The road ahead

Early the next morning, Qin Tiexin tucked the five-tael silver ingot into his clothes and went out.

He did not go straight to the rice shop, nor did he go to buy charcoal. Instead, he headed directly toward the county yamen. His new cotton shoes made little sound on the bluestone paving, while his broad-shouldered figure looked rather silent in the morning mist. As he passed the Heavenly Craft Workshop, its vermilion gates had yet to open. Only the wooden sign reading "Grand sale-10% off" stood forlornly outside, its red paper dampened by the night's moisture, its corners drooping.

The runner on duty at the yamen gates was an unfamiliar young fellow. Holding his staff, he was yawning when Qin Tiexin approached. He looked him up and down and, seeing that his new clothes could not hide the rough bearing of a blacksmith, asked lazily, "What are you here for? Turn left to file a complaint. If you're looking for someone, give me a name."

"Officer." Qin Tiexin stopped and took a small cloth pouch from his clothes. Inside were two taels of silver pieces he had carefully weighed and divided out last night, along with a few strings of loose copper coins to make up the remainder. "I'm Qin Tiexin of the Qin Household Blacksmith Shop in Soot Alley. I've come to pay my fine."

The young runner paused, took the pouch, and hefted it, then gave Qin Tiexin a suspicious look. "You're that... young blacksmith who got fined a while back?" He had clearly heard about it. His eyes shifted, and he lowered his voice. "Look, didn't you know? Someone higher up has put in a word. Your fine... has been waived. Take it back. Don't go making trouble for yourself."

Qin Tiexin shook his head and did not take the pouch being offered back. "The yamen imposed the fine. I did something wrong, so I should pay it. Whoever put in a word has nothing to do with that."

The runner stared at him for a long while, as though he had never encountered anyone like him before, then scratched his head. "You really... fine. Wait here. I'll ask the head constable." He turned and went through the side entrance.

Before long, a head constable in his forties with a short mustache came hurrying out. He was the very man who had gone to Soot Alley to announce the fine that day. His expression grew complicated at the sight of Qin Tiexin. Waving the young runner farther away, he approached and said quietly, "Young Brother Qin, Lord Li really did leave instructions. Take your silver back. Just go about your business in peace from now on."

Qin Tiexin gave the same answer. His voice was not loud, but it landed like a lump of iron striking the ground. "Head constable, I cut down trees on the mountain and cremated my master. The law sets a fine of two taels for that. I accept the punishment."

His stubbornness left the head constable momentarily speechless. His brows furrowed, then relaxed, and he finally sighed. "Fine, that temper of yours... come with me. The revenue clerk hasn't reported for duty yet. I'll take you straight to Lord Wang."

County Magistrate Wang Mingyuan had just finished breakfast and was reviewing the day's official documents in the rear hall. He, too, paused when the head constable reported that Qin Tiexin insisted on paying his fine. He set down his teacup and considered for a moment. "Bring him in."

Qin Tiexin was led into the hall. It was his first time entering the yamen's rear hall. It was much smaller than the courtroom out front, but elegant, with several paintings and pieces of calligraphy hanging on the walls and charcoal burning warmly in a stove. Copying the way he had seen others salute, he cupped his fists. "This commoner, Qin Tiexin, pays his respects, my lord."

Wang Mingyuan studied him. The youth stood straight, his new clothes doing little to conceal his sturdy frame. His face showed little expression, but his eyes were exceptionally clear. His left hand was still bandaged, the exposed fingers thick, their joints covered in heavy calluses. He certainly did not look like someone given to scheming or currying favor.

"Commandant Li has spoken to me. Your fine can indeed be waived," Wang Mingyuan said slowly. "Why do you insist on paying it?"

