Qin Tiexin woke from hunger.
After pain and exhaustion had drowned him like a tide, he had slid down against the wall and lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, daylight was already bright, and tiny motes of dust danced in the shafts of light coming through the cracks in the door. He found himself lying on his usual old sleeping boards, covered with his thick padded jacket. His left hand had been carefully bandaged with clean, coarse white cloth that gave off a faint scent of medicinal herbs.
The fire in the stove was still warm. A black earthenware pot sat on top, steam puffing around its lid, and the rich fragrance of meat filled the entire shop.
He struggled upright, every bone in his body feeling as though it had come apart. Waves of burning pain and tingling came from his left palm. The shop had been tidied neatly; the anvil and tools were all in place, and not a speck of ash remained on the floor. That saber-no, "that repaired saber" now-lay flat on the anvil, cushioned by a piece of indigo homespun washed almost white.
Morning light fell across the blade. The newborn pattern of intertwined dark blue and crimson no longer shimmered with the brilliance it had beside last night's forge. Instead, it had settled into a restrained scar, as though traced jointly by deep-sea trenches and molten rock at the earth's core. It lay quietly, blending seamlessly with the old marks of wear beside it. Gone were last night's violence and struggle; only the steadiness of something that had weathered calamity remained.
Qin Tiexin stared at it for a long time before looking away. He lifted the pot lid. Inside was a full pot of meat porridge stewed until everything was tender, the grains of rice almost dissolved into the thick broth, large chunks of meat and chopped vegetables floating within, a tempting sheen of oil on the surface. On the low stool beside it sat a stack of steamed white buns-ten whole buns!-each as big as a fist.
His stomach immediately rumbled like thunder. Ignoring the heat, he grabbed a spoon with his uninjured right hand and shoveled a heaping spoonful into his mouth. It scalded him enough to make him suck in air, but when that warm stream of meat, rice, and fat slid into his empty stomach, the satisfaction almost made him groan. He had no concern for table manners. With his left hand out of use, he pinned a bun down with his elbow and wolfed down alternating mouthfuls of porridge and bun.
Only after sweeping through three buns and half the pot like a wind scattering clouds, giving his stomach a solid foundation, did he slow down. He ate with utter concentration, even scraping the rice paste off the sides of the pot with a bun, wasting not a single drop of oil. His sixteen-year-old body was growing rapidly, and he had just endured a forging that exhausted his mind and strength. Like welcome rain after a long drought, the food swiftly turned to warmth, driving out the fatigue deep in his marrow. He could feel strength returning strand by strand to his aching muscles.
He had just stuffed the last bun into his mouth when the courtyard door was gently pushed open.
Li Zhenwei entered, followed by his tough, capable personal guard, Commandant Sun. Li Zhenwei had changed into a more practical dark gray fighting outfit, and the old saber hung at his waist. Commandant Sun carried a bundle and a bulging leather waterskin.
Seeing Qin Tiexin bent over his food, eating voraciously, Li Zhenwei showed little expression, though the gravity in his eyes eased somewhat. He walked to the anvil, picked up the saber again, drew it partway, and carefully examined the repaired pattern against the light.
"Does it still hurt?" he asked, his eyes remaining on the blade.
Qin Tiexin swallowed his food and shook his head. "It's much better with the medicine." His voice was still a little hoarse.
"Last night..." Li Zhenwei paused, seemingly considering his words. "Why did you use your hand at the end?"
Qin Tiexin looked down at his bandaged hand and said in a muffled voice, "A saber has its 'Intent,' and a person has his 'Qi.' Back then, it... couldn't reach either shore. The old and the new were fighting. It needed a 'wedge' that could hold things steady. My blood... and the pain probably counted as that 'wedge.'" He spoke haltingly, using words he himself was not entirely sure of, but his meaning was clear.
Li Zhenwei finally turned to look at him. The boy was still pale, his lips dry and cracked, but his eyes were clear. There was no lingering fear or claim to credit, only the calm of someone who had done what needed doing.
"Did your master teach you that?" Li Zhenwei asked.
Qin Tiexin shook his head. "Master only said to put my heart into smithing and sink my strength into every hammer blow. This... when I touched it, I just felt that was what I should do." He pointed at the saber.
Li Zhenwei asked no more. He merely sheathed the saber completely, pressed his fingers hard against the name worn smooth on its scabbard, then nodded to Commandant Sun.
