Commandant Sun of the personal guard handled matters efficiently. In little more than half a day, he laid out all the information he could gather before Li Zhenwei in an orderly report.
At the Qin Household Blacksmith Shop in Soot Alley, the old master Qin Feng, nicknamed "Iron Hand Sword," had settled in Ink City roughly sixteen years ago with his grandson Qin Tiexin, then still an infant. His ironworking skills were superb, and he was generous and loyal, enjoying an excellent reputation among his neighbors and old friends from the jianghu. A year ago, the Heavenly Craft Workshop had opened across the street, squeezing his business with low prices and fast work. Qin Feng's old injuries had flared up, and he died of illness on the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month. His grandson Qin Tiexin, now sixteen, had inherited the shop. Quiet and taciturn, he was unusually tall and powerfully built, with astonishing strength. Before the New Year, he had cut mountain timber without permission and burned a body in the wilderness to lay his grandfather to rest. The authorities fined him two taels of silver, payable by the fifteenth day of the first lunar month. He was now struggling to survive, relying on hauling goods at the southern freight yard and help from his neighbors.
"There is one other matter," Commandant Sun added. "I found that hunter. His surname is Zhao. He confirmed that the chopping knife he had made before the New Year was indeed Qin Tiexin's work. With it, he drove off two thugs wielding blades from the Heavenly Craft Workshop who tried to rob him, breaking one of their blades. I have borrowed the chopping knife."
As he spoke, Commandant Sun presented a dark, lusterless chopping knife of plain, rustic design.
Li Zhenwei took it. It sat solidly in his hand, with a thick, blunt spine and a simply shaped edge. He examined it closely. Almost no scale patterns from forging were visible on the blade, only a dense texture tempered by a thousand hammer blows. The chipped section had been carefully repaired, blending almost seamlessly into the original blade. Without looking deliberately, it would have been difficult to notice. The whole knife bore no decoration, yet exuded a silent, focused sense of strength.
He recalled Hunter Zhao's expression when speaking of the boy-no extravagant praise, only the solid words "works well" and "reliable," along with utterly genuine sorrow and gratitude when he spoke of what had happened to the Qin grandfather and grandson.
A sixteen-year-old boy, suddenly bereft of his support, burdened with heavy debt and facing the crushing pressure of competition, had nonetheless settled his mind enough to forge a blade like this.
Without his noticing, some of the frustration stirred in Li Zhenwei by the Heavenly Craft Workshop's craftsmen and their disdain faded. He stroked the rough hemp cord wrapped exceptionally securely around the handle, almost feeling the warmth of the maker's callused palms and his wholehearted concentration.
Perhaps...
"Prepare a horse." He set down the chopping knife. "And get a few things ready. Also, find me some older, inconspicuous clothes."
Darkness came early in the twelfth lunar month. The hours of the monkey had barely passed before dusk closed in from all sides.
Qin Tiexin had just lifted the last roughly forged iron billet of the day from the furnace with his tongs. Glowing red-hot, it resembled a piece of flowing dark gold in the dim shop. He was bare-chested, sweat streaming down his bronze, sharply defined back and arms, gleaming in the firelight. The enormous hammer seemed almost weightless in his hand, yet rose and fell with the force of a thousand jun. Each blow struck the billet with a dull, solid clang, sending sparks flying like red raindrops flowing upstream beside his taut muscles and composed face.
Utterly focused, he kept his gaze locked on the minute changes in the billet's shape beneath his hammer, adjusting his aim and force to squeeze out the last stubborn impurities. His heavy breathing intertwined with his steady hammer blows, the only rhythm in that cold dusk.
Just then, several knocks came from the seldom-used little door in the rear courtyard, neither forceful nor soft, yet exceptionally clear.
Qin Tiexin did not stop until the last blow had fallen and the billet had been returned to the furnace to keep warm. Only then did he straighten, wipe the sweat and ash from his face with the old towel draped around his neck, pull on his dark-blue work clothes, and go to open the door.
Outside stood a middle-aged man in a worn gray cotton-padded robe beneath a faded sheepskin vest. His features were rugged, his eyes calm, and he held a long object wrapped in coarse cloth. He did not look like an ordinary neighbor.
"Master smith, sorry to disturb you." The visitor spoke quietly, his voice carrying a rasp weathered by years of wind and frost, though his tone was very courteous. "May I come in to talk?"
Qin Tiexin nodded and stepped aside. "Please come in. The place is untidy. Have a seat while I finish the work in the furnace." He pointed to a reasonably clean wooden stool in the corner, then returned to the furnace, deftly lifted out the billet, and gave it its final shaping blows and quenching. The whole sequence flowed like drifting clouds and running water. His concentration remained unchanged; the visitor had neither distracted nor flustered him.