Qin Tiexin raised his head. "My lord, the law clearly states that cutting mountain timber without permission and lighting unauthorized fires in the wild carry a fine. I did it, so I should accept it. Lord Li spoke on my behalf out of kindness and righteousness. But I can't pretend it never happened just because someone did me a favor." He paused, then added, "My master taught me that for a blacksmith, every hammer blow counts. A mistake is a mistake. You have to own up to it."

Wang Mingyuan said nothing for a long while, his fingers tapping lightly against the smooth rosewood armrest. He had been county magistrate for seven or eight years and had seen all sorts of people: those desperate to pay less tax, those finding every possible loophole in the law, and those hoping to escape punishment through a little backing. This was his first time seeing someone like the youth before him, who insisted on trudging through the mud even after someone had offered him a ladder.

Alongside his surprise, those thoughts stirred something he could not quite name. After so long in officialdom, he had grown accustomed to slick maneuvering and calculation. Such almost pedantically upright insistence on "owning up" was like a stone dropped into muddy water, clearly visible.

"Good." Wang Mingyuan finally nodded and told the head constable beside him, "Take him to the revenue office. Follow the proper procedures, accept the fine, and issue a receipt." He looked back at Qin Tiexin, his tone softening somewhat. "Commandant Li's regard for you is your good fortune. Do your work properly from now on, and do not offend again. You may go."

"Thank you, my lord." Qin Tiexin cupped his fists again and followed the head constable out.

After paying the silver and receiving the thin paper receipt stamped with the scarlet official seal, Qin Tiexin carefully folded it and tucked it into his clothes. By the time he left the yamen, the sun was high and the streets had grown lively. He touched the remaining three taels in his clothes and first went to the rice shop, buying fifty jin of fine white rice and twenty jin of mixed grains. Then he went to the butcher's for five jin of pork belly marbled with fat and bought some oil, salt, soy sauce, and vinegar. Passing the firewood market, he hesitated, but bought nothing in the end-the dead branches on Emerald Cloud Mountain would last him a while yet. He would save what he could.

Back at the shop, he put everything away, cooked a large pot brimming with white rice, and cut up half a jin of pork to stew with cabbage in a large bowl. The long-missed, pure fragrance of rice and substantial chunks of meat made him eat until sweat beaded on his forehead. Only after four large bowls did he set down his chopsticks. The heavy satisfaction in his stomach dispelled much of the fatigue of the past days.

With a full stomach came strength. As usual, he began his daily forging and Void Realm practice. His state of mind, however, was different from before.

Over the following days, life seemed to return to its old course, yet also seemed somewhat different.

The story of General Li testing a saber and severing a spear swept through Ink City's streets and alleys like a gust of wind. People embellished it as they passed it on: how the Heavenly Craft Workshop's "pride of the shop" had been sliced through like tofu by a battered military saber; how extraordinary the middle-aged saber wielder's bearing had been; and how that half-grown blacksmith boy from the Qin household had quietly repaired that divine saber.

That reputation did bring some changes.

Those who came to Qin Tiexin were no longer merely neighbors needing spatulas and kitchen knives repaired. Occasionally, a better-dressed customer would arrive carefully carrying a long box wrapped in silk. Once opened, it usually revealed a well-maintained but visibly old sword or waist saber. Its owner would talk at length about how it had been passed down through the family, or had been a beloved possession of some elder. Now it had rusted a little, or its edge had a chip the size of a millet grain. Unwilling to subject it to those "machines" at the Heavenly Craft Workshop, they had heard of young Master Qin's fine craftsmanship and come especially for meticulous maintenance.

Whenever Qin Tiexin accepted such work, he first washed his hands, respectfully laid the blade on the anvil, and examined it carefully for the time it took an incense stick to burn. Only after asking about the owner's habits of use and expectations did he name a price. That price often surprised his customers with how low it was.

"Master Qin, isn't this... a little too little?" An elderly man in a silk robe could not help asking after watching his ancestral sword carefully cleaned, reground, and oiled until it looked new again. Qin Tiexin's price was less than thirty percent of what the Heavenly Craft Workshop charged to grind a new blade.

