By the third firing, Qin Tiexin had stripped off his last thin shirt.
His sweat had dried and flowed again, over and over, leaving a thin crust of salt across his back and chest. He stood bare-chested before the furnace, the firelight gleaming on his bronze skin, every rise of muscle casting distinct shadows as his breathing and movements stretched them. At sixteen, his frame had already filled out completely: broad shoulders, a thick back, and a tight waist, like a mountain rock worn smooth by running water.
He worked on the ice soul stone first.
The deep-blue ore lay on the anvil, no larger than a fingernail, yet it gave off a visibly cold vapor, freezing the moisture in the surrounding air into fine white frost. Qin Tiexin carefully picked it up with specially made thin iron tongs and placed it in the deepest part of the furnace. Ordinary iron took only moments to glow red, but this stone lay quietly in the raging flames for a full half-incense stick before a faint, dark-blue light slowly emerged from within.
"The temperature's not high enough..." Qin Tiexin murmured, though his hands remained steady. He worked the bellows slowly, but every stroke was long and even. The flames in the firebox gradually shifted from orange-red to a dazzling blue-white, and the temperature kept climbing.
Li Zhenwei sat on a low stool three paces away, both hands resting flat on his knees, holding the old, unsheathed saber. As Qin Tiexin had asked, he looked neither at the fire nor at the busy youth, only lowered his eyes to the crack in the blade. He thought of the birch grove outside Cangzhou City, of the choking sounds in his brother's throat when the spearpoint pierced his leather armor, of the windblown sand North of the Pass cutting his face like knives, of how, after all these years, even his enemy's face had grown somewhat indistinct in his memory.
His fingers unconsciously rubbed the long-worn cord wrapping the hilt, over and over.
Inside the furnace, the ice soul stone finally melted completely into a deep-blue drop, rising and sinking in the flames without mingling with them, as though wrapped in an invisible membrane. Sweat rolled down Qin Tiexin's forehead and dripped onto the anvil, hissing into white smoke. Holding his breath, he touched the drop with the tip of the tongs, ever so lightly.
Now!
With a flick of his wrist, moving so fast he almost left an afterimage, he drew the blue drop out of the furnace and deposited it precisely onto a small, prepared iron plate he had repeatedly forged himself. The instant the blue liquid touched the dark-red iron, it gave a strange series of cracks, like ice breaking. White cold vapor surged upward, and frost flowers rapidly formed across the plate.
Qin Tiexin dared not pause. He immediately returned the blue-frosted plate to the furnace. This time, he heated it for only a few breaths. Once the frost melted and the iron took on an even, dark-blue sheen, he swiftly lifted it out, placed it on the small anvil, and raised his smallest hand hammer.
"Ting... ting... ting..."
The hammer rang softly, but its rhythm was as dense as driving rain. Before the plate cooled, he had to hammer the ice soul stone's power evenly into the iron in the shortest possible time. Every blow landed with utter precision, its force varying by delicate degrees-too hard, and the brittle ice soul essence would shatter; too soft, and it would never truly fuse.
Sweat trickled along his brow into his eyes, stinging painfully. He did not blink, relying solely on the feel honed through years of forging as he focused entirely on that little piece of iron. Gradually, it ceased to be merely blue. Fine silver threads surfaced across it like patterns of cracked ice: the traces left by cloud silver powder as it reconciled the two extreme properties.
The first step had succeeded.
Qin Tiexin immersed the palm-sized plate, dark blue with silver markings, in the bucket of clear water beside him. He had drawn the water fresh from a deep well, and it was bone-chillingly cold. When the iron entered it, there was none of the usual loud hiss of quenching, only a long, sighlike "Sss-". Fine bubbles churned across the surface, and a thin layer of ice rapidly formed on the outside of the bucket.
He retrieved the plate, weighed it in his hand, then held it to the firelight to examine its patterns. Nodding, he set it aside.
Next came the fire pattern stone.
The dark-red ore felt gently warm in his hand, but the moment it entered the furnace, its response was entirely different. Almost instantly, it melted into a dazzlingly bright mass of golden-red liquid, roiling violently as though alive and trying to escape the flames' restraints, even giving off faint crackles.
Qin Tiexin's expression did not change. He merely slowed his strokes on the bellows slightly, holding the furnace at an extremely high temperature without letting it climb further. He needed the fire pattern stone's violent "flame power," but he also had to control it, lest it burn through the refined iron serving as its base.
He took out another carefully forged wrought-iron plate, this one slightly thicker than the first. Judging the heat precisely, he moved swiftly again, guiding the golden-red liquid onto its center.
Whoom!
At the instant of contact, open flames burst up! A scorching wave of heat struck him in the face, and tiny red spots instantly rose on his bare arms and chest. Without so much as furrowing his brow, he swiftly moved the plate over a specially made earthenware jar lined with wet clay and began tapping its edges with a small hammer in a measured rhythm.