Commandant Sun stepped forward, set the bundle on the floor before Qin Tiexin, and opened it. Inside were two brand-new sets of dark blue cotton working clothes, their stitching close and sturdy; a pair of cloth shoes with multilayered soles; and a package wrapped in oiled paper, apparently containing dried meat and flatbreads.
"Put them on." Li Zhenwei was concise. "Once you're full and have your strength back, come out with me to test the saber."
Qin Tiexin looked at the brand-new clothes and shoes, then down at his sweat-stained old working clothes, covered in patches upon patches, and his tattered shoes with soles almost worn through. His lips moved, but in the end, all he said was, "Thank you, Uncle Li."
He made no fuss, laboriously changing into the clean clothes with one hand. They were slightly loose but the right length, and the thick, soft cotton against his skin was a comfort he had not known in a long time. The new shoes fit too. He carefully folded his ragged clothes and placed them in a corner of his sleeping boards.
Commandant Sun handed him the leather waterskin. Qin Tiexin took it, pulled out the stopper, and gulped several mouthfuls. It was warm sugar-and-salt water with a faint herbal taste. He knew this, too, had been prepared specially.
"Let's go." Li Zhenwei led the way toward the courtyard.
Outside the Heavenly Craft Workshop, the morning's busiest trading hours were underway.
A long table stood in the open space outside, displaying several gleaming sabers and swords as samples. Waving a new jade-ribbed fan, Zhao Ming was boasting, spittle flying, to several men in silk robes who looked like traveling merchants:
"...I'm not boasting, gentlemen. Our Heavenly Craft Workshop's 'Divine Forging Furnace' received the true teachings of immortals! Look at these flowing-water patterns, this shine! Ordinary blades are nothing but scrap iron beside them! The price? Rest assured, for our opening promotion, I'll knock off the odd amount after your ten-percent discount! You won't find another offer like it in Ink City..."
As he spoke, he caught sight of three people emerging from the alley diagonally opposite. Leading them was an unfamiliar middle-aged man in gray, a long saber at his waist, his bearing composed and weighty. A tough-looking attendant followed him. What made Zhao Ming's eyelid twitch was the boy at the rear, whose brand-new blue working clothes still could not conceal his tall, broad build-Qin Tiexin.
The smile on Zhao Ming's face stiffened, then he piled on still more enthusiasm, raising his voice as though deliberately speaking for those across the way to hear. "...Our blades have been tested in real combat! Tough and durable, cutting through iron like mud!"
Without breaking stride, Li Zhenwei walked straight into the middle of the open space outside the Heavenly Craft Workshop. The onlookers and the merchants all turned curious eyes toward him.
Unease drummed in Zhao Ming's chest, but he forced a smile and stepped forward to greet him. "Sir, would you like to look at our blades? We have a full range of styles..."
Li Zhenwei ignored him. His gaze swept across the samples on the long table before settling on a refined-steel spear, the longest and seemingly sturdiest of the lot. It was the Heavenly Craft Workshop's showpiece for demonstrating strength, its shaft as thick as a duck's egg and its tip flashing coldly.
"That spear," Li Zhenwei said, his voice quiet but carrying clearly over the surrounding noise. "How much?"
Zhao Ming froze, then hurriedly said, "You have a fine eye, sir! This is the 'Armor-Piercing Spear,' meticulously made by our workshop's veteran smiths from superior refined iron, hammered and tempered a thousand times! As for the price... if you're serious about buying it, one tael and two mace of silver!"
Li Zhenwei nodded slightly to Commandant Sun. Commandant Sun stepped forward, took out a money pouch, counted out one tael and two mace of loose silver, and placed it on the table.
Delighted, Zhao Ming quickly signaled for an assistant to bring over the spear. It was indeed heavy; the assistant struggled even while carrying it in both hands.
Li Zhenwei did not take it. Turning toward an empty stretch of street, he told Qin Tiexin, who had stood silently behind him all this time, "Stand farther back."
Qin Tiexin obeyed, retreating several steps.
Then, beneath everyone's puzzled gaze, Li Zhenwei slowly drew the saber at his waist.
As the saber left its sheath, the onlookers first fell silent. It was far too old, its scabbard battered and its blade covered in marks of wear. Only near the guard was there a strange pattern of intertwined dark blue and crimson, looking somewhat uncanny in the sunlight. Beside the Heavenly Craft Workshop's gleaming samples, it was like a beggar beside a prince's grandson.
A mocking smile crept onto Zhao Ming's lips, and he was just about to offer some polite remark.
Li Zhenwei moved.
