On the thirtieth day of the twelfth lunar month, fine grains of snow drifted down over Ink City.
Qin Tiexin woke at the first glimmer of dawn. The alley was quieter than usual; even the irritating hammering from the Heavenly Craft Workshop across the way had stopped. It was New Year's Eve. Most shops were closed, and not a single figure could be seen on the docks.
He rose and, as usual, completed eight rounds of the Body Tempering Technique in the cold. The sweat was the same, the trembling was the same, but perhaps because he had eaten half a jin of venison yesterday, or perhaps because the holiday itself carried some indefinable spirit, he felt that the weakness seeping from the cracks between his bones seemed a tiny bit lighter.
In previous years, Old Qin would have rousted him out of bed early, tucked away a flask of wine and a few simple offerings, picked up an old broom, and trudged alone through the snow toward Emerald Cloud Mountain. Qin Tiexin would stay home, cook paste, put up the door couplets, then begin preparing the grandest meal of the year. The old man had a picky palate and would accept no shortcuts for New Year's Eve dinner. The braised pork had to be stewed until it quivered, the fish steamed whole, and there had to be a plate of emerald-green vegetables, for the auspicious meanings of "a surplus year after year" and "a clean, unblemished life." By the time he was nearly done and dusk was falling, the old man would return through the twilight, carrying the mountain chill on him, his features showing both weariness and a little ease.
At the table, the old man would make an exception and pour him a small cup of wine too-the cheapest kind of throat-burning liquor, so sharp it made him choke. Every time Qin Tiexin took a tiny sip, he would cough from the burn, his eyes brimming with tears. The old man would grin, showing teeth yellowed slightly by tobacco smoke. "Look at you! All that growing for nothing! When I was your age, I was traveling north and south with an escort agency. I could put away three or five jin of the stuff without so much as blushing!"
Qin Tiexin refused to concede, but did not dare try again. He simply buried his head in the huge bowl of braised pork piled high before him, eating until grease coated his lips. The old man said no more either, drinking leisurely with a few side dishes. Occasionally, his gaze drifted toward the pitch-black night sky outside the window, his thoughts unknown. The stove burned brightly indoors, lighting the figures of an old man and a boy eating in silence. That was their New Year.
Qin Tiexin shook his head, driving those steaming-warm scenes from his mind. He scooped a scant half-bowl of rice from the rice jar, considered it, then poured a little back. Once the stove was lit, he cut a few precious slices of venison-thin enough to let light through-and stir-fried them with the half-head of cabbage stalks left from yesterday, then steamed two mixed-grain cakes. This was his breakfast, and the strength he would need for the climb.
After eating, he carefully counted the copper coins he had saved over the past few days. He was still far short. Even so, he counted out fifty wen, wrapped them in cloth, and tucked them into his robe. After locking the shop, he first went to Liu's Wine Shop on West Street, where Old Man Qin had often bought wine when he was alive.
The shop was about to close too, and Shopkeeper Liu was busy tidying up. Seeing him, he paused, then sighed. "Tiexin, here for wine?"
"Yes. A flask of... the kind my grandfather always drank." Qin Tiexin's voice was low.
Shopkeeper Liu asked no more questions. He turned and brought out a black earthenware wine jar from behind the counter. He cracked open the clay seal, and a rich wine fragrance immediately drifted out. With practiced movements, he filled an old bamboo flask that held one jin, stopped it with a wooden plug, and handed it to Qin Tiexin. "This 'Burning Spring' packs a punch. Your grandfather loved it. Fifty wen."
Qin Tiexin silently paid. He also went to the incense shop to buy some spirit money, incense, and candles. Only then did he carry everything, step by step, toward Emerald Cloud Mountain once more.
The snow was still falling, and the mountain path was wet and slippery. He walked very slowly, his chest rising and falling with his breaths, white clouds puffing from his mouth. His shoulders seemed to feel again the weight of carrying his master up the mountain that day. Only this time, his back was empty, yet his heart was heavier.
When he reached the south-facing slope, the two earthen graves side by side were already covered in a thin layer of snow. He set everything down, first brushing the snow from his master's grave with his hands, then pulling out several newly sprouted clumps of withered grass nearby. He carefully cleaned his master's wife's grave as well. By the time he finished, sweat had appeared on his forehead.
He lit the incense and candles and planted them before the graves. The yellow paper curled in the flames, blackened, and became butterflies of ash, whirling in the mountain wind. He set out the plate of stir-fried venison and the two mixed-grain cakes he had brought, then pulled the wooden plug from the flask.
The strong smell of wine rushed out, exactly as he remembered it.
"Master, Mistress, little junior brother... it's New Year." He crouched and tilted the flask. Clear wine gurgled out onto the icy grave soil, quickly soaking in and leaving only dark traces and an ever-stronger fragrance of wine.
