The hammer struck the ingot with a loud, ringing crash.
The metal caved inward at the point of impact. Tiny cracks spread across its surface like spiderwebs.
Before I could react, pain exploded at the back of my head.
"Are you trying to destroy everything in one blow?" Duracal snapped. "Your arm, the hammer, and the ingot—all at once?"
Dazed, I turned toward him.
He sighed, then shoved me aside. "From now on, when I'm forging, you do nothing. You watch. Only watch."
He took my place at the anvil.
Duracal raised the hammer and struck.
Hard.
But the sound was different. No violent crash. No deformation. The metal shifted smoothly, stretched rather than shattered.
He struck the same spot again. And again.
Then he returned the ingot to the forge, reheated it, and repeated the process. Each movement was deliberate. Between strikes, he inspected the surface—checking for uneven shapes, cracks, or stress lines. His expression sharpened, focused to the point of stillness.
It was like watching someone enter a trance.
When the rough shape was complete, he stopped and looked at me.
"Did you see the difference?" he asked.
"I used too much power," I replied.
He shook his head.
"That's not the real problem. You're copying what you saw without understanding it."
He lifted the hammer again. "You noticed I raise it to shoulder height. You did the same. But you never asked why."
He placed the metal back into the forge.
"You're trying to imitate the result instead of making the technique your own."
After some time, he handed me a fresh ingot.
"For one week," he said, "your task is simple. Strike this ingot at the same point, with the same force, without causing deformation or cracks."
My stomach tightened.
"If you fail," he continued calmly, "your workload increases. And I'll ask your other instructors to increase their training as well."
Rathen. Siena. Bharam.
My throat went dry.
From the next day onward, none of them appeared.
Morning to night, it was just me, the hammer, and the ingot.
At first, it was a disaster. Too much force—cracks formed. Too little—nothing happened. Every mistake earned a brief explanation, but no correction.
"Your observation and adaptability are strong," Duracal said once, without looking at me. "But observation without questioning is just copying. And adaptability without understanding has no value."
On the third day, I stopped focusing on my strength and started studying the surfaces—how the hammer met the metal, how angle changed impact. I reread the books, not for theory, but for application.
On the fifth day, progress came slowly. Fewer cracks. More control. Still imperfect.
On the sixth day, while cooking together, Duracal finally offered small pointers—where to strike, how to adjust grip, how subtle changes in posture altered force.
On the seventh morning, I called him over.
"Please watch," I said.
This time, he didn't even look. He listened.
The sound of the hammer rang out—clear, controlled.
No cracks. No deformation. Just smooth compression.
I struck again.
Then again.
Finally, Duracal turned toward me.
A small smile appeared on his face.