The nineteenth day of the first lunar month, early morning.
Soot Alley awoke to an unusual silence.
Usually, even if the Qin Household shop had not opened at this hour, the "thunk, thunk" of chopping wood or the roar of a newly lit furnace could be heard from the backyard. Today, however, the old wooden doors were shut tight. Not a sliver of light or wisp of smoke escaped through the cracks. The silence set people's hearts on edge.
Quite a few people had already gathered outside several homes in the alley. Aunt Wang held a bowl of steaming vegetable congee, Uncle Li clutched two white-flour buns fresh from the steamer, and Tofu Xishi had wrapped several pieces of freshly set soft tofu in oiled paper. All of them craned their necks toward the Qin Household shop.
"What time is it already? Why hasn't that boy Tiexin stirred?" Aunt Wang lowered her voice, worry on her face. "That racket last night... heavens above, my husband and I were so frightened we didn't sleep a wink! We thought a thunderbolt had struck the alley!"
"You can say that again!" chimed in a peddler beside her, carrying his pole and baskets as he prepared to head out. "That noise sounded nothing like forging. It was like... like a mountain collapsing! It did quiet down in the second half of the night, but now it's too quiet..."
"When Master Qin was around, he often worked through the night to finish an order, but he never made such a commotion." Uncle Li frowned. "Tiexin's young. What if he's worked himself sick? Should we... call at the door?"
A stir passed through the crowd, and some looked eager to step forward and knock.
"Go on, disperse. Stop crowding around here." A voice came from behind them. It was Carpenter Zhang from next door, draped in an old padded jacket and looking as though he had just risen himself. "Little Qin's fine. He just wore himself out. He's probably catching up on sleep right now."
"Master Zhang, do you know what happened?" Aunt Wang hurriedly asked.
Carpenter Zhang smacked his lips, a trace of lingering fear and an indefinable admiration in his eyes. "Being right next door, I heard last night's racket clearer than anyone. Good heavens, those hammer blows... the first few shook dust right off my rafters! They got quieter afterward, but they never stopped, clanging away until the second half of the night. When I got up to relieve myself, I peeked through a crack in the wall. Well now, that furnace fire had turned half the sky red! That boy Little Qin... was forging something extraordinary."
He paused and lowered his voice. "Didn't he say a while back that he was leaving to join the army? I reckon he's making himself a weapon that suits his hands. He must be dead asleep from exhaustion now. Don't disturb him. Let him rest properly. Once he wakes up hungry, he'll come out on his own."
Everyone exchanged looks. Their worries eased a little, but their curiosity only grew. Something extraordinary? What could make such a terrifying racket when forged? Still, Carpenter Zhang had lived in the alley for decades and was an honest man. They trusted his word.
"Off you go, off you go. Get on with your business." Uncle Li waved a hand. "Let Tiexin sleep. Aunt Wang, take the congee home and keep it warm. Bring it over once he wakes."
The crowd gradually dispersed, everyone returning to their livelihoods, though none could help stealing a few extra glances at the tightly shut doors as they passed the Qin Household shop.
At the edge of the crowd, Zhao Ming waved his newly acquired sandalwood fan. His face was expressionless, but his eyes darted about. He had deliberately risen early today to see what exactly the shop opposite had been doing all night. After hearing Carpenter Zhang and the others, the last of his unease vanished, replaced by irrepressible smugness and excitement.
Joining the army? Making himself a weapon? He really has reached the end of the road and is getting out! All that racket last night was nothing but venting his resentment before leaving, or trying to make a good blade to sell! So what if he can make a loud noise? Just some country bumpkin's tricks and a bit of brute strength. Does he think he can overturn the heavens?
He could almost see Qin Tiexin leaving Ink City, bedraggled and carrying a tattered bundle; see himself acquiring the vacant shop cheaply, knocking through the wall and expanding, successfully securing approval for a second Divine Forging Furnace, and soaring up the Contribution Ranking... a Spirit Awakening Pill! A chance at immortality!
"Hmph." He gave a soft snort, hiding his smile behind his fan, then strolled back to his imposing Heavenly Craft Workshop. He quietly instructed the steward who came to meet him at the entrance, "Go prepare two hundred taels in silver. And find out exactly when that brat is leaving. The moment he's gone, we'll negotiate for the shop. This time... we offer only two hundred taels." He raised two fingers and shook them, a restrained smile of assured victory on his face. "Circumstances are stronger than men. This time, he doesn't get a say."
