Daily life

Dawn had barely paled the sky when hammering was already ringing out from the working smithies in Cast Iron Alley.

What came from Bob's place was not the clang of hammers forging iron, but a lighter, faster sound cutting through the air. In a corner of the little courtyard, Loa stood bare-chested, his iron sword thrusting out one cold glint after another in the morning light. His movements were steady, every thrust as precise as if measured with a ruler-the opening motion, the push of his shoulder, the turn of his wrist, and the point where the sword tip finally stopped all matched the previous thrust exactly.

Sweat rolled down the taut line of the boy's spine. With better nutrition and enough to eat lately, his once merely large-framed body had gained a layer of evenly developed muscle. It was not exaggerated bulk, but like the grain of old oak, each line holding strength.

"Tch. Plenty of fancy moves, at least."

Bob's voice came from the shed entrance. The middle-aged man wore a leather vest rubbed fuzzy with wear and held a steaming earthenware cup-not tea, but cheap ale mixed with hot water. He said drinking it that way "warmed the stomach."

Loa lowered his sword and let out a long breath. "Morning, Uncle Bob."

"Morning, my ass." Bob took a gulp and choked, coughing twice. "Old Cripple's rooster at the alley entrance has only crowed three times. You hammer iron until midnight, then get up before dawn to swing a sword. Even a body made of iron couldn't take that kind of abuse."

His words were harsh, but Loa noticed Bob's eyes, reddened by furnace smoke, sweeping keenly over his shoulder and elbow joints. The old smith looked at people the way he looked at iron, watching how their muscles pulled as they exerted strength and how their weight shifted.

"I'm used to it." Loa wiped off his sweat with a cloth. "I did the same in Wushan Town."

"Wushan Town..." Bob muttered as he walked in, suddenly reaching out to squeeze Loa's right shoulder. "Rank 3 Warrior?"

Loa stiffened slightly. So fast. I didn't even react. He was about as fast as Captain Hillman. He nodded.

"How old?"

"Almost eleven."

"Eleven?" Bob's eyes widened, and even his full beard shook. "I thought you were at least twenty!"

It was hardly his fault for misjudging. Loa had grown tall quickly and had a large frame. His wisdom from a previous life had made him mature early, and after struggling to get by in the Royal Capital lately, his face had long since lost every trace of boyish innocence. His eyes in particular were as still as a deep pool, and the occasional sharp gleam in them could send a chill down someone's spine.

"Really, eleven," Loa said helplessly.

Bob stared at him for several breaths before finally snorting. "So I've stumbled across a treasure. A Rank 3 Warrior your age would count as a promising prospect even in those noble households in the Royal Capital, yet here you are, holed up in my lousy shop, fighting over a hammer."

"Smithing is solid work," Loa said.

"Solid, my ass." Bob turned and walked out. "Hurry up and wash. We're firing up the forge soon. We've got thirty chopping knives to deliver today. Hold things up and I'll dock your pay."

The morning's work was forging chopping knives.

This work involved more fiddly details than forging Hundred-Fold Steel billets. The blades had to be thin yet resilient, with thick spines and sharp edges, and the curve of each handle had to fit the hand. Loa hammered out the rough blanks, while Bob handled the final shaping and quenching. The furnace roared, and the two hammers, one large and one small, rose and fell in alternation, their clangs echoing through the shop.

After they had made a dozen or so, Bob suddenly spoke.

"When you circulate that battle-qi, do you tend to pour it all into your right arm?"

Loa froze, nearly bringing his hammer down off target.

"Don't stop." Bob watched his hammer-wielding wrist. "When your seventh blow came down just now, your right shoulder blade bulged half a finger's width farther than your left. Some imbalance in battle-qi circulation is normal, but if the difference is too great, your channels can get twisted over time."

"...How could you tell?"

"I've been forging iron for forty years." Bob turned the glowing billet with long tongs. "If I haven't handled a thousand swords and knives, I've handled eight hundred. Some warriors take a wrong turn in their training, and even when they forge iron, the force from their hands is uneven. Sooner or later, something goes wrong."

Loa silently struck a few more blows. He did habitually direct most of his "qi" into his right arm-his sword arm. Subconsciously, he felt he ought to temper that side more.