"It's enough." Qin Tiexin wiped away the last trace of oil with a clean, soft cloth. "I used two qian of fine whetstone, half a tael of lamp oil, and four hours of labor. At market rates, this is what I should charge."

He insisted on charging only for materials and the most basic labor, refusing to take more. Feeling uncomfortable, those customers sometimes pressed a few extra coins on him or brought pastries and other food. When he could not refuse, Qin Tiexin accepted them, but if that customer returned, he invariably deducted the corresponding amount from his labor charge.

His reason was simple. "Master said a craftsman's prices should be fair. Charge what you should. Taking more leaves an uneasy heart."

As those words spread, they left some old-fashioned and nostalgic people with the impression that he was "honest" and "had the integrity of an old-school craftsman." In today's Ink City, however, such people were ultimately not very numerous.

Most ordinary folk counted their coppers carefully to get by. The Heavenly Craft Workshop sold kitchen knives for twenty-eight wen. Even if Qin Tiexin charged only twenty wen for labor, the cost of good iron meant that his simplest kitchen knife had to sell for more than forty wen. It did not look as shiny as theirs, either, and delivery took much longer. The choice went without saying.

Thus, business at the shop did not fundamentally improve. A high-end maintenance job came only once every three to five days, providing meager, unstable income. Ordinary repairs and forging of farm tools remained scarce. The hammering and sales calls from across the street still began punctually every day, and that red glow still shone across every night.

Qin Tiexin, however, did not seem particularly anxious. His daily routine remained regular: body tempering, rough-forging iron, studying in the Void Realm, and taking scattered jobs. With those three taels as a cushion, along with the occasional income from maintaining blades, he no longer had to measure the depth of his rice jar every day, nor subsist on mixed-grain cakes and watery soup at every meal. Two solid meals of rice a day, with a little meat now and then, made a world of difference to his still-growing body and its enormous demands. He could feel his strength returning slowly but steadily. The alarming trembling and dizziness during body tempering had also eased considerably.

Yet late at night, when all was quiet, he would sit beside the anvil, looking at those glowing red windows across the street and listening to the ceaseless, rhythmic clanging. The uncertainty in his heart had not diminished.

General Li's words had fallen into his heart like seeds, sprouting now and then to prick him.

"A lifetime of kitchen knives and hoes..." "Put your craft where the blade meets the edge..." "Furnaces like these all across the world..."

And there were his master's clouded yet clear eyes before his death, and those words: "The shop is yours. Don't lose the craft."

Two roads emerged dimly in the darkness, neither with an end he could clearly see.

That night, a cold rain began to patter down.

As usual, Qin Tiexin sat cross-legged on the edge of his plank bed, calming his mind and focusing in preparation to enter the "Virtual Realm · Forging Hall." Several days of adequate food and rest had left him much more refreshed than before, and he entered the Void Realm somewhat faster.

Just as his consciousness was about to sink into that vast hall-

The black ring on his right index finger suddenly became scorching hot again! This time, the heat was not fierce, but it was exceptionally distinct and persistent, like a fine, red-hot needle slowly piercing his finger bone.

Immediately afterward, the [Illustrated Catalog of Ten Thousand Artifacts], which had already become pale-gold patterns at the edge of his consciousness, suddenly blazed with light! The dark-gold phantom scroll unfurled thunderously before his "eyes," clearer and more substantial than ever before!

At the top of the scroll, the four ancient characters for "Illustrated Catalog of Ten Thousand Artifacts" seemed to ignite anew, flowing with an intertwined sheen of dark gold and crimson. Below, the area that had previously held only the initial quest prompt seemed to have its dust brushed away by an invisible hand, revealing a vast expanse of new, densely packed ancient characters and phantom images of strange diagrams.

At the same time, the immense stream of information was no longer a vague impression, but became clearly legible words and images, branded directly into his mind:

[Initial quest: restoration of the 'artifact containing Intent' complete.]