Qin Tiexin was dragged awake by a hunger that churned through his belly like overturned rivers and seas.
When he opened his eyes, his vision remained blurred for some time before coming into focus. He found himself sprawled on the cold bed boards, still wearing yesterday's clothes, which had been soaked in sweat and dried again, stiff and covered in ash. Sunlight slanted through cracks in the doors and holes in the window, forming several bright shafts in which countless motes of dust danced.
He moved his fingers. Every bone in his body felt as though it had been dismantled and pieced back together, aching and sore. His arms and shoulders were especially bad; the slightest movement brought a tearing pain. The wound in his left palm had split open again, its blood dried on the cloth strips. His throat was dry enough to smoke, and his mouth was full of the bitter taste of rust and ash.
But most unbearable was the hollowed-out, burning hunger in his stomach. This was no ordinary mealtime hunger, but a weakness and ravenous craving as though he had gone without food for three days and nights and could swallow an entire ox.
He struggled upright and shook his muddled head, his gaze instinctively going first to the wooden box in the corner-the one where the blade blank lay buried in fine sand to anneal.
The box sat quietly where it had been.
He breathed a sigh of relief, only then registering how wretched every part of him felt. Bracing himself against the wall, he slowly stood. Every step felt as though he were treading on cotton. He went to the water vat, picked up the gourd dipper, and scooped it full of cold water. He gulped down more than half in one go. The icy liquid slid down his burning throat into his empty stomach, making him shiver, but also clearing his head considerably.
He poured the remaining half-dipper straight over his head. Cold water streamed down his hair and cheeks, washing away some of the sweat and grime and refreshing him.
Hungry. Far too hungry.
He staggered to the stove and lifted the rice jar's lid. A little under half a jar of white rice remained, bought two days earlier. He scooped out a heaping great bowl-probably over a jin-and dumped it into the pot without even rinsing it, then added plenty of water. He also hacked nearly half a jin off the dried venison, chopped it into rough chunks, and threw them in. He would have to find a good chance to properly thank Hunter Zhao; this deer leg had kept him going all this time. With no vegetables on hand, he simply scattered in a large handful of salt.
Embers from last night still smoldered in the firebox. He added several pieces of dry wood and blew hard a few times, and flames soon sprang up.
Waiting for the congee to cook was especially agonizing. Leaning against the stove, he could clearly hear the rumbling in his belly, like muffled thunder. He forced himself to turn his attention elsewhere, walked over to the wooden box, and carefully brushed aside the top layer of fine sand.
The blade blank lay quietly within, completely cool now.
Holding his breath, Qin Tiexin lifted it out with both hands.
Its weight dragged his hands down at once! Prepared for it, he drove strength through his waist and legs and managed to hold it steady. This weight... it was certainly no less than the hundred and fifty jin he had expected! It was probably close to a hundred and seventy! Even cooled, the blade still held a faint, restrained warmth, almost like a living thing, rather than the chill of metal.
He examined it closely.
The shape of the entire saber had fully emerged. It was over six chi long, about one and a half meters, and more than a palm wide at its broadest point, immensely thick and heavy. But what surprised Qin Tiexin most was its color.
He had originally expected that, with so much iron essence added, the main body would be a deep iron-black, at most interspersed with the icy blue of cold scale iron and the gold-red patterns of phoenix beak copper. Yet the saber before him was an exceptionally deep, almost pure black throughout. It was not lacquer-black, but more like the densest curtain of night, or a lightless pool. At a glance, it seemed capable of drawing even his gaze inside, with almost none of metal's reflective gleam.
Only from very close up, at a particular angle under direct sunlight, could he faintly see that the blade's surface was not a lifeless expanse of black. Exceedingly subtle dark glimmers flowed slowly across it like ripples or starlight, occasionally threaded with an icy-blue or gold-red spark that vanished in an instant, mysterious and unfathomable.
This color... was clearly the dominant hue of that lump of black iron! During fusion, it had actually "stained," or rather "assimilated," most of the iron essence serving as its "flesh and blood" in an utterly domineering fashion, imbuing the entire saber, inside and out, with its own deep, weighty, light-devouring qualities.
Qin Tiexin gently ran his fingers over the blade. Rather than smooth, it had an extremely fine, uniform matte texture, like the finest black silk, or solidified night. Cold, yet carrying a strange trace of gentle warmth.
