The bucket and the hammer

The next day, Loa woke before dawn had fully broken.

He sat up in bed. The sky outside was still dark gray, with only a sliver of pale white showing along the eastern horizon. The smithy was quiet; all he could hear was Old Jack's steady snoring next door.

Loa climbed quietly out of bed and walked to the corner of the room. There lay two old sacks he had dug out of the storeroom yesterday, along with a pile of river pebbles-he had gone out specifically to collect them yesterday afternoon. They were uniform in size, each as large as a fist.

He crouched and began filling the sacks with stones. Halfway through, he stopped and hefted one to test its weight. Not enough. He added a few more stones. He hefted it again, but it still felt light. Only when both sacks bulged and his arm muscles visibly tightened as he lifted them was he satisfied.

He tied the sacks shut with hemp rope, then arranged the ropes so he could carry them over his shoulders. Loa tried shouldering one, and the heavy load dragged his shoulders down. He adjusted the rope, took a deep breath, pushed open the back door, and walked into the mist-filled yard.

Starting today, he would "make the bucket bigger."

The backyard was small, its dirt surface packed firm underfoot. With the sack of stones on his back, Loa began jogging around it. He felt the difference with his very first step-not just the weight, but the shift in his center of gravity. Every stride took more strength to maintain his balance and resist the inertia dragging him backward.

Ten laps, twenty... His breathing grew rapid. Sweat slid down his forehead into his eyes, stinging fiercely. But he did not stop. Hillman's words echoed over and over in his mind: The bucket, the bucket, the bucket.

Skill meant making the most of every inch of space inside the bucket.

But if you wanted to hold more water-you had to make the bucket itself bigger.

By the thirtieth lap, his legs began to weaken, as though he were stepping on cotton. His lungs strained like broken bellows, every breath carrying the taste of blood. The sack on his back grew heavier and heavier. The ropes dug into his shoulders, burning with pain.

Should I stop?

Loa gritted his teeth and took another step.

He remembered his previous life. With his body tormented by illness, simply moving had been his limit; exercise had been a dream. His greatest dream back then had been to hike to Tibet on his own and see his homeland's magnificent mountains and rivers.

Now he could run, jump, swing a sword, and forge iron.

What the hell did this little bit of pain amount to?

On the fortieth lap, his awareness began to blur. The world shrank to his own ragged breathing and the monotonous thud, thud of his feet against the ground. His muscles screamed and his joints groaned, but his body kept moving mechanically forward.

Just when he thought he could hold on no longer, a faint current of warmth rose from his lower abdomen again.

It was the wisp of battle aura condensed through the "weapon combat breathing method."

It was thin and weak, like a dying ember on a winter night. But as his body approached its limit, it began circulating on its own, following some complex route through him. Wherever it passed, his aching muscles felt as though they had been soaked in warm water, gaining a brief trace of relief. Such miraculous supernatural power. Why hadn't this breathing method produced any response when I practiced it for so long back home? Was it really because that was an age without spiritual power?

Loa perked up and immediately began coordinating his breathing consciously. As he inhaled, he imagined the warmth rising along his spine; as he exhaled, he guided it into every part of his body. Though the effect was slight, it did let him last another five laps.

Forty-five laps.

He finally stopped and untied the ropes. The sack hit the ground with a thump. He, too, dropped onto his backside, gulping air, his sweat soaking the dirt beneath him.

After resting for roughly seven or eight minutes, until his breathing had settled somewhat, Loa got up and began the second exercise-squats.

No weights, just his own body. But he demanded perfect form of himself with every repetition: back straight, knees not extending past his toes, lowering himself until his thighs were parallel to the ground. Up, down, up, down. At first, he could maintain a rhythm. Later, every squat required him to hold his breath before he could stand again.

After a hundred squats, he collapsed on the ground, unwilling to move even a finger.

The sky had brightened, and the morning mist was beginning to disperse. Loa lay on the ground, watching the sky turn from dark gray to pale gray, then take on a faint wash of orange-red. Early birds began to sing. Sounds drifted over from the town-someone opening a door, someone drawing water. A new day had begun.

"You little brat, what are you up to this early?"

Old Jack's voice came from the back door. With a coat draped over him, the old man poked his head out, bleary-eyed. He froze for a moment at the sight of Loa sprawled on the ground and the two bulging sacks.

"Training," Loa answered weakly.

Old Jack came over and nudged a sack with his foot. Hearing the stones knock together inside, he widened his eyes. "You ran carrying this?"

"Yeah."

"How long?"

"Forty or fifty laps... I lost count."

The old man fell silent for a while, then crouched and pressed a large, rough hand to Loa's shoulder. The red marks left by the ropes had already swollen, standing out harshly against his thin shoulders.