"Tap, tap, tap..."
There was a peculiar resonance to the tapping. With each strike, the golden-red liquid ceased its wild splashing and, like a tamed beast, slowly spread outward along the grain of the iron. Wherever it passed, the plate burned into a crystalline, translucent state, with flowing patterns of flame visible within.
This round of forging took longer. He needed the fire pattern stone's power to "permeate," not merely "coat." Sweat had long since soaked his waistband and collected in a small puddle at his feet. His muscles trembled slightly from the prolonged, precise exertion, but his hammer hand remained steady as a rock.
At last, once the plate had cooled completely, it had a dark-red base threaded with gold. It still felt faintly warm to the touch, but no longer burned.
The second piece of patching material was ready too.
Qin Tiexin straightened and let out a long, scorching breath. He glanced at Li Zhenwei beside him. The general still held the same posture, as though deep in meditation; only the knuckles of his saber hand had whitened slightly from his grip.
"Uncle Li," Qin Tiexin said hoarsely, "I'm going to work on the saber."
Li Zhenwei slowly raised his eyes, shifting his gaze from the blade to the youth's face, outlined with unusual clarity by firelight and sweat. He nodded. "Go ahead."
Qin Tiexin went to the water vat, scooped up a dipper of cold water, and poured it over his head. The icy stream sent a shudder through him, but refreshed his mind. He dried his head and upper body with a cloth, washed his hands again, then finally turned the old saber carefully crosswise in the middle of the anvil, exposing its hideous crack fully to the firelight.
He did not heat the entire saber at once. The key to the repair lay in the crack itself. The rest of the blade had been tempered through countless battles and had long since reached the balance inherent to its material. Excessive heating might instead destroy its existing toughness.
First, using his finest file and a whetstone, he painstakingly cleaned the rust and impurities from inside the crack. The work was as delicate as embroidery, demanding keen eyes, strength of hand, and patience. He bent close, his nose almost touching the blade, his breathing as light as he could make it. The faint, continuous scrape of file against metal sounded especially clear in the silent shop.
It took him a full two hours to clean the inside of the crack to his satisfaction. Then he carefully coated it inside and out with a solution he had prepared himself, mixing cloud silver powder with strong liquor. The solution seeped into the metal's minute gaps, giving off a sharp, pungent smell.
"Uncle Li," Qin Tiexin said without looking up, "think of your brother. Think of taking revenge. Think of what this saber... ought to be."
Li Zhenwei closed his eyes. This time, the tide of memories came clearer and more fiercely. He remembered the pickled chives his brother loved, how his brother always slipped the dried meat he saved into his pack, how they had huddled in the same sleeping bag for warmth that snowy night, their teeth chattering as they still spun foolish dreams of someday winning honors for their wives and sons...
His breathing grew heavy, and veins bulged on the back of his hand around the hilt. As though sensing something, the old saber, silent all this time, gave an exceedingly faint, beelike hum.
Now!
Qin Tiexin thrust the cracked section of the old saber precisely into a region of the furnace where the temperature was most even. He heated only that small section, his eyes fixed on the changing color of the blade.
Dark red... bright red... orange-red...
When the metal along the crack began to turn faintly white, he swiftly lifted the saber out with his tongs and laid it flat on the anvil. Supporting the prepared ice and fire patching materials on thin iron sheets, he carefully fitted them into the open crack. One blue and one red, one cold and one hot-the two materials of extreme properties met the burning blade with a teeth-grating sizzle, raising a strange mist mingled with cold vapor and waves of heat.
Qin Tiexin raised his main hammer. This blow would decide success or failure.
He drew a deep breath, his gaze as still as an ancient well. Every muscle in his body instantly tightened like a bowstring. All his strength traveled through his legs and waist, his spine and shoulders, into his arm, then poured into the heavy iron hammer.
Clang-!!!
This hammer stroke sounded unlike any before it. Deeper, longer, as though it had struck not iron but something intangible. The instant the hammer fell, the blue and red patching materials embedded in the crack flashed, then seemed to be forcibly "pressed" deep into the blade, where they began frantically mingling, tearing, and meshing with the old metal!
The blade shuddered violently, giving off a piercing hum! The crack closed and narrowed visibly, blue and red light flowing endlessly along its edges, writhing as though alive.
Qin Tiexin dared not pause. He changed his hammering technique, no longer pounding fiercely but striking like someone playing a zither, using different parts of the hammer's face at different angles and strengths to hit the area around the crack with speed and precision. The dense ringing merged into a continuous peal, like a sudden rainstorm.