[Quest status: success.]

[Core 'Intent' retention: high.]

[Distributing rewards...]

Qin Tiexin felt a slight swelling between his brows, as though something had opened a tiny doorway there. Then two entirely different yet closely related sets of "perception" and "knowledge" poured into him at once, like a cool stream and a warm spring.

One concerned the [Appraisal] ability. He suddenly "understood" that by concentrating on an artifact-seemingly limited at present to metal weapons and tools-he could naturally "see" or "sense" information invisible to the naked eye: the approximate composition and uniformity of its materials, whether hidden cracks or stress concentrations existed inside it, the rough outline of the forging methods used, and... whether it contained extremely faint remnants of "Intent," like General Li's saber. This perception was still vague and intermittent, like looking through frosted glass, but it unquestionably existed.

The other concerned an increase in his access to the [Virtual Realm · Forging Hall]. His original daily trial time of two hours had increased to four hours in real-world time. Beside the bronze forge at the center of the hall, an area previously shrouded in mist had also faintly emerged. It seemed connected to "hands-on practice."

Before he could examine these changes closely, the light on the scroll changed again!

A line of enormous characters slowly appeared at the scroll's center, even more ancient and forceful, and carrying something of metal's grim, murderous air. Every stroke seemed carved with blades:

[Main quest: A Hundred Weapons Return to the Source]

Below the characters, detailed instructions appeared one after another, like an unfurling painting:

[Quest description: the Dao of artifacts begins with form and returns to Intent. Only through studying a thousand artifacts may one understand the wonders of creation. Travel the world and, through the eyes of [Appraisal], record the forms, forging essences, and battle-scar imprints of all manner of weapons.]

[Stage objective one: Foundation of Mortal Iron]

For every ten distinct weapon types recorded within a single category (such as ring-pommel sabers, straight sabers, willow-leaf sabers, and long-handled sabers within the saber category), unlock the corresponding weapon category's "basic form archive," containing knowledge of its standard forms, superior and inferior variants, fundamental forging principles, and more.

Progress: sabers (2/10), swords (1/10), spears and lances (0/10), heavy weapons (0/10)...

[Stage objective two: A Thousand Hammerings and a Hundred Refinements]

Record ten different major weapon categories (such as sabers, swords, spears, bows, crossbows, axes, hammers, whips, swordbreakers, and halberds) to unlock "Core forging principles (mortal iron volume)," an in-depth explanation of advanced techniques involving repeated refinement of mortal iron, balancing hardness and flexibility, and directing force along the grain.

Progress: major categories recorded (0/10)

[Stage objective three: First Glimpse of a Hundred Weapons]

Record twenty different major weapon categories (encompassing mainstream, unusual, rare, and even lost weapons) to obtain the exclusive title [First Glimpse of a Hundred Weapons]. Permanently unlock the passive ability [Weapon Weakness Insight (basic)]-intuitively perceive structural weak points and flaws under stress in the vast majority of weapons forged from mortal iron.

Progress: major categories recorded (0/20)

[Recording methods: carefully examine physical weapons with [Appraisal], or come into contact with media containing their complete information, such as 'artifact-pattern rubbings' and 'forging insights.' The completeness of a record depends on the depth of observation and the amount of information contained in the medium.]

[Notice: this is the beginning of the great Dao of artifact forging. A journey of ten thousand miles begins beneath your feet.]

The stream of information stopped.

Qin Tiexin's consciousness returned to his body. He was still sitting on the cold plank bed. The rain outside sounded clear in his ears, and the embers in the furnace gave off their last dark-red glow. But his heart struck heavily and powerfully against his chest, making his eardrums hum.

A Hundred Weapons Return to the Source... record weapons... form archive... Weakness Insight...

Those words struck his heart one by one, stirring not confusion, but an unprecedented, utterly clear chill.