There was no flashy opening stance, not even a running start. He merely stepped half a pace forward, planted his left foot firmly, and lowered his waist and back slightly like a bow. His right arm swung naturally with the turn of his waist and hips. Saber light flared, tracing an arc so simple it was almost brutal, slashing diagonally toward the middle of the refined-steel spear Commandant Sun held horizontally in both hands!
The movement was not fast. Everyone could see it clearly.
But the instant before the edge touched the shaft-
"SHIIING-!!!"
A piercing, ear-splitting, high-pitched tremor erupted, nothing like the clash of metal! The sound seemed to carry the howling of wind and snow and the surging of molten rock!
The saber light flashed past.
Commandant Sun remained motionless, his hands still raised horizontally.
The refined-steel shaft, as thick as a duck's egg, slid silently apart at the cut. With a clang, the spearhead and its attached half-shaft struck the flagstones and bounced twice.
The cut was smooth as a mirror, reflecting a dazzling white light in the sun.
The old saber in Li Zhenwei's hand had not even quivered. Only the blue-and-red pattern seemed to brighten ever so faintly at the moment of impact before falling quiet again. Not so much as a white mark remained on the blade.
Dead silence.
That clean, decisive slash seemed to have drawn every sound out of Soot Alley. Vegetable sellers forgot their cries, passersby stopped in their tracks, and even the clanging of hammers in the shop opposite eerily paused for an instant.
Zhao Ming's mouth hung open, and his jade-ribbed fan fell to the ground with a clatter. His eyes widened into circles as he stared fixedly at the broken spear on the ground, then at the utterly unremarkable old saber in Li Zhenwei's hand. Every trace of color drained from his face.
The traveling merchants sucked in cold breaths and exchanged horrified glances.
Standing several steps away, Qin Tiexin watched quietly. He saw the lines of General Li's arm, shoulder, and back muscles burst into action and instantly subside as the saber descended. He saw the unwavering resolve in the blade as it cleaved the air. He also saw, at the instant blade met shaft, what seemed to be two forces deep within the blue-and-red pattern-a stagnation of extreme cold and an eruption of extreme heat-briefly converge and act together upon that single point.
It was not the saber's material simply overpowering the spear. It was the perfect momentary coordination of old and new forces after the repair, combined with the wielder's battle-hardened technique, his application of strength honed to perfection.
Li Zhenwei slowly withdrew the saber and glanced down at its edge, his fingers brushing the repaired pattern. A trace of unreadable complexity passed deep within his eyes. Then he sheathed the blade, turned, and looked at the ashen-faced Zhao Ming.
"The spear," he said evenly, pointing at the Armor-Piercing Spear lying in two pieces on the ground, "I bought it. The money's on the table."
With that, he looked at no one else and strode toward the end of the alley. Commandant Sun silently followed.
Qin Tiexin paused, then turned and followed as well. Passing Zhao Ming, he heard the clacking of his chattering teeth and the suppressed panting in his throat, like that of a wounded beast.
Only after the three figures vanished at the alley's mouth did the frozen crowd erupt. Discussion, exclamations, and doubts buzzed through the air. Several merchants gathered around the broken spear to inspect it repeatedly, their expressions shifting. Zhao Ming abruptly snapped out of his daze and roared at the assistants in furious frustration, "Put them away! Put everything away! What are you staring at?" He bent to retrieve his fan, but his fingers shook so badly that he could not fold its ribs together.
For perhaps the first time, the Heavenly Craft Workshop's glittering sign looked harsh in the sunlight rather than dazzling.
Li Zhenwei did not go far, stopping on a secluded stretch of riverbank not far from the alley's mouth. A tributary of the Ink River curved here, its current gentle, with withered yellow reeds growing along the bank.
Without needing instructions, Commandant Sun moved a dozen or so paces away and stood guard with his back to them.
Li Zhenwei unfastened his saber and held it out to Qin Tiexin.
Qin Tiexin accepted it with his uninjured right hand, somewhat puzzled.
"Feel it," Li Zhenwei said.
Qin Tiexin obeyed, brushing his fingers lightly over the scabbard before gripping the hilt and slowly drawing half the blade. Direct sunlight fell on it, making the blue-and-red pattern clearer still. He held his palm just above the pattern and closed his eyes.
The violent conflict of last night's forging was gone. Now, inside the blade, that familiar power of "Intent," heavy as blood, flowed like a thawed river-slowly, but steadily-through the entire saber, including the newborn portion. A slight barrier still remained between old and new, like tender flesh beneath a freshly healed scar, but their blood vessels were already joined. He could even vaguely sense a thread of icy resilience and a thread of scorching potential lying dormant deep within the blue-and-red pattern, quietly awaiting the next summons.