"When you practice tonight, try sending thirty percent of your qi through your left arm." Bob set the forged blade blank aside with his tongs. "You don't need much, just enough. Balance both hands, and your stance will be steady and your power will carry through."

"Thank you, Uncle Bob."

"Thank you, my ass." Bob spat. "I just don't want you ruining yourself and leaving me with nobody to swing the sledgehammer."

That afternoon, Loa went to the Mercenary Guild.

The clerk behind the counter looked up, saw him, and casually leafed through a ledger. "Your Gray Iron Rank mission completion rate is pretty good. What are you taking today?"

Loa handed over his badge and scanned the mission wall. The Gray Iron Rank postings were the same old assortment: cleaning, hauling, gathering. But a fresh sheet of parchment had been posted in the middle section.

"Investigate the abandoned quarry in the northern outskirts: vagrants have recently reported strange noises at night. Beasts or bandits may be occupying the site. A two-person team is required to confirm the situation and report back. Reward: 12 silver coins, divided equally. Risk: low to moderate. Requirements: mercenaries of Gray Iron Rank or above who have completed at least five combat-related missions."

Beasts or bandits. The pay was decent, but the key was that the requirements explicitly stated "combat-related missions"-the experience awarded for these missions was a good deal higher than for cleaning sewers.

As he considered it, a heavily callused hand reached over from beside him and took down the posting.

It belonged to a man of about thirty, dressed in somewhat worn chain mail, with a long saber and a short blade hanging at his waist. He glanced at Loa's badge. "Team up?"

Loa nodded.

"Call me Old Dao." The man slapped the posting onto the counter. "Let's get the unpleasant stuff out of the way first. Investigation comes first. Once we've confirmed things, we withdraw. If we run into something tough, staying alive takes priority. Whoever makes the kill gets the spoils. If we find stolen goods... we split them seventy-thirty. Seventy for me, thirty for you."

"Fine."

"Straightforward." Old Dao grinned, showing teeth yellowed by smoke. "We leave now. We need to head back before dark. The place is ten li outside the city, and the road's rough."

The abandoned quarry in the northern outskirts had once supplied stone before the Royal Capital's expansion, but had now lain deserted for years. Loose stone lay in small hills, half-collapsed work sheds stood scattered across the wasteland like the skeletons of huge beasts, and the weeds grew waist-high.

By the time they slipped through a gap in the ruined wooden fence, the sun had begun sinking westward.

"The noises came from that row of stone huts at the very back." Old Dao lowered his voice, his short blade already drawn. "Last month, some scavengers said they saw shadows moving around at night. The City Guard couldn't be bothered to investigate properly, so it ended up posted here."

Loa tightened his grip on his iron sword. A stale, dusty smell hung over the quarry, and the wind made strange moaning sounds as it passed through cracks in the stone.

After they had gone another hundred paces or so, Old Dao suddenly raised a hand. Loa followed his pointing finger. At the entrance to the third hut in the row ahead were fresh bloodstains-already darkened, but not completely dry.

"Careful." Old Dao crouched.

They crept closer along the stone wall. Just as they reached the doorway, a strong, rank stench hit them. A low growl followed from inside.

It was not human. It was a beast.

A bristleback boar as powerfully built as a young calf charged out of the shadows! Its bristles stood erect like steel needles, bloody foam and scraps of cloth hung from its mouth, and its tusks were a full half-foot long, gleaming yellowish-white in the dim light.

"Fuck, so it's this brute!" Old Dao cursed. "No wonder vagrants have been disappearing..."

Bristleback boars were Rank 2 magical beasts with thick hides and tough flesh, capable of smashing down earthen walls when enraged. This one had clearly tasted human blood already. Its eyes were bloodshot, and after pawing the ground, it charged with a rumble.

Experienced as he was, Old Dao dodged sideways and slashed its flank with his short blade as he moved-but left only a white mark, failing even to cut through its hide.

The pain drove the boar into a greater frenzy. It turned and charged Loa, moving extremely fast, like a small mobile hill.

Loa did not dodge. He drove his feet against the ground, qi surging into his right arm as his iron sword shot straight out-not a slash, but a thrust. Its tip aimed for the boar's left eye.

Gale Thrust!

With a wet squelch, half a foot of blade sank in. The boar shrieked and shook its head wildly. The shock jarred the web of Loa's hand, nearly tearing the sword free. He let go and leaped backward. The boar staggered forward with the iron sword lodged in its eye socket and crashed through half a stone wall.