"This year... I'm all alone." His voice was a little hoarse. He paused before continuing. "The shop's still there. I'm looking after it. I haven't let the craft slip either. I practice every day. It's just... the county office fined me two taels of silver, due before the fifteenth of the first month. I'm still quite a bit short."
The mountain wind swept snow dust across his cheeks, icy cold.
"But don't worry. I can bear it. Hunter Zhao gave me a deer leg a few days ago. The meat's good. The uncles and aunties in the alley often help me out with some vegetables too. I won't go hungry."
"It's just... sometimes, I really miss you. I miss you scolding me for my rough workmanship, stealing meat from my bowl, boasting when you drank..."
As he spoke, it felt as though a wad of cotton had lodged in his throat, and his eyes burned painfully. He blinked hard, forcing back the sting, but something scalding still slid down his cheek and fell into the snow, making a tiny pit.
He raised his sleeve and scrubbed his face hard.
"I'm not crying. You said a blacksmith's tears had to be hotter than molten iron." He sniffed, his voice growing steadier. "I'm just... talking to you. I'll get through this trial. I'll keep the shop safe for you, no matter what. Once I'm over this hurdle, I'll buy you a flask of better wine."
He sat quietly before the graves for a long time, until the incense and candles had burned out and the paper ash had gone completely cold. Evening gradually approached, and the mountain chill deepened. He stood, brushed the snow dust and mud from his knees, and bowed once more to the two graves.
"I'm going home. Master, Mistress, little junior brother, you... have a good New Year."
The descent was harder than the climb. The snow had stopped, but it was colder as the snow melted, crunching beneath his feet. By the time he returned to Soot Alley, the sky was completely dark. A scattering of households had hung red lanterns outside their doors, their dim yellow halos looking especially warm in the cold night.
He reached his shop and was about to take out his key when he stopped dead.
The shop doors were shut, but beneath the old, worn couplets, a pile of things had been arranged neatly on the flagstones before the threshold.
By the faint light leaking through the neighbors' door, he could make them out: a large cabbage coated in mud, several thick radishes, a piece of pork wrapped in oiled paper with its fat faintly visible, and a basket piled high with white-flour steamed buns, their surfaces coarse but giving off the fragrance of wheat. Beside them was even a small packet of malt sugar wrapped in rough paper.
None of it was particularly valuable, but every item was practical, and at the turn of the year, they stood out all the more.
Qin Tiexin froze, not daring to move for a moment.
The door next door creaked open a crack. Aunt Wang poked her head out and, seeing him, hurriedly beckoned, lowering her voice. "Tiexin, you're back? Hurry and take everything inside! It'll be such a waste if it freezes!"
"Aunt Wang, this is..." Qin Tiexin pointed at the things on the ground.
"Who else could it be? The old neighbors in the alley!" Aunt Wang smiled, though there was a little pity in her eyes. "Uncle Li, Butcher Zhang, Tofu Xishi... and a few old neighbors your grandfather helped before. They knew you were alone, and that the county office had even come demanding payment on New Year's Eve. They couldn't feel easy about it. They were afraid you'd be too thin-skinned to accept anything, so they agreed to leave it here quietly while you were up the mountain. Take it, all right? It's a little kindness from everyone. Don't turn it down, and don't make a fuss about it."
Qin Tiexin looked at the vegetables and steamed buns on the ground, speckled with mud and snow dust, and his throat tightened again. He nodded hard, his voice muffled. "Yes. Please... thank everyone for me."
"What's there to thank us for? Hurry and take it inside! It's cold!" Aunt Wang waved, withdrew her head, and closed the door.
Qin Tiexin bent down and picked up the heavy basket of steamed buns first, then carefully gathered up the cabbage, radishes, and pork. There was quite a lot, and it took him two trips to carry everything inside. Last of all, he picked up the packet of malt sugar and held it in his hand. That little paper packet almost felt hot to the touch.
He closed the door, slid the bolt into place, and arranged everything on the stove counter one item at a time. Because of this pile of food that had suddenly appeared, the icy shop seemed all at once to have human warmth and a temperature of its own.
He stood for a while, looking at those things. The cold, hard breath pent up inside him for so long seemed to have had a tiny crack pried into it by this unexpected warmth.
He was in no hurry to make anything elaborate. First, he cut open the pork. It was marbled with fat and lean and weighed about a jin and a half. He cut off a small portion of the fat to render some lard, then sliced a small portion of the remaining lean meat and stir-fried it with cabbage. He also warmed two steamed buns beside the stove. That was his New Year's Eve dinner.