Li Zhenwei sat as asked, his gaze naturally taking in the cramped, simple shop. The tools were arranged in perfect order and the floor swept clean, but the emptiness lent it a desolate air. The few farming tools hanging on the wall were plain in design, while the roughly forged billets stacked nearby appeared quite uniform in texture. His gaze finally returned to the busy boy.
At sixteen, his frame had already fully developed, with broad shoulders and a thick chest. The muscles of his arms and back swelled and contracted in clearly defined blocks as he worked, brimming with raw yet coordinated strength. What drew Li Zhenwei's attention most were the boy's eyes and hands. His eyes were quiet and focused, like a deep pool reflecting the dancing furnace flames without a trace of impatience. The hand gripping the hammer had thick knuckles and heavy calluses, its fingers long and strong. Every blow was steady as a rock, following a clear path.
He did not look like a boy crushed by life. He looked more like an iron billet being struck again and again by a heavy hammer, its dross driven out and its essence preserved, silently enduring everything while growing ever tougher within.
Before long, Qin Tiexin completed the final process and placed the quenched wrought-iron billet, still trailing bluish smoke, into a bucket to cool. He then carefully cleaned the anvil and hammer before moving aside to wash his hands and face thoroughly in a wooden basin. He even scrubbed the grime from beneath his nails, then dried himself with a clean cloth.
Only after all that did he approach Li Zhenwei and give a slight nod. "Sorry to have kept you waiting. This... uncle, what can I do for you?" His voice was rather low, with the slight huskiness left after a boy's voice broke, and his tone was mild.
Li Zhenwei gently placed the long, cloth-wrapped object on the old wooden counter between them and untied the knot.
It revealed that weather-beaten old scabbard.
"I'd like you to take a look at this saber, young master smith." Li Zhenwei met Qin Tiexin's eyes. "See whether it can be repaired."
Qin Tiexin's gaze settled on the scabbard. It was very old and badly worn, its design the most ordinary military issue. But rather than touch it immediately, he frowned slightly. Years of working with iron had given him an almost instinctive intuition for good weapons. Worn though this scabbard was, it faintly conveyed something utterly different from the gleaming new blades at the Heavenly Craft Workshop across the street-not splendor, but a settled quality tempered by a thousand hammer blows.
"This saber..." Qin Tiexin hesitated, then spoke honestly. "Judging by the scabbard, it's an old military weapon. But it feels... a little different. May I draw it for a look?"
A barely perceptible glimmer of approval passed through Li Zhenwei's eyes. He nodded. "Please."
Yet Qin Tiexin did not reach for it immediately. He turned and went back to the basin, washing his hands once more with extraordinary care in the clear water. He scrubbed between his fingers and around his wrists until they were perfectly clean, making certain not a trace of sweat or grime from his forging remained. Then he dried them repeatedly with the only reasonably clean cloth, until his palms reddened slightly.
Only then did he return to the counter and say with great seriousness, both to Li Zhenwei and to the saber, "I'll examine the blade."
The small hope in Li Zhenwei's heart quietly grew a little stronger. This boy understood the rules and held things in reverence.
Qin Tiexin extended both hands and carefully lifted the sheathed saber. It was weighty in his hands, its center of gravity balanced. Pressing his thumb against the dull copper guard, he slowly drew out the blade.
The gleaming blade emerged inch by inch into the dim light, forming a stark contrast with the battered scabbard. Fine, crisscrossing scratches and stubborn dark stains covered it. Near the guard, a hideous crack spanning almost a third of the blade, surrounded by a spiderweb of tiny chips, resembled a silent wound, shocking to behold.
Qin Tiexin neither exclaimed nor rushed to a judgment. Very slowly, he drew the blade out completely and held it level before his eyes, shifting its angle slightly to let the light fall on it from different directions. His gaze was sharp as a needle as he carefully examined the direction and depth of the crack, the grain of the metal around the chips, and the changes in curvature and thickness along the blade.
His brow gradually tightened. The saber had been forged to an exceptionally high standard. Though its material was not of the finest quality, every inch had been worked with absolute solidity, the force penetrating throughout. The dark red that would not wash away carried a heavy mingling of rust, blood, and fire. And that great crack... it was not merely the result of a heavy external blow. It looked more like a wound of despair that had burst open from within after bearing a force beyond its limits.
Only after examining it for fully half a cup of tea's time did Qin Tiexin gently lay it back on the counter, his movements soft, as though handling a fragile treasure.
He raised his head to look at Li Zhenwei, who had watched him silently throughout, his eyes clear and earnest. "Uncle, this saber... has a story. May I ask where it came from? Knowing more might... help me understand what I'm seeing." He paused, then added, "Of course, if you'd rather not say, never mind."
Looking into the boy's sincere, focused eyes, Li Zhenwei felt as though some hardened corner deep in his heart had been gently touched. He was silent for a moment, his gaze falling on the crack in the blade, as though through it he could see the smoke of war from long ago.
