Opportunity

In the days that followed, Loa was like a top driven by a whip.

He got up before dawn, took a couple of bites of rye flatbread, and ran out the door. He took patrol assignments along the southern wall four days in a row, earning two copper coins a day. Following City Guard soldiers in regulation leather armor, he walked more than a dozen li along the base of the rammed-earth wall. The veterans could not be bothered with a temporary hand brought in to make up the numbers. They only told him to watch the weeds at the foot of the wall and the drainage outlets-supposedly, smugglers crawled through those rat holes.

On the afternoon of the third day, they actually ran into a group.

Three men as thin as beanpoles were dragging sacks out of a drainage channel. Something clinked inside, probably small goods being smuggled to evade taxes. The City Guard squad leader swore in the local dialect, drew his blade, and charged. Loa followed at the rear. Before he could get a clear look, one of the three suddenly pulled a small crossbow from inside his clothes.

The bolt missed, burying itself in the dirt half a foot in front of Loa's feet. His mind buzzed, but his body moved faster than his thoughts-he lunged sideways, rolled, and rose with his iron sword already drawn. The skinny man with the crossbow was about to run. Loa strode after him and struck the backs of his knees with the flat of his sword. The man screamed and fell, and the guards coming up behind pinned him down.

The squad leader kicked the sack of goods and opened it. Inside were dozens of shoddy daggers without tax stamps. He turned to look at Loa and, for once, spoke to him. "Quick reactions. What's your name?"

"Loa. Temporary mercenary support."

"Mm." The squad leader fished a dagger out of the confiscated sack and tossed it over. "Your reward. Next time someone pulls a crossbow, cut his hand off. Don't leave him alive."

The dagger was crude, without even a wrapping on its grip, but the iron was decent. Loa thanked him and tucked it behind his waist. When they settled his pay that day, the squad leader gave him five extra coppers. "For risking your neck."

On the fifth day, Loa changed jobs. He went to gather rushes beyond the rye fields west of the city. It was tedious work, requiring him to stoop along the field ridges and search, and ten bundles only earned fifty copper coins. But he needed time that required no thought-as he mechanically cut and bundled the rushes, he replayed his movements when dodging that crossbow bolt. Qi had automatically surged into his legs at that moment. Otherwise, he could not have rolled so fast.

After handing in the herbs that evening, he stood before the Mercenary Guild's task board for a long time. Gray Iron Rank combat assignments were like springs in the dry season: one surfaced only occasionally and was snatched up in the blink of an eye. He stared at the Black Iron Rank notices on the wall: escort a caravan to Graystone Town (a team of at least three, all Black Iron Rank or above required), clear out the swamp crocodiles on the river flats in the southern outskirts (a level-four warrior or a team of at least five recommended)... Every notice seemed to mock the gray streak on his badge.

He had to advance. But advancing required completing enough Gray Iron assignments of sufficient quality, or-his gaze swept toward a corner of the board-earning a "special contribution or skill certification."

Just then, he caught sight of a newly posted notice out of the corner of his eye. It was ordinary, coarse yellow paper, but the handwriting was so neat it looked out of place:

"Urgently seeking one blacksmith's assistant. Requirement: must be able to forge hundred-fold steel independently. Payment by the piece: 1 silver coin per standard hundred-fold steel billet (one foot two inches long, three inches wide, half an inch thick). On-site assessment required. Address: seventh shop in Cast Iron Alley, southern city, 'Bob's Anvil.' Effective immediately."

Loa stared at the notice, his breath catching for a moment.

Hundred-fold steel. Something Old Jack had taught him hammer stroke by hammer stroke, holding his hand. The little shed in the backyard of the blacksmith shop in Wushan Town, always smelling of coal smoke, the dents hammered into the anvil, the white steam billowing from the quenching barrel... Memories washed over him like a tide. This was an opportunity! A chance to enter Fenlai's blacksmithing circles!