Once the food was on the table, he picked up the flask of Burning Spring left from his offering at his master's grave and pulled out the plug. The wine smelled as strong as ever. He hesitated, then poured a little less than half a cup.
He raised the cup to his lips and took a small sip.
The familiar sharpness rushed straight into his throat. He instinctively wanted to cough, but held it back. He let the scalding liquid linger in his mouth a moment, then slowly swallowed. A stream of warmth burned from his throat down into his stomach, driving the chill from every limb and bone.
Strange. This time, it seemed... not quite so unpleasant. It was still sharp, though, sharp enough to make his eyes burn.
He picked up his chopsticks, took a mouthful of cabbage and pork, and began eating in great bites with the toasted, fragrant steamed buns.
At that same moment, the rear residence of Ink City's county office presented a very different scene.
Warm charcoal braziers burned in the reception hall. The table was laden with chicken, duck, fish, and pork, cold dishes and hot stir-fries-a hundred times more lavish than Qin Tiexin's meager New Year's Eve dinner, and more. County Magistrate Wang Mingyuan sat in the host's seat. His guest was a middle-aged man in civilian clothes, sitting ramrod straight, his face resolute. He was Li Zhenwei, Commandant of Manifest Might, home to visit his family.
The two exchanged toasts, already a little tipsy.
"Brother Zhenwei, will you be able to stay home a little longer this time?" County Magistrate Wang personally filled Li Zhenwei's cup.
Li Zhenwei raised the cup, drained it, and shook his head. "The border's unsettled. I have to return after the fifteenth of the first month. Being able to spend New Year at home is already a blessing from heaven."
"Indeed, indeed. Defending home and country-thank you for all your hard work, Brother Zhenwei." County Magistrate Wang sighed, then changed the subject. "By the way, weapons and armor must suffer heavy wear in the army, don't they? A Heavenly Craft Workshop has opened here in Ink City. They supposedly have immortal backing, and their furnace works wonders. The blades and swords they make are cheap, quick to produce, and handsome too! Even the prefectural office gave them this year's weapons order."
"The Heavenly Craft Workshop?" Li Zhenwei set down his cup, looking thoughtful. "Oh, I believe I saw their sign when I entered the city. Very imposing."
"Exactly!" County Magistrate Wang grew animated. "That Divine Forging Furnace of theirs runs day and night. Every weapon comes out to the same standard, gleaming coldly! Just looking at them, they seem a class above what those old blacksmith shops make! And they cost only sixty percent as much! If you need anything, Brother Zhenwei, or want some fine equipment for the lads under your command, I can introduce you!"
Li Zhenwei did not answer immediately. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the old sheathed saber hanging at his waist. Its scabbard was badly worn, the leather blackened, the brass fittings dulled.
County Magistrate Wang's sharp eyes followed his gaze, and he smiled. "That saber of yours has seen some years, hasn't it, Brother Zhenwei? An old weapon that earned its share of merit in battle?"
Li Zhenwei unfastened the saber and laid it on the table, a trace of complicated emotion showing in his eyes. "Yes. A brother I shared life and death with left it behind. It's been with me beyond the frontier, cutting down mounted bandits and stopping stray arrows." He gripped the hilt and slowly drew half the blade.
Under the lamplight, the blade was still bright as snow, but near the guard was a deep crack that ran almost halfway across it, surrounded by numerous fine chips. Dark-red stains that no washing could remove and scratches covered the blade, telling of the brutality it had endured.
"Unfortunately, during an encounter last year, a barbarian struck it with a heavy weapon and left it like this." Li Zhenwei's voice was low. "I asked several smiths in the army. They all said the material was ordinary and the damage went to its very core. Repairing it would be extremely difficult. Even if they managed to join it back together, it could hardly withstand another direct clash. As for reforging it... I'm afraid of losing what remains of the past and failing my dead brother."
County Magistrate Wang leaned closer to look and shook his head. "The damage certainly is serious. Still, since the Heavenly Craft Workshop has immortal methods, perhaps they can do something? Even if they can't restore it completely, having it polished up to keep as a memento would be good."
Li Zhenwei gazed at the crack in the blade, his fingertip gently passing over the uneven scars, as though he could feel the windblown sand, blood, and fire of battlefields past. After a brief silence, he slowly slid the saber back into its sheath.
"The Heavenly Craft Workshop..." He repeated the name, then looked up at County Magistrate Wang. "Then I'm sorry for the trouble, Brother Mingyuan, but please introduce me after New Year. Let's see whether this saber... can still be saved."
His fingers pressed hard against the old name on the scabbard, worn almost beyond recognition.
Outside the reception hall, snow quietly began falling again, silently covering Ink City's streets, alleys, and eaves. Deep in Soot Alley, a faint glimmer of stove fire flickered stubbornly in the cold New Year's Eve night.