He gripped the rough section near the blade blank's "guard"-the guard and hilt had yet to be fitted-and tried to raise it horizontally with one arm.
"Ngh-!"
His arm muscles instantly tightened like iron, veins throbbing on his forehead. The blade slowly left the ground, and he finally managed to lift it level with his shoulder. After only a few breaths, his arm began trembling violently, soreness and numbness surging in like a tide. He hurriedly lowered the blank. Its heavy body met the ground with a dull thud, making the floor beneath his feet tremble slightly.
One hundred and sixty-five jin... perhaps more. Panting heavily, Qin Tiexin made his estimate. With his strength, around a hundred and fifty jin was the limit for wielding a weapon two-handed with both fighting power and flexibility. But he had made this saber for himself, and he would be starting with the basics in the army. He might not need it in battle immediately. Merely carrying it was a form of cultivation. Once his strength increased, or he found a better way to use it...
He shook his head. Now was not the time to think about that. The aroma of congee had already drifted over, mingling with the scent of meat and tugging at his stomach like a hook.
He ladled out a whole basin-an actual basin, the coarse earthenware kind ordinary households used for kneading dough. The congee was extremely thick, the rice grains almost dissolved and the meat stewed tender. Paying no heed to the heat, nor bothering to find a stool, he squatted beside the stove and shoveled great mouthfuls in with a large wooden spoon. The scalding congee made him hiss through his teeth, but the satisfaction of that substantial hot stream, fragrant with meat and rice starch, pouring into his stomach instantly overwhelmed every discomfort. Spoonful followed spoonful until sweat beaded on his forehead and warmth filled his body, like parched earth soaked by rain.
He swept through the entire basin of congee like wind scattering clouds, leaving it utterly clean and even scraping the sides spotless. Only with that solid weight in his belly did the murderous hunger recede, replaced by a full, swelling warmth and a renewed sense of strength. Though exhaustion remained, he could at least keep working.
After eating, he carefully washed his hands and face and changed into clean underclothes-still pulling the ash-covered old work clothes over them to avoid dirtying the new ones-then formally began the day's work: fitting the giant saber with a guard and hilt, and, most importantly, sharpening its edge.
He had long since planned the guard and hilt. The guard would be forged from a thick piece of wrought iron in a simple design: two curved wings bending slightly outward to either side, able to block attacks without interfering with a two-handed grip. For the hilt, he chose a length of old mountain sandalwood heartwood with a fine, tough grain. This wood was fairly heavy, absorbed sweat, resisted slipping, and felt solid in the hand. He spent nearly half a double-hour firmly forge-welding the guard to the blade's base, then carefully ground the joint until they formed a seamless whole. Next, he carefully fitted the mountain sandalwood hilt onto the tang, wound it tightly, turn after turn, with ox-sinew cord soaked in tung oil, cinched it down, and finally applied a coat of clear varnish.
With everything fitted, the saber reached an astonishing seven chi and seven cun in length. Qin Tiexin grasped the sinew-wrapped hilt with both hands, sank into a horse stance, and tried lifting it. This time, with the hilt's leverage, it felt somewhat easier than supporting the blank, but remained frighteningly heavy. He attempted a few simple lifting, upward-slashing, and blocking movements. The blade cut through the air with a deep, resonant rush. Its center of gravity lay roughly a palm's width ahead of the guard-perfect for a heavy two-handed weapon, ensuring powerful chops while leaving room for control and variation.
What a fine saber blank! Qin Tiexin could not help praising it inwardly. Though absurdly heavy, its dense solidity, its stability as though joined to the earth, and the faint momentum of wind and thunder it stirred when swung filled him with anticipation for this giant blade he had forged himself from wondrous materials.
Next came sharpening.
He brought over the heavy treadle grindstone and prepared five or six whetstones of differing grades, from coarse to fine. When sharpening swords and sabers, he usually ground out the rough bevel first on the wheel, then honed the cutting edge with whetstones. Given this saber's thickness and weight, he intended to bevel only one side and use a broader edge angle to ensure sufficient strength, but the cutting edge had to be sharp enough.
He poured water over the grindstone and worked the treadle, sending the wheel whirring. Holding the giant saber steadily in both hands, Qin Tiexin carefully brought the bevel near the blade's tip against the spinning stone.
"Hiss-!"