He was guiding it. Guiding the ice soul stone's "congealing" and the fire pattern stone's "burning" to restrain and nourish each other; guiding the cloud silver powder to serve as a bridge, connecting the pathways of old and new metal; and, most importantly, guiding the long-dormant force of "intent" within the blade-its grief, defiance, and anger stirred by this violent upheaval-to embrace, accept, and integrate this newborn part.
This was no longer mere forging, but a silent negotiation, a dangerous resonance.
Li Zhenwei felt the trembling from the hilt grow ever more violent. Those familiar fluctuations, mingled with an unfamiliar presence, rushed up his arm straight into his heart. He seemed to "see"-not with his eyes, but with some deeper sense-the blue cold currents and red threads of fire inside the blade fighting and tangling, until, reconciled by something silver and forcibly kneaded together by a will heavy as blood, they slowly wove a new, resilient network that firmly cradled the shattered "wound" and closed it.
Cold sweat seeped from his forehead, and his lips pressed into a pale, straight line, yet he poured every scrap of his intent into his palm without reservation: Live! Fight! Take revenge!
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Qin Tiexin's blows grew heavier, yet their rhythm became ever more ancient and desolate, carrying a certain ritual solemnity. Firelight and sweat covered his dark face, but his eyes shone with frightening brightness, as though two flames burned deep in his pupils. His movements swept wide, his sturdy, muscular body casting a powerful silhouette in the firelight. Each swing sent the muscles of his shoulders and back rolling like waves, scattering sweat.
The closing of the crack reached its most critical moment. Only a hairline remained, blue and red light clashing fiercely within it, seemingly ready to burst apart again at any moment.
Qin Tiexin suddenly stopped hammering.
He set down the hammer, walked aside, picked up the jar of strong liquor, and tipped back a great mouthful. The pungent liquid scorched his throat but brought a fierce surge of heat. He splashed the remaining liquor over his burning chest and arms. It evaporated on contact, wreathing him in white mist.
Then he did something that made Li Zhenwei's pupils contract sharply-
He stretched out his left hand, spread his fingers, and slammed it down over the nearly closed crack, where light still darted wildly!
Hiss-!
The acrid stench of burning flesh instantly filled the air!
"You!" Li Zhenwei almost rose to his feet.
Qin Tiexin seemed not to notice. He merely pressed the blade down hard and seized the hammer again with his right hand. Agony pierced his left palm; the skin burned instantly, sticking to the scorching metal and its raging power. But this was precisely what he wanted-to use his own flesh and blood as a guide, pain as an anchor, and force the last wandering strand of "intent" fully back into the blade, completing that final weld on the spiritual level!
"Hah-!" A low roar burst from his throat. Every muscle bulged as he swung his right arm in a full arc, the hammer falling with unstoppable force onto the back of his own left hand pressed against the blade!
Thud!!
With that dull impact, the blue and red light finally withdrew completely, and the hairline vanished without a trace. Where the crack had been, only a strange marking remained, about a finger wide and half a foot long-a somber dark-blue base interwoven with flowing scarlet threads, like frozen lava or a blood-red river of stars beneath the night sky. The marking joined naturally with the old saber's existing wear, without the slightest incongruity, as though it had always grown there.
The blade's humming stopped.
Its trembling subsided.
Only Qin Tiexin's heavy, bellows-like panting and the occasional crackle of the furnace remained in the shop.
He slowly lifted his left hand. His palm was a bloody ruin, charred black mingling with fresh red, the bones faintly visible. Only now did the agony sweep over him like a tsunami, darkening his vision. He staggered back a step and barely managed to stay upright against the cold wall.
Yet as he looked at the saber on the anvil, he managed a slight, strained tug at the corner of his mouth.
The blade was whole as before. Its new marking quietly shimmered in the firelight, no longer holding the violence of ice and fire, only a dense, restrained sense of power, like a sleeping volcano.
With a trembling hand, Li Zhenwei gently stroked the marking. It felt warm, but did not burn. As his fingertips passed over it, an exceedingly faint halo seemed to shift deep within the pattern, as though responding.
He tightened his grip on the hilt and slowly stood.
A long-absent sense of connection, like shared blood, came through his palm. The saber had grown slightly heavier, but its balance remained perfect. He could feel that familiar force of "intent" within the blade, heavy as iron. It had not vanished; its once-severed "pathways" had merely been rejoined. Though still somewhat sluggish, it could now flow slowly and steadily. More importantly, the newborn part did not reject the old intent. Instead, like the most loyal guard, it firmly protected the core, faintly conveying a trace of ice's resilience and fire's explosive ferocity.
It lived.
Not only had its wound healed, it seemed... to have nurtured new possibilities.
Li Zhenwei raised his head and looked at the youth leaning against the wall, his face white as paper, his left hand still dripping blood, yet still striving to straighten his back.
The furnace fire was nearly spent, and the faint light of dawn had already seeped through the gaps around the door and windows.
Three days and three nights had passed.