Divine-Querying Master Smith

Forging divine weapons with the power of the "Flint Emperor" is a feat reserved strictly for master craftsmen.
Though the massive heliobus, vast as an "Azure Sun," has long fallen into slumber, drawing upon its flames is deeply perilous. The slightest misstep can plunge the craftsman into a labyrinth of mental illusions.
As a long-life species, the Xianzhou people hold centuries of love, hate, bitterness, and rage in their hearts. Consequently, even the tiniest emotional ripple can be magnified into a mind-shattering illusion.

Since the founding of the Zhuming Xianzhou, countless inexperienced craftsmen — and even seasoned master blacksmiths — have had their soul essence consumed by heliobi over a single moment of wavering resolve. They either slaughtered one another in a blind rage, or succumbed to madness after failing to forge a flawless masterpiece.
When General Huaiyan assumed the mantle of Furnace Master, he forged this Fire Beast mask specifically to shield craftsmen of unsteady temperament from the corrupting sear of the flames, ensuring their minds remained clear.

Yet, there are always those who refuse to play by the rules.
The Ribhu elders guarding the Flamewheel Forge vividly recall the day a short-life prodigy named "Yingxing" entered the palace to forge a sword. He stubbornly refused to let the mask obstruct his vision.
They had seen plenty of arrogant youths who coasted on their talent. The elders simply waited for him to succumb to madness, eager to let him suffer a bit to temper his arrogance.
A quarter of an hour, a dual-hour, a full day and night passed. Growing onlookers gathered at the Forge. The young man's silhouette was distorted by the smoke, yet his rhythmic striking against the anvil was relentless...

They would never forget the moment the quenching was complete: the blade gleamed like autumn waters, reflecting the young man's piercing, ice-cold gaze.

These gauntlets, crafted by the Ribhus, are impossible to wield properly without extraordinary arm strength.
He remembered his early days on the Zhuming. With every heavy strike of the hammer, agonizing shockwaves would pierce through the gauntlet straight into his palms. But as he recalled the tragic slaughter of his homeland at the hands of the Abominations of Abundance, he let the blood drip freely from his hands, his hammer strikes falling even faster.

"To become the master blacksmith of an era, you must first cherish your most important tool — your hands."
Huaiyan shook his head. It seemed he had come to an understanding.
A soft sword, flexible as a willow branch, sharp enough to sever a hair blown across its edge; intricately layered, incredibly complex mechanisms... He could feel the bending point and unique traits of every metal. His hands were as precise as calipers; his fingertips could detect a discrepancy of a single millimeter.
He disassembled and reassembled the most complicated machinery. The aurumaton weapons built by his very hands swiftly became a vital force for the Xianzhou in their war against the Abominations of Abundance.

Later, his hands would be wrapped tightly in bandages, seeping blood with even the simplest swing of a hammer.
Enduring the agony of ten thousand blades piercing his body, he grabbed that sword time and time again, as if begging for something, or perhaps paying a debt.
"Do you remember now?" that person asked.
He gave no answer.
Amidst that excruciating torment, remorse acted as a raging fire, reducing all those past memories to ash.

Donning the uniform of Furnace Master did nothing to change his habits.
People are like their weapons, and weapons reflect their wielders. What to forge, and for whom to forge it, still entirely depended on his personal whims.
"If they please my eye, I won't charge a single cent. If they don't, ten thousand gold pieces won't change my mind."

Tailoring his work to each individual's temperament, the craftsman took apart designs that were flawless to begin with, and tweaked them so they perfectly aligned with the user's instincts in combat.
The anvil fire flickered. Reflected in his eyes was no longer cold metal and stone, but the heroic figures of those who wielded his blades, achieving greatness and carving out their legacies.

The High Elder, commanding the waters with crushing momentum, was best suited to an armor-piercing spear.
The Swordmaster with swift and unparalleled footwork was best paired with a sharp sword that can cleave through light.
The Pilot who often dived into perilous situations without backup required a recurve bow for self-defense.
And for the brilliant young tactician, he forged a majestic, devastator glaive longer than a person's height just as requested, which waited for the boy to come of age.

Breaching Mount Zhou, beheading the Panli, hunting the Mingxiao, capturing the Hoolay... reports of victory fluttered in like snowflakes.
Wherever the blades of the High-Cloud Quintet pointed, the Abominations of Abundance were utterly routed.
"They're just weapons; getting worn down on the battlefield is their destiny. Use them however you like, and if they break, just come find me!"

But time passed, and he had to bury the very weapons he had forged.
"I would rather we all died without a burial place..."
On the isolated island of Insumousu, the swords grew old, while he remained forever young.

The closer one gets to the core "Flint Emperor," the more terrifying the gravity field becomes.
As a countermeasure, Zhuming craftsmen forged boots with built-in recoil suspension, enabling them to come and go as they pleased.

He didn't notice when it started, but navigating the core area he used to traverse with ease now required a strenuous effort.
Mentors and friends still looked exactly as they did when he first met them, yet gray hair had crept up his temples.
"You are not a long-life species. Rest for a few days. Start forging again when you've got your strength back; there's no hurry."
The General's advice had drifted past his ears countless times, and he always brushed them off.
"Master, I'm actually glad I'm growing old. Do you know why?"
Before Huaiyan could answer, he shoved a cup of strong liquor into his master's hands:
"At least I won't have to experience the agony of losing all of you. Please, when my time comes, shed a tear or two for me!"

He had forged countless divine weapons in his time, yet he never attempted to use the flesh and blood of Abundance to recreate a life lost.
He had exhausted everything he had, yet his dear friend could only return a monster, sparking massive disaster and claiming countless lives.
When he opened his eyes again, they had lost the brilliant spark of a master craftsman, leaving behind only the gloomy, unextinguishable embers of a dead furnace.

He shed the attire of a master blacksmith, scattering his name "Yingxing" to the winds like ash. The extraordinary "Furnace Master" now only lived as a name in history.
Whether the craftsmen wish to follow him, criticize him, imitate him, or surpass him, none can ignore the footprints he left behind. To this day, every Zhuming apprentice must still study the treatises he penned long ago upon their enrollment.
But he had already embarked on a different path.
Consumed by endless hatred, he would use himself as the billet and his remaining years as the quench, forging a "possibility" that might never find redemption.