He looked around his narrow, deserted shop with its crude tools. How many kinds of weapons could he see here? Nothing more than the neighbors' kitchen knives, hunters' woodcutting blades, and the occasional old sword brought in for maintenance. He might see three to five different saber forms, and only one or two sword types. Spears? Lances? Axes? Broad-axes? Whips? Swordbreakers? Halberds? Where could he "record" those things that appeared only in storytellers' tales, on martial school signs, or on distant battlefields?

General Li's saber counted as one. Hunter Zhao's woodcutting blade probably counted as another? And there was the old sword he had maintained a few days ago... that was everything he had.

Ten entire weapon categories?

Was that possible, staying in Ink City, keeping to this shop?

The answer poured down like cold quenching water, icy but sobering.

He remembered General Li's words: "...a waste, holing up in this alley making kitchen knives." "On the battlefield, a blade a fraction keener, a fraction harder, can save another life and kill another enemy. The merit earned there is the most tangible."

At the time, he had understood only the first part, his promise to his master still lodged in his heart. But now, the Illustrated Catalog of Ten Thousand Artifacts' mercilessly clear "main quest" was like another hammer, smashing his lingering hesitation and wishful thinking to pieces.

If he wanted to truly step onto the "great Dao of artifact forging" indicated by the ring his master had left him, to understand the meaning behind names such as "Hundred Refinements Sect" and "Ouye," and to do justice to this fortuitous opportunity... he could not remain trapped here.

The army. The craftsmen's camp. The border.

There were soldiers drilling there, captured weapons, weapons of every form from every corner of the world, wear and tear, repairs, and a need for forging. More importantly, there were people like General Li, who recognized quality and were willing to give him a chance.

[Weapon Weakness Insight (basic)]-the description of that ability made his breath briefly catch. Intuitively perceive weak points? What would that mean on the battlefield? It meant he could find flaws in an enemy's weapon faster, and that he could better forge and repair sharp weapons for his own side.

Wasn't that precisely what General Li meant by "put your craft where the blade meets the edge"?

The rain gradually stopped. Water dripping from the eaves sounded exceptionally clear in the quiet night, drop by drop, as though counting the hours.

Qin Tiexin slowly stood and walked to the incense altar. His master's memorial tablet stood quietly there. He lit three sticks of incense and inserted them into the small bronze burner filled with ash.

Wisps of smoke rose, blurring the name "Qin Feng" on the tablet.

"Master," he began softly, his voice sounding very faint in the empty shop, "you told me to keep the shop and not lose the craft. I... may not be able to hold on to this building."

He paused, as though gathering courage, or perhaps arranging his words:

"But I promise you, I will never lose the craft. Not only that, I'll hone it until it's better, until I can repair the hardest saber in the world to repair and forge the sharpest sword under heaven."

"General Li was right. Here, I can only make kitchen knives. But in my heart... I don't want to make only kitchen knives. I want to see just how far this craft you left me can go. I want to understand what this ring and this catalog are hiding."

"The shop... I'll find a way to keep it. Even if I'm not here, it will still bear the Qin name. Once I've made something of myself and have the means, I'll come back and raise it up again, make it brighter than it was even when you were here."

The incense burned quietly. No answer came.

But Qin Tiexin felt that the stone which had weighed on his heart for so long seemed to have loosened a little. It had not been moved away; rather, he had found a fulcrum with which to pry it up.

He turned, walked to the anvil, and reached out with his right hand to grasp the hammer that had accompanied him for years, its handle darkened by sweat. Its cold touch passed into his palm, so familiar, so reassuring.

Seven days left.

He tightened his grip on the handle and looked toward the pitch-black night sky outside. In the distance came the faint sound of a rooster trying its crow, hoarse, yet carrying a force that pierced the curtain of night.

The air after the rain was cool as it entered his lungs.

The road ahead remained indistinct, but the direction beneath his feet seemed a little clearer.