"Does it hurt?" Old Jack asked, his voice a little hoarse.

"It does," Loa admitted.

"And you're still going to train?"

"I have to."

Old Jack stared at him for a long time. Finally, he sighed and stood. "Wash your face and get ready to eat. I'll buy some meat today."

Meat. That was a rare luxury in the smithy. Usually, they only had it when Old Jack had taken several big jobs in a row, or on holidays.

Loa wanted to say something, but Old Jack had already turned and gone inside.

Breakfast was simple as usual, but a whole boiled egg lay buried at the bottom of his bowl. Eggs, too, were a treat they rarely had. Once peeled, the white was tender and smooth, the yolk rich with oil. Loa ate in small bites, chewing each one for a long time. Old Jack sat opposite him, drinking gruel from his bowl without looking at him or saying a word.

But Loa knew that egg carried more weight than any words.

After breakfast, once the bowls and chopsticks had been cleared away, the day's work at the smithy began. Today, they needed to forge a new billhook and repair two hoes.

The fire was lit, the bellows worked, and the iron heated red.

Old Jack handed Loa the main hammer. "You do the main forging today. I'll watch."

Loa took the hammer-not his little one, but the main hammer Old Jack normally used, heavier and with a longer handle. He gripped it tightly and stood before the anvil.

The red-hot iron was lifted out with tongs and set on the anvil.

Inhale, raise the hammer, bring it down.

Clang!

Sparks flew.

Old Jack stood beside him, watching through narrowed eyes. He watched not only the changes in the iron, but also Loa's movements.

The first blow was still somewhat awkward, his balance unsteady. On the second, he adjusted his feet and found firm footing. With the third, his waist and hips began driving the movement, and the hammer struck with a more solid ring. The fourth blow, the fifth...

After ten blows, Loa found his rhythm.

Push against the ground, twist the waist, turn the shoulders, swing the arm-the way he generated force was exactly like yesterday's sword practice, but heavier and fuller. Every blow visibly reshaped the iron, and he controlled the angle and spread of the spraying sparks well.

As Old Jack watched, the wrinkles on his face slowly relaxed.

The boy had finally caught on.

It was not brute force, but deftly applied strength. Yet it was not pure technique either; it was a combination of technique and strength. Every bit of force went where it mattered, none wasted on trembling arms or stiff shoulders.

By the end of a series of hammer blows, the iron had taken its initial shape. Loa stopped, wiped away his sweat, and looked at Old Jack.

The old man offered no judgment, merely pointing at the water trough. "Quench it."

Loa gripped the iron with the tongs and immersed it in the water.

With a hiss, white steam billowed up, enveloping the entire workbench. When it cleared, the rough shape of a billhook lay in the water, its blade dark red, slowly cooling to a bluish black.

"Not bad," Old Jack finally said. He took the unfinished billhook and flicked the blade with a finger, listening to its ring. "The iron's been worked through thoroughly. It should have decent hardness."

He set the billhook aside and looked at Loa. "How are your shoulders?"

Loa moved his shoulders. They burned painfully, but he could still move them. "They're fine."

"Don't carry stones this afternoon," Old Jack said. "Push a cart instead. There's an old handcart in the storeroom with broken wheels. Push it to the old carpenter at the east end of town for repairs. Once it's fixed, push it back."

A cart? Loa paused, then understood Old Jack's intention.

Carrying stones trained his back and legs. Pushing a cart required his whole body, along with control over its direction. It trained overall strength, especially his core.

"All right." He nodded.

For the rest of the morning, Loa continued forging. After shaping the billhook, he began repairing the two hoes. Both had rolled edges and needed reforging and sharpening.

He was completely immersed in the feeling of "hammering strength into the iron, blow by blow." Every time he raised the hammer, he could feel his muscles stretching; every time he brought it down, he could hear strength flowing through his body. Sweat soaked his undershirt and plastered it to him, but he paid it no mind.

At lunch, Old Jack gave him another egg.

Loa did not refuse. He ate it silently.

That afternoon, following Old Jack's instructions, he dragged the old handcart out of the storeroom. Its wheels were indeed broken: one was warped, and the other's bearing had rusted solid, leaving it unable to turn at all. The cart itself was no lightweight either. With its solid wooden bed and iron axle, it weighed at least a hundred jin or so.

Loa looped the rope over his shoulders, gripped the handles with both hands, took a deep breath, and began pulling forward.

With the first step, the cart moved, but it was heavy. Since the wheels would not turn, he was effectively dragging it, creating enormous friction. He had to use his entire body to fight that resistance-feet driving against the ground, waist leaning forward, arms pulling, shoulders braced.

