Chapter 22
Chapter 22: Field
Master Han supplied the materials, too.
A small mountain of purple sand gold ore was piled in the room.
Purified, purple sand gold became a deep, shadowy violet. But in raw form, it was a translucent white-blue, like jade. Hu Qing picked up a chunk and weighed it in her palm. It was heavy.
Pots made from this would demand serious strength.
For some reason, Hu Qing’s mind drifted. Maybe Master Han’s wife had chosen this material to force him to exercise.
Master Han watched her, frowning. “If you can’t do it, stop. Don’t force it. Damaging your soul from overexertion is hard to heal.”
He might look down on hammer-swingers as a ladle-flipper, but different crafts shared the same truth. If you wanted to do something well, you had to focus completely. The longer you held that focus, the more it drained the mind.
Hu Qing’s cultivation was low. How powerful could her soul be?
If she really attempted a full nine-nine after nine-nine, she might ruin herself.
The thought made Master Han waver. “Forget it.”
Hu Qing refused at once. “You’re looking down on me, aren’t you? Don’t feel guilty. If you see me failing, you can stop me. I won’t blame you.”
Stubbornness flared in her eyes. Master Han hesitated. Who hadn’t been young once? Who hadn’t had that fierce need to prove themselves?
He quickly reviewed the pills he had on hand. He had everything he’d need to stabilize her if she truly collapsed.
In the end, he nodded.
To keep the room quiet, Master Han sealed it off. No one outside could enter, and they couldn’t see inside. The apprentices nearly itched out of their skins.
“Why can’t we watch? We can watch when Head Chefs spar,” someone complained.
While Hu Qing carried ore, Master Han stepped out and shooed them away with a hard face. “Disperse.”
Then he tripled their assignments. “Next time I check, whoever can’t finish goes to shovel manure.”
Faces went green. Everyone scattered.
When Master Han returned, he saw Hu Qing feeding ore into the furnace while a fierce fire roared beneath it. His brow twitched. Is she stir-frying it?
He was about to speak—but Hu Qing turned, and he froze, swallowing the words.
She hadn’t refined artifacts in a long time. In the past, as long as she was conscious, she could pull out a furnace even on the road and work.
After arriving in the immortal realm, she’d had no money and no freedom. Refining artifacts? She didn’t deserve that luxury.
Now she finally had it openly: a good furnace, good fire, good materials.
The moment the fire lit and the air warmed, the moment she lifted the first chunk of ore, Hu Qing’s heart settled.
The feeling was solid and grounding, like lying on soft earth after deep plowing, a dark night sky over her head, the scent of water and plants in her lungs—like a small, joyous bird beating its wings inside her chest.
In one breath, she entered a seamless state, barely aware of anything beyond her work.
Master Han retreated a step, then another, afraid of disrupting her. She really did enter that state quickly. A true hammer-swinger.
He sighed to himself. Such a good girl. Why swing a hammer? Flipping a ladle was far more pleasant.
Even so, Hu Qing’s subconscious remembered the job’s demands.
Nine hundred ninety-nine, nine times.
No tricks. Just force, again and again.
This had to be why immortal realm artifact refiners refused the job. Back in Little Li Realm, Hu Qing had noticed it: anyone who could use spiritual power rarely wanted to rely on brute strength.
Why had zhaohua sect bought her blades?
Because she had poured real effort into them—each one tempered by endless hammering. And the results spoke for themselves: her blades were tougher than the ones zhaohua sect forged in-house.
She’d thought it was only the lower realm that looked down on hard labor. Turns out the immortal realm was the same.
And yet, didn’t artifact refiners realize that repeated hammering didn’t only raise the quality of the artifact, but also tempered the refiner’s spiritual power and divine sense?
Of course they did.
They simply had better, faster, easier methods.
So Master Han’s requirements were pure time and labor—an entire job built on stubborn perfection. Even if he offered a high price, most refiners wouldn’t waste their time.
Which meant the chance slid down into Hu Qing’s hands.
She drove the fire high and melted the ore, skimming away impurities and setting the refined metal aside. She purified every chunk in one uninterrupted stretch, then fused the whole harvest into a single massive sphere.
She tempered it until it glowed a deep purple-red, then removed it, cooled it, and slammed it onto the forging table.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Master Han’s gaze flicked to the hammer in her hands—Hu Qing’s own. To his untrained eye, it was a good tool: simple, heavy, worn smooth from use. A hammer that had been swung thousands of times.
She really was an artifact refiner. So why hadn’t she forged herself a proper knife?
The mountain of ore yielded precisely the amount needed for his cookware set. Master Han had calculated that carefully. Too much would be unfair. Too little wouldn’t test her.
At first, Hu Qing hammered in strict rhythm. Then the work caught her, and she began to strike with instinct, letting her body choose the force and angle.
Under her hands, the purple sand gold went from stubborn resistance to obedient softness. From hot to cold to hot again, it yielded, molded, and finally cooperated.
Master Han’s fingers twitched. Watching her, he almost wanted to step in and knead the metal like dough—eight hundred, a thousand times—just for the pleasure of it.
This was still only preparation.
Once the material was tamed, Hu Qing pulled the furnace away and heated the metal directly over open flame. It burned red through. She hauled it down—and the heavy hammer fell, spraying sparks.
She forged it into a clean rectangular block: edges squared, interior dense and solid.
Only then did she begin the nine-nine after nine-nine.
Master Han watched her work inch by inch and realized, with a jolt, that he’d forgotten to time it. Then he forced himself to relax. Timing didn’t matter. If she lasted to the end, she succeeded. If she didn’t, it failed. The minutes were irrelevant.
One hammered. One watched.
One grew entranced. The other grew spellbound.
The ringing clang of metal, the repeated arc of the hammer, the flicker of firelight—together they formed a strange rhythm: simple, repetitive, and heavy with something ancient and wordless.
A field formed invisibly. People outside who came to peek found themselves unwilling to step closer.
Da Mu and the others arrived in a little group during break. The moment they reached the boundary, they all rubbed their eyes.
“Why does it feel like the view has double images?”
“Me too. Is it because we’ve been looking down at cutting boards for too long?”
“We should buy some clear-sight pills later…”
Two stewards came up behind them and went stiff with irritation.
“So you’re idle?” one snapped. “I’ll add more assignments.”
The apprentices howled in unison.
“No! First Steward, Second Steward! Master Han already tripled our work!”
Second Steward’s face remained stone. “And you still have time to wander around?”
The group fled instantly. “We went the wrong way! We’re busy!”
The two stewards remained, peering toward the sealed room. They couldn’t see what was happening inside.
First Steward frowned. “What are they doing in there? It actually formed a field.”
Second Steward shook his head. “I heard it’s a new one. I haven’t met her. When they come out, should we speak to her?”
First Steward considered, then said, “You speak to her.”
Food Delicacies was a restaurant, yes—but for the way of food, it was the premier banner of Deng Yun Realm Immortal Realm. Talents and prodigies were not rare here.
First Steward didn’t think much of it. If she was good, they’d bring her in. Simple.
Inside, a final ding rang out, long and lingering.
Hu Qing stepped back three paces with the heavy hammer, exhaled slowly, and put it away. She stretched her chest, letting her breathing settle.
So satisfying.
Master Han blinked, finally returning to himself—and his stomach dropped.
Damn it. He’d forgotten to count.