Old Dao seized the opening and lunged in, driving his long saber hard into the relatively soft underside of the boar's neck, then twisting it forcefully.

Its struggles gradually stopped.

Breathing hard, the two looked at the massive creature on the ground. Old Dao kicked its carcass. "A Rank 2 magical beast, a bristleback boar... What's something like this doing in an abandoned quarry?"

Loa pulled out his sword and wiped the blood off on the grass. He looked inside the hut, where scraps of torn clothing and several white bones lay scattered. It seemed the vagrants who had disappeared earlier had most likely fallen victim to this beast.

"There's more than one." Old Dao suddenly lowered his voice and pointed deeper into the hut.

Two more pairs of red-glinting eyes lurked in the shadows-their owners were somewhat smaller, clearly young or mates.

"Withdraw," Old Dao said decisively. "The mission was only to investigate and confirm. Now we know magical beasts are causing trouble. We'll report back and let the guild post an extermination mission. Someone of Bronze Rank will take over."

Loa nodded. They quickly left the quarry and returned the way they had come.

"That thrust of yours was fast," Old Dao remarked on the road, offering a rare assessment. "But against something thick-skinned, you're better off aiming for the soft flesh under the throat than the eyes. Eyes are small and hard to hit. A boar stretches its neck straight when it charges. That's where its defenses are weakest."

Loa committed it to memory. "I'll remember that."

"You'll pick it up with time. Don't worry." Old Dao waved a hand. "With your skill and ruthlessness, staying at Gray Iron Rank is a waste. Hurry up and reach Black Iron."

Back at the guild, they reported their findings, and the counter clerk made a few entries in the ledger. They split the twelve silver coins equally, leaving Loa with six. More importantly, this mission to "investigate and confirm a threat from Rank 2 magical beasts" received a fairly high experience assessment.

It was nearly dusk when he left the guild. Loa touched the mercenary badge tucked against his chest. A long road ahead. I still need to work hard.

When he returned to the smithy that evening, Bob was quenching the last few chopping knives. Seeing Loa enter, he twitched his nostrils. "You reek of blood. Been spilling some?"

"Took an investigation mission and ran into a bristleback boar."

"That Rank 2 thing?" Bob kept working. "Get hurt?"

"No."

"Lucky you." The old smith tossed the chopping knife into the cooling barrel and wiped his hands amid the hiss. "Next time you take a job like that, grab some Fire Phosphorus Powder from me before you leave. Nothing fancy, but it gives a flash when you throw it. Beasts are all afraid of sudden bright light and loud bangs."

Loa felt a little warmth inside. "Thank you, Uncle Bob."

"None of that." Bob turned and pulled an earthenware jar from a battered wooden crate in the corner. "Fire Phosphorus Powder. Pack yourself a little bag. Oh, and three of those chopping knife blanks you forged today were bent before quenching. I'm docking you one and a half silver coins."

Loa took the jar without a word. He knew Bob was talking nonsense again-he had checked every blade blank before quenching today, and all their curves had met the requirements. The old man had a sharp tongue but a soft heart, finding roundabout ways to give him things while insisting on an excuse so it would not look like kindness.

After washing up, Loa lay down on the creaking bed in the little shed. Outside the window, Cast Iron Alley had fallen completely quiet, broken only by the occasional bark of a large dog kept at some distant shop.

He took out his mercenary badge and felt its markings with his fingertips in the dark. Soon. According to guild rules, completing a certain number and quality of "combat-related missions," or making one "special contribution," qualified a mercenary to apply for a promotion assessment. With today's investigation mission added to his previous work...

I should only be one step away.

After Gray Iron came Black Iron, then Bronze, Silver, and so on. At Bronze Rank, he could properly take on escort missions, hunts for specific magical beasts, and even join explorations of small ruins. The pay, the things he would see, and the opportunities to train would all be beyond what he had now.

Loa closed his eyes.

There were no flashing swords or anvils in his dream. Only a plain stretching beyond sight, where the wind sent waist-high grass rustling in waves all the way to the horizon.

He rolled over, his breathing gradually settling. Tomorrow, he still had to rise early to forge iron, take new missions, and keep tempering that "qi" of his own.