It was only half a li from the smithy to the old carpenter's home at the east end of town. Yet it took Loa a full hour.

By the time he arrived, he was drenched in sweat, his clothes wet enough to wring water from. The old carpenter was a wiry old man. Seeing Loa dragging a broken cart, then the boy's face flushed with exhaustion, he asked nothing. He simply pointed to the shade of a tree in the yard. "Rest. Come get it in an hour."

Loa sat beneath the tree, leaning against the wall, unwilling to move.

He was utterly exhausted. Far more exhausted than after running laps with stones on his back. It was an exhaustion that encompassed his whole body, leaving no part untouched. Every muscle protested, every bone groaned.

Yet inside, he felt a strange sense of fulfillment.

He had truly felt the boundary of "strength"-not a boundary technique could make up for, but the tangible limit of his body. Just as Hillman had said, the bucket's capacity was fixed. However cleverly he distributed it, he could not fit a bucket and a half of water inside.

If he wanted more, he had to make the bucket bigger.

And making the bucket bigger turned out to hurt this much, to be this exhausting.

After resting for about half an hour and recovering some strength, Loa stood and began walking slowly around the old carpenter's yard. I can't stop. If I stop, my muscles will stiffen, and they'll hurt even more tomorrow. As he walked, he consciously adjusted his breathing, guiding the wisp of warmth through the aching areas.

Though the effect was slight, it was better than nothing.

An hour later, the wheels were fixed. The old carpenter was skilled: he had hammered the warped wheel round again and oiled the seized bearing. Now the cart rolled smoothly.

"Thank you, Grandpa." Loa took out the two copper coins Old Jack had given him.

The old carpenter waved a hand. "Forget it, forget it. I practically watched you grow up, and Old Jack's an old friend of mine. Look how worn out you are. Keep the money and buy yourself something nourishing."

Loa insisted on paying, and only then did the old carpenter accept one coin. "One's enough. I didn't replace the wheels, just repaired them."

Pushing the repaired cart home was much easier. The wheels gave soft creaks as they turned. Though it was still heavy, at least he was "pushing" rather than "dragging" now.

By the time he returned to the smithy, the sun was already sinking westward. Old Jack was putting away his tools. Seeing Loa return with the cart, he nodded. "Put it in the storeroom. Then wash and change."

Loa did as he was told.

He washed by pouring well water over himself. It was bone-chillingly cold, but afterward he felt refreshed all over. He changed into clean clothes. Though they were still coarse cloth, at least they no longer smelled of sweat.

At dinner that night, there was meat among the dishes.

Loa looked at the meat, then at Old Jack silently drinking rice porridge opposite him, and suddenly felt his nose sting.

"Grandpa," he said quietly, "have some too."

"I'm old. It won't do me any good." Old Jack did not look up. "You're still growing. Eat more."

"But-"

"Eat," Old Jack interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Starting tomorrow, one egg every day and a piece of meat every week. I can afford it."

Loa said no more. He lowered his head and began eating. The meat was delicious, but he found it a little hard to swallow, as though something were lodged in his throat.

That night, lying in bed, he reviewed the day's training.

Forty-five laps in the morning, a hundred squats, six hours of forging, and three hours taking the cart there and back. His total training far exceeded anything before, and his body had indeed reached its limit. But the tangible sense of "making the bucket bigger" felt more reassuring than any breakthrough in technique.

He needed a more systematic plan.

Strength, endurance, explosive power, flexibility... He had to train them all, but could not tackle everything at once. He needed priorities and cycles. Having trained hard today, he would need to take things a little easier tomorrow and give his muscles time to grow.

Then there was nutrition. This was already the greatest kindness the old man could offer. But he needed more-more protein, more nourishment.

I have to find a way.

As he thought, drowsiness overtook him. Just before sleep, Loa's last thought was: When I go to the training ground tomorrow, I need to ask Captain Hillman whether there are any wild fruits or vegetables near town that can replenish my strength. Or... whether there's some way to earn a little money to buy meat.

Outside the window, night hung low.

In the smithy, the fire had gone out completely, leaving only residual warmth in the gaps between the bricks.

Old Jack lay awake in the bed next door, listening to Loa's steady breathing, unable to fall asleep for a long, long time.

The boy was pushing himself too hard.

So hard it hurt to watch.

But Old Jack knew he could not stop him. Some birds could not be kept in cages. Their feathers were too brilliant, their songs too clear, and the sky held too great an allure.

All he could do was make the cage a little sturdier and put a few more grains in the feeding trough before the bird flew away.

That was all.

The old man rolled over and closed his eyes.

The night was still long.

Tomorrow would be another new day.