"It's alive." Qin Tiexin opened his eyes, sheathed the saber, and handed it back with both hands, giving his judgment. "It can still fight. It might... hit harder than before, but it taxes the mind."
Li Zhenwei took the saber and hung it back at his waist, looking at him. "You're only half right. It's alive, and it can fight. But there's no 'might' about hitting harder. That's certain. As for taxing the mind..." He patted the hilt. "Fighting shoulder to shoulder with its old brothers, cutting men down, was never effortless."
He walked to a large rock by the river and sat, gesturing for Qin Tiexin to sit too.
"My name is Li Zhenwei, Commandant of Manifest Might, serving with the Northern Army, stationed in Youzhou." He came straight to the point, his gaze blazing as he looked at Qin Tiexin. "I came home to visit family this time. In a few days, I'll return to the capital to report, then head straight to the frontier."
Qin Tiexin froze. Though he had guessed this "Uncle Li" was no ordinary man, he had not expected an active commandant in the frontier army. He rose to salute, but Li Zhenwei stopped him with a wave.
"Sit. I didn't come to hear your courtesies." Li Zhenwei's tone remained direct. "I've taken an interest in you. Not this shop, and not merely your skill at repairing sabers."
He paused, seemingly weighing his words. "I watched you for three days. Watched you forge, watched you eat, watched you wrestle with that broken saber. There's a drive in you, like the good soldiers under my command-stubborn about what you believe, willing to put in the work, hard-boned, with something inside you that refuses to bend. With your build and strength, it's a shame to stay tucked away in this alley making kitchen knives instead of carrying a spear into battle."
Qin Tiexin's mouth moved, but no sound came out.
"Come with me. Join the army." Li Zhenwei spoke with iron certainty. "There's a craftsmen's battalion that needs good smiths. Your skills could be put to great use making weapons, repairing armor, and building equipment. The frontier is bitterly cold, and war is perilous, but you'll see real mountains of blades and seas of fire. Your strength and skill will be put where they matter most. Earn merit, win yourself a future, bring honor to your ancestors-isn't that better than staying here guarding a shop that's nearly lost its means of survival?"
Qin Tiexin lowered his head to look at his bandaged left hand, then glanced toward Soot Alley. Distant rooftops blocked the shop from view, but he knew it was there.
"Lord Li," he began, his voice dry, "I... I can't leave."
"Because you promised your master you'd keep the shop?" Li Zhenwei seemed to have expected this.
Qin Tiexin nodded firmly. "Yes. The shop was Master's roots, and he passed his craft down to me. If I leave, the shop will truly be gone."
"Blind filial devotion!" Li Zhenwei snorted, though there was little reproach in his voice. "If your master's spirit watches from heaven, would he want to see you starve guarding an empty shop, or carve out a place for yourself through your own abilities? If you stay here making kitchen knives and hoes all your life, what will it matter even if your craft reaches the heavens? Look across the street."
He pointed toward the Heavenly Craft Workshop. "Ink City isn't the only place with that kind of 'Divine Forging Furnace.' The court is promoting them, and big merchants are learning. Within a few years, they'll be everywhere, in every prefecture and province under heaven. Cheap, fast, and good-looking. Commoners, government offices, even the army will buy from them. However good your craft, you're one man with two hands. How many blades can you forge in a day? Can you sell them for a worthwhile price?"
His words struck like a cold chisel at the place Qin Tiexin had always refused to examine too deeply.
"In this world, a craftsman has two roads to rise above the crowd." Li Zhenwei raised two fingers. "Either your name becomes so renowned that people care nothing for price or time and bring mountains of gold and silver to beg for your work. That takes a fortuitous opportunity, a powerful patron, and tremendous luck." He lowered one finger. "Or you put your craft to use where its worth shows most. On a battlefield, a blade a fraction sharper or stronger can save another life and kill another enemy. Merit earned there is the most tangible."
Watching the boy's tightly pressed lips and conflicted eyes, he softened his tone. "I won't force you. You have ten days to think it through. Ten days from now, I'll pass through Ink City on my way back from the capital. If you're willing then, come with me. If you still want to guard this shop..."
He stood, took a heavy cloth bag from inside his clothes, and set it on the large rock beside Qin Tiexin. Inside were fifty taels of fine silver in neatly arranged official ingots.