With hardly any hesitation, he reached out and took down the notice.

Cast Iron Alley lay near the river in the southern city, so narrow that even two people walking abreast would feel cramped. Blacksmith shops lined both sides. Clanging rang out from morning until night, and the air was thick with coal smoke and the metallic tang of iron. The seventh shop had a small frontage. Its wooden sign had been blackened by smoke, leaving the words "Bob's Anvil" barely legible.

Inside the shop, it was even hotter than outside. The furnace blazed. A middle-aged man whose thick beard covered nearly half his face was holding a piece of red-hot iron on the anvil with long tongs, swinging a hammer down with his other hand. Sparks landed on his apron, burning little holes in it.

Loa stood at the doorway and waited for that hammer blow to land before speaking. "Excuse me, are you Master Bob?"

The bearded man looked up, sweat dripping down his beard. He looked Loa up and down and frowned. "I'm Bob. What weapon would you like made?"

"I'm not here to have a weapon made." Loa took out the task notice and his mercenary badge. "I accepted the assignment. I'm here to help."

Bob froze, his hammer suspended in midair. He stared at Loa for several breaths before raising his voice. "Boy, how old are you?"

Loa was tall and well-built to begin with. At ten and a half, he was as tall as a seventeen-year-old. To avoid unnecessary trouble over his age, he lied about it.

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen..." Bob put the iron back in the furnace and walked over. He was half a head shorter than Loa, but his shoulders were as broad as a door, his arms knotted with muscle, and his skin reddened by the furnace heat. "Hundred-fold steel. Ever forged it?"

"Yes. My family runs a blacksmith shop in the countryside. My family taught me."

Bob said nothing more. He turned, pulled a pig iron billet from the pile of stock in the corner, and tossed it onto the anvil. "Show me. Standard hundred-fold steel, folded and hammered at least ninety times. Succeed, and the job's yours. Fail, and there's the door."

Loa wasted no words. He set down the sword and baggage on his back and walked to the furnace. Several hammers hung beside it. He chose a medium-weight one and hefted it-a little lighter than the one Old Jack usually used, but it felt all right.

The pig iron billet went into the furnace. Loa worked the bellows a few times, sending the flames leaping higher. He watched the iron change color, from dark red to orange-red, then bright yellow. When the time was about right, he lifted it out with the long tongs and set it on the anvil.

The first blow fell.

Clang-

The clear impact rang through the cramped shop. Bob leaned against the wall with his arms folded, narrowing his eyes.

Loa did not look at him. His attention was entirely on the iron. His hammer rose and fell in a steady rhythm. This was not weapon-making. There was no need to consider shaping, sharpening, or the timing of the quench. It required only the simplest repetition: heat, hammer, fold, heat again, hammer again.

But the simpler the work, the more it revealed one's skill.

Old Jack's voice seemed to sound right beside his ear. "Power starts in your feet, your waist is the pivot, your shoulder drives your arm, and your wrist steadies the hammer... Don't use brute force. Feel the iron's 'life.' It's getting harder, but it's also getting tougher. You have to follow it, and lead it too."

Loa's breathing gradually fell into rhythm with the hammer blows. The heat left his face drenched in sweat, but he did not wipe it away. Every blow landed precisely where it needed to. Beneath his long tongs, the iron turned and folded like a lump of scalding dough being kneaded.

At some point, Qi began to circulate. It was not the explosive surge of combat, but a longer, steadier flow. It rose from the soles of his feet, passed through his waist, coursed through his arms, and finally gathered in his wrists. The hammer felt lighter, yet the force of each blow penetrated deeper.

Ninety folds. One hundred. One hundred and twenty.

The iron gradually changed from its original rough, porous state, becoming dense and uniform. Fine, flowing patterns surfaced-traces left by countless rounds of folding and hammering, and the most visible hallmark of hundred-fold steel.

