The concept of a "forge" usually implied fire, bellows, and sweat-drenched heat. Ji Han's forge was a freezing limestone cavern, lit by the ghostly green glow of moss, where the only heat came from the blood rushing in his own veins.
In front of him lay a large, flat slab of granite—his anvil. On it sat a lump of raw Black Iron Ore, the size of a human head.
"The metal is asleep," Lin Qinghe said, sitting on a stalagmite nearby. She was wrapping strips of the centipede's leather hide around her feet, fashioning makeshift boots. "Fire wakes it up by agitating the particles. You don't have fire. You have authority."
Ji Han stared at the ore. He held a larger, denser chunk of granite in his right hand—his hammer.
"Authority," he repeated.
"Force your Qi into the iron," she instructed. "Don't just hit it. Command it to condense. You are not shaping it with heat; you are shaping it with pressure. You are squeezing the air out of the atomic lattice."
Ji Han took a breath. The air was so cold it burned his lungs. He circulated the warm, Yang-heavy Qi from his Dantian, pushing it down his arm. His veins bulged, visible and dark against his skin.
He didn't swing wildly. He placed the stone hammer against the ore and pushed.
It was an isometric nightmare. He channeled every ounce of his Strength and Spirit. The white aura around his hand flared.
CRUNCH.
The ore didn't ring like a bell; it groaned. The rock hammer pulverized the outer layer of impurities, revealing the dull, matte-black metal beneath.
"Again," Lin Qinghe said.
Ji Han lifted the hammer and struck.
THUD.
He poured his Qi into the impact. The Black Iron, stubborn and dense, began to flatten. It wasn't melting; it was deforming under the sheer supernatural weight of his blow.
Hours passed. The rhythm of the cavern was the heavy, wet thud of stone on metal. Ji Han's arms screamed in protest. His Qi reserves drained, refilled, and drained again. He ate chunks of raw centipede meat between bouts to replenish his energy, the Yin essence cooling his overheating internal organs.
Slowly, the lump of ore took shape.
It wasn't an elegant sword. It was a slab. A heavy, rectangular bar of black metal, roughly a meter long and three inches thick. It had no edge. It was basically a crowbar on steroids.
"It has the weight," Ji Han panted, dropping the stone hammer. His hands were raw. "But it has no edge. Black Iron is too brittle to sharpen to a razor point without heat tempering."
"That is why you have the harvest," Lin Qinghe pointed to the pile of blue shell plates.
Ji Han picked up the largest segment of the Frost-Bone Centipede's carapace. It was the creature's mandible—a serrated, translucent blue scythe, razor-sharp and harder than steel.
"Composite construction," Ji Han muttered. "Iron spine. Bone edge."
He placed the mandible against the side of the Black Iron bar. He didn't have glue. He didn't have rivets.
"Fuse it," Lin Qinghe said. "The Black Iron is conductive. The Frost Shell is eager for Qi. Create a circuit."
Ji Han gripped the iron bar with his left hand and the shell with his right. He closed his eyes.
He pushed his Yang Qi into the iron. He pulled the lingering Yin Qi from the shell.
Push. Pull.
He forced the two opposing energies to meet at the seam.
HISSS.
Steam erupted where the materials touched. The thermal shock of the hot Qi meeting the cold shell created a vacuum. The Black Iron groaned, expanding slightly, while the shell contracted. They locked together on a molecular level, the metal biting into the bone.
Ji Han held the connection, sweat freezing on his forehead. It felt like holding two magnets with the same polarity together, trying to force them to kiss.
"Hold it," he gritted out. "Submit."
With a final surge of Spirit, he clamped them shut.
SNAP.
The sound was sharp and final. The energies stabilized.
Ji Han opened his eyes.
In his hand was a monstrosity. It looked like a butcher's cleaver designed for a giant. The spine was heavy, matte-black iron, absorbing the light. The edge was a serrated, glowing blue curve of insect chitin. It was ugly. It was heavy. It radiated a faint, terrifying chill.
[System Notification: Crafting Successful.][New Item: Frost-Iron Cleaver.][Grade: Mortal-High.][Attributes: Heavy Weight (Crushing), Frostbite (Cutting), Qi Conductivity (Medium).]
Ji Han stood up, testing the weight. It was easily thirty kilograms. To a normal man, it would be impossible to wield. To him, it felt like momentum waiting to be unleashed.
He swung it.
WHOOSH.
The air whistled. He brought it down on a limestone stalagmite.
CRACK-SHING.
The stone didn't just break; it was sheared off. The cut surface was perfectly smooth and covered in a thin layer of frost.
"It works," Ji Han said, a savage grin breaking through his exhaustion.
Lin Qinghe nodded, approval evident in her eyes. "A weapon of the Yin-Yang balance. Heavy enough to break armor, sharp enough to sever limbs. You are no longer helpless."
Ji Han strapped the cleaver to his back using a belt made from the centipede's hide.
"We have a base," Ji Han listed. "We have food. We have a weapon."
He looked up toward the tunnel, toward the distant surface where the sun was relentlessly climbing toward High Noon.
"Now," he said, "we prepare for the Zenith."