"There's nothing I can't tell you." His voice sank lower than before, carrying the weight of memory. "This saber wasn't originally mine. It belonged to a brother of mine."
"Back then, we were both common soldiers, stirring our ladles in the same pot and shivering in the same tent. He didn't talk much, but he was good with his hands. He could mend leather armor and requench arrowheads. We promised each other we'd carve out a future together and bring honor to our ancestors."
The shop was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of embers in the furnace.
"Once, the two of us were sent out scouting. In the woods, we ran into a lone scout from another tribe. That man... was terribly skilled. He wielded a long spear, while my brother and I had sabers. We couldn't get close. After a few exchanges, we were both wounded. It looked as though we'd die there."
Li Zhenwei's fingers curled unconsciously. His voice remained steady, yet seemed to be holding something down:
"My brother... threw himself at him. With his own body, he trapped the spearhead thrusting toward me. The point went through beneath his ribs... He shouted for me to strike!"
Qin Tiexin held his breath.
"I risked everything and hacked off that man's arm in one blow. But my saber... broke too. My brother... didn't make it. At the end, he grabbed this saber and pushed it into my hands. He said... 'Kill a few more for me.'"
Li Zhenwei stopped. His Adam's apple bobbed before he continued. "Only afterward did we learn that scout was an enemy general, out surveying the terrain when he ran into us. Because of that, I earned merit and a promotion. Over the years, I've carried this saber from north to south, cut down mounted bandits and blocked stray arrows. Even I can't remember how much blood its edge has licked."
His fingers brushed lightly over the dark-red stains on the blade.
"But I never encountered that enemy from back then again. In a fierce battle before the New Year, we faced the Northern Di's heavily armored cavalry. This saber... blocked a spiked club for me, and ended up like this." He looked at the crack, his gaze complicated. "I've sought out plenty of craftsmen. They all said it was beyond saving. Either melt it down and reforge it, or... keep it on display as a memento."
He raised his head, his gaze returning to Qin Tiexin's face. He did not deliberately dwell on the sorrow, merely stated the facts, yet they carried more force than any impassioned words:
"My vengeance is still unfulfilled. But the saber can no longer accompany me to the battlefield. I heard your craftsmanship was solid and your attention careful, young master smith, so... I thought I'd try my luck."
As his words faded, a brief silence settled over the shop.
The glow of the furnace danced across Qin Tiexin's young face. Head lowered, he gazed once more at the scarred old saber and said nothing for a long time.
He could feel the heavy power of "intent" within the blade, mingled with blood and fire, vows and unwillingness to yield, almost spilling over. This was not merely a damaged weapon. It was an unfinished promise, a stretch of time frozen still, a weighty trust.
Deep within his consciousness, the Illustrated Catalog of Ten Thousand Artifacts seemed to resonate faintly with that intense "intent."
After a long while, Qin Tiexin drew a deep breath, raised his head, and met Li Zhenwei's gaze. His usually quiet eyes now held an unprecedented solemnity.
"Uncle," he said, his voice still quiet, yet carrying a steadiness beyond his years, "this saber... is badly wounded. I may not be able to repair it, and I certainly can't promise it will fight as it once did even if I do."
He paused, as though arranging his words, or making some kind of decision:
"But I want to try."
"Not melt it down, and not merely polish it bright. I want to try... to see whether I can close this 'wound' and keep this saber's 'intent' from breaking."
He spoke somewhat clumsily, not even quite using the usual language of craftsmen. But Li Zhenwei understood. He understood the simple respect for the "soul of an artifact" in the boy's words, and the sincerity of someone willing to try despite knowing the difficulty.
"How long will you need?" Li Zhenwei asked.
"I can't say for certain," Qin Tiexin answered honestly. "First, I need to think carefully about how to begin. The materials... will need a special search too. Three to five days if it goes quickly. If it takes longer..." He did not continue, but his meaning was clear.
"As for payment..."
Qin Tiexin shook his head. "We can discuss that once it's repaired. If I can't fix it, I won't take a single coin."
Li Zhenwei gave him a long look, then nodded. "Good. I'll leave the saber with you. If you need anything or run into difficulties, you can find me at the Yuelai Inn in the east of the city. My surname is Li." He did not reveal his identity, leaving only the simplest way to contact him.
"Uncle Li." Qin Tiexin committed it to memory, then solemnly gave a slight bow to both the old saber and Li Zhenwei. "I'll do my utmost."
Li Zhenwei said nothing more and turned to leave. At the rear courtyard gate, he looked back.
The boy had already returned to the anvil, but rather than begin forging immediately, he had lifted the old saber once more in the furnace light. His fingertips brushed its scars with extraordinary gentleness, his gaze as intent as though he were listening to an ancient story.
The furnace crackled, its light falling on one person and one saber.
The door closed softly, leaving behind a roomful of faint light and weighty hope.