The final quench. Loa lowered the glowing red billet into the water barrel with his tongs. With a hiss, white steam surged up. Once the billet had cooled, he wiped the loose surface residue away with emery cloth and handed it to Bob.

Bob took it without looking, first flicking it with a finger. The sound was solid, with no stray rattle. Then he retrieved a small file from beneath the counter, filed the billet's edge twice, and brought the filings close to his eyes-an even dark gray, with no bright white specks (those were impurities caused by uneven carbon content).

"One hundred and twenty folds." Bob looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching beneath his beard. "What your family taught you is no simple stuff."

He tossed the billet back onto the anvil, turned, and rummaged through a wooden chest in the corner. Pulling out a somewhat worn leather apron, he threw it to Loa. "Put it on. That pig iron piled over there-forge as much as you can today. One silver coin for each finished hundred-fold steel billet. Ruin any, and the material cost comes out of your pay."

Loa caught the apron. What was this? Had he been hired? The leather was stiff, but once he tied it on, it gave him a strange sense of solidity.

"Oh, right." Bob reached the back door and glanced over his shoulder. "Once the furnace is out at night, the shop's empty. If you want to practice something yourself, or repair that battered sword of yours, go ahead. Just don't touch anything on my workbench."

His iron sword had originally been his own practice piece, reworked by Old Jack. Several battles had left it somewhat damaged. His craftsmanship back then certainly could not compare with his craftsmanship now. More importantly, it held Old Jack's strangeness. Stroking the iron sword wrapped in old leather and cloth, Loa did not answer Bob.

Having finished speaking, Bob lifted the curtain and went into the back room.

Loa stood before the anvil, looking at the pile of pig iron in the corner-enough for at least thirty billets. He did the sums. If he forged five a day, that would be five silver coins. More than patrolling, gathering herbs, and clearing rat nests combined.

He drew a deep breath, picked up the second piece of pig iron with the tongs, and put it into the furnace.

That day, Loa forged until dark.

By the time only the furnace's fading glow remained in the shop, he had finished his sixth billet. His arms trembled with soreness, and the webbing between his thumbs and forefingers burned, but after Qi circulated once through his meridians, much of the fatigue receded.

Bob emerged from the back room carrying two wooden bowls of steaming stew. He handed one to Loa and squatted on the threshold to eat his own.

The stew was made with potatoes, beans, and a little salted meat. It was heavily seasoned, but filling. Loa ate quickly, only realizing how hungry he was after he finished-the rye flatbread he had eaten at noon had long since been used up.

"There's a little shed behind the shop. Used to store odds and ends." Bob spoke indistinctly as he chewed his beans. "It's been cleared out. There's a beat-up bed. If you've got nowhere to stay, sleep there for now. I'll deduct three silver coins a month for lodging."

Loa's hand paused around his bowl.

"What, too expensive?"

"No." Loa shook his head. "Thank you."

Bob grunted and said nothing more.

That night, Loa lay on the creaking wooden bed in the little shed. There were gaps in the roof through which he could see a few stars. Hammering still sounded occasionally from the shop next door, but most of the blacksmith shops had closed, and the alley gradually quieted.

He took out the few silver coins tucked inside his clothes-six billets today, and Bob had paid him six silver coins on the spot. Together with his earlier savings, he now had eleven silver coins and forty coppers. A "fortune."

With his arms beneath his head, he thought of Old Jack. The old man who always wore a stern face and made his hammer ring loud enough to shake the heavens, yet gave him an extra half bowl of hot soup in winter. If he knew Loa had found a foothold in the Royal Capital using the craft he had taught him, what would he say?

He would probably scold him for still not keeping his wrist steady enough while forging.

Loa closed his eyes. He still had to rise early tomorrow; the furnace could not go out. But tonight, at least, he no longer had to worry about paying for tomorrow's rye flatbread.

The starlight beyond the gap in the window seemed a little brighter than it had a few days before.