"This is your payment for repairing the saber."
Qin Tiexin sprang up as though scalded, seized the bag, and tried to push it back. "Lord Li, this is too much! Repairing that saber doesn't cost nearly this much! You supplied the materials too. I..."
"Keep it!" Li Zhenwei held his hand down, his strength light but impossible to resist. "That hand of yours is worth this much. The thought you put into it is worth even more."
Qin Tiexin resisted briefly but ultimately could not prevail. Lowering his head, he silently opened the bag, carefully took out one five-tael official ingot, then tied the bag closed and offered it back to Li Zhenwei.
"Lord Li." He raised his head, his eyes clear and stubborn. "Repairing this saber ruined three good iron billets I'd saved, took five days of working things out, burned three times my usual charcoal, and... cost me a hand. Even at the rates of Ink City's best smithy, adding all that up would be three taels at most. The materials were yours; I can't count them as my labor. These five taels are already too much. Please take the rest back."
Li Zhenwei looked at the bag being offered back, then at the lone ingot in the boy's palm. For a long while, he said nothing. The river breeze stirred a few gray-white strands of hair across his forehead.
"All right." But Li Zhenwei did not take the money bag. "Consider this an advance on your military pay. In ten days, I'll come for your answer."
He turned to leave, then stopped as though remembering something and looked back. "You needn't worry about the county office anymore. I'll have someone speak to them about the two-tael fine. They won't trouble your shop again."
With that, he stayed no longer, striding away with Commandant Sun and soon disappearing at the far end of the riverbank.
Qin Tiexin stood alone by the river, clutching the warm ingot, gazing at the waters rolling eastward without moving for a long time. The wound on his left hand throbbed, his new clothes felt soft and thick against his chest, and the warmth from the food still flowed through his stomach.
His master's face, the color of the forge fire, the saber's ringing as it severed the spear shaft, General Li's words, "It's a shame," and the red glow burning day and night in the Heavenly Craft Workshop across the street... countless images and sounds tumbled and collided in his mind.
Ten days.
He clenched his fist, then slowly released it. Carefully tucking the silver into his innermost pocket, he turned and walked back toward Soot Alley, step by step.
At the alley's mouth, Aunt Wang was peering about. Seeing him return, she quickly beckoned and lowered her voice. "Tiexin, just now, was that... oh my, what happened to your hand? And these new clothes..."
"It's nothing, Aunt Wang." Qin Tiexin forced a smile. "I repaired something for someone and earned a little money."
He returned to the shop, opened the door, and went inside. The stove had gone cold, and the anvil stood empty. He walked to the incense table holding his master's spirit tablet, lit three sticks of incense, and set them in place.
Then he went to the rice jar and lifted the lid. Only a thin layer of brown rice remained. After some thought, he took the ingot from inside his clothes, carefully wrapped it in oiled paper, and tucked it into the very bottom of the jar, covering it with rice.
Once that was done, he pulled over the little wooden stool, sat before the incense table, and stared blankly at the two characters for "Qin Feng" on the spirit tablet.
Sunlight shifted from the crack in the door to the window lattice, then from the lattice to the corner of the wall.
He did not move, only looked and thought.
Only when the sun slanted westward and the Heavenly Craft Workshop's hammering resumed across the alley, seeming somehow less confident, did he slowly stand and stretch his stiff body.
Going into the courtyard, he took off his new shirt and stood firmly in the increasingly biting dusk, wearing only his thin trousers.
Opening stance: Furnace Fire First Ignites.
He performed eight repetitions, extremely slowly and heavily. Sweat soon soaked his trousers, streaming down his bronze back and chest, their muscles sharply defined. His newly wounded left hand could exert no strength, so he adjusted his center of gravity, relying more on his waist, legs, and right arm.
The exhaustion remained, the weakness had not faded.
But this time, when he finished the form, stood still, and slowly exhaled, the flame deep in his eyes did not waver. Instead, it was as though the wind from the riverbank had blown through, parting a little of the mist to reveal harder, yet more bewildered layers of rock beneath.
He wiped away his sweat and looked toward the southern sky. That was the direction of Emerald Cloud Mountain, and also of the frontier General Li had spoken of.
Ten days.
He turned and went inside, lit the stove, rinsed the rice, and cooked every last grain from the bottom of the jar. Then he picked a small strip of dried meat from the oiled-paper package, tore it up, and dropped it into the porridge.
The stove fire lit his silent, sharply defined profile.
The night was still long. The road, too, seemed to have reached a fork.