, it's just a sharp stick."
Because a Vyuha was essentially a structured grouping of runes, he started from the smallest unit. On the sword's hilt, where the wielder's hand would naturally rest, he began etching the first symbol.
The rune took shape as a looping, flame‑like curve wrapped around a tight spiral—a pattern designed to gather fire‑aligned essence from the surroundings whenever activated. Once triggered, it would draw fire element in, then channel it along thin lines into the body of the sword, wrapping the blade in a burning edge and sharpening its cutting power far beyond cold steel.
But Solar Clone knew better than to stack only aggression.
Right after the gathering rune, he carved a second symbol that acted as a pressurevalve, redirecting excess fire essence into the spine of the sword and bleeding it off as harmless heat if the load grew too high.
Supporting runes followed: one to stabilise the internal flow, one to keep the temperature from warping the metal, another to help the blade recover quickly after each burst of power.
Only when the entire chain felt balanced did he let the patterns lock together, forming the sword's first true Vyuha.
After this success, he didn't stop.
Using the same perfected forging method, he began crafting other weapons—slender spears that could pierce through layered stone, tridents whose prongs could hold three separate fire patterns at once, short blades meant for close‑quarters work.
Each weapon received its own arrangement of fire runes, tuned for its shape and purpose, until a small rack of fire‑aspected armaments stood lined up against the wall.
His speed of progress was frightening by normal standards. Part of it came from his cultivation level and heightened senses; part from the precision of his control.
But more than anything, it came from a quiet conviction lodged in the core of his mind—that all things were possible as long as he kept building step by step.
The mysterious voice he hadn't heard for months still remained silent.
Solar Clone did not believe it had vanished. He was certain its owner was still watching, somewhere beyond his reach, weighing every choice he made.
He shook his head and pushed that thought aside, turning back to the forge.
There were more weapons to make, more runes to test. One by one, he inscribed arrays into steel, letting individual symbols join into functional Vyuhas until each weapon held a distinct fiery personality—some focused on explosive impact, others on sustained burning, others on forming thin sheets of heat around their edges.
So far, all of his work leaned on the fireelement. Fire was what he understood best: how it flowed, how it consumed, how it could be controlled without losing its nature.
Now it was time to step beyond that comfort.
He began experimenting with runes meant for other elements—water, earth, wind—but the results were disappointing. The patterns refused to resonate properly, and the weapons either dulled or became unstable.
He wasn't surprised.
"The materials and method are fire‑oriented," he realised. "If I want true water, earth, or wind Vyuhas, I need weapons born from those elements from the start."