The expected piercing screech of metal being ground away never came. Only a fine spray of dull-colored sparks burst from the point of contact, with a sound more like hard stones rubbing together.
Qin Tiexin froze, then applied more force.
"Hiss, hiss, hiss..." There were a few more sparks, but the wheel's rotation was visibly impeded, becoming sluggish. He stopped pedaling, lifted the saber, and leaned closer to inspect the spot he had ground.
Only an extremely faint, almost invisible gray-white scuff remained on the black blade. Running a finger over it, he found it barely any rougher. The grindstone's surface, on the other hand, had lost a layer of fine powder.
"This hard?" Qin Tiexin frowned. He had known the blade would be exceptionally hard after fusing with the black iron, but had not expected even the grindstone to struggle with it. He switched to his coarsest, hardest corundum whetstone, wet it, and began grinding by hand.
"Shhh... shhh... shhh..."
The whetstone rubbed back and forth across the blade with a dull sound. Qin Tiexin concentrated fully, applying steady pressure with his arms. After grinding for a full incense stick's worth of time, he stopped to check.
The marks on the blade were indeed a tiny bit deeper, but they were still a hundred and eight thousand li from becoming a sharp edge. At this rate, sharpening the entire seven-chi giant saber would take until the year of the monkey and the month of the horse. Moreover, he keenly sensed that the whetstone was wearing away far faster than the blade.
"Something's wrong..." He set down the whetstone and carefully felt the shallow scuffs with his fingers, concentrating as he tried to activate [Appraisal] to sense the blade's condition when it touched the stone.
An extremely vague, faint, yet genuinely present "emotion," or perhaps "inclination," reached him through his fingertips.
It was neither resistance nor pain. It was more like... stinginess? Reluctance? Like a miser clutching his purse, absolutely refusing to let anyone take the slightest bit, even if it held only copper coins he had no immediate use for.
The black iron "eating" iron essence earlier, and that sensation of "hunger," suddenly flashed through Qin Tiexin's mind.
An absurd thought arose, yet it seemed the only reasonable one: This saber... does it regard all that fused iron essence as its "food" or "property"? Even though it's "full" now, it still won't let anyone scrape the tiniest bit of "flesh" from it? Not even to sharpen its edge?
Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, he looked at the giant saber before him, black from end to end and massive as a mountain. He had poured his heart into it, fused rare treasures, and forged a saber blank seldom seen in the world, only to find that its own "stinginess" kept him from even sharpening it?
What kind of saber had no edge? Was he supposed to smash people with the blunt point naturally formed during forging and its sheer weight? How was that different from carrying an iron bar?
He tried swinging it at a nearby wooden post. The heavy blade struck with a vicious rush of wind. With a crack, the post broke, its broken surface forcibly smashed apart rather than cut. Its power was certainly terrifying, but this was not how a saber should be at all.
Leaning on the saber, Qin Tiexin remained silent for a long time.
Finally, he let out a long breath. The helplessness in his eyes gradually became a resigned calm, even tinged with self-mockery.
He reached out and once more stroked the dark, lightless blade, beneath which hidden currents faintly flowed.
"You won't let me sharpen you, is that it?" he said quietly, as though discussing it with the saber. "Fine, then. Weight is your talent, hardness is your temper. Without a sharp edge, we'll crush people with your heft and ram them with these hard bones."
He paused, looking at the almost nonexistent grinding marks on the blade.
"Since you don't even want an edge, I'll call you..."
He recalled his master saying that the finest saber was not the sharpest, but the most suitable. He also recalled everything he had experienced these past days: hardship, struggle, perseverance, choices... perhaps he did not need to bare such a sharp edge. Silently, heavily, continuing down the road was also a way.
"Edgeless."
He settled on a name for this strange, heavy saber.
An unsharpened saber. Edgeless.
Perhaps it also foreshadowed the road he was about to take, one that might not require so much sharpness, but demanded greater resilience and strength.
He carefully stood Edgeless against the wall. Its black blade almost merged with the wall's shadows, utterly inconspicuous. Only up close could one sense its silent, domineering presence.
Once all this was done, exhaustion surged over him again like a tide. But he could not rest yet. He took stock of his prepared luggage, checking his leather armor, boots, dry rations, and medicines. Then he took out the three-odd taels of silver, wrapped them carefully, and tucked them into the deepest part of his pack. Finally, he went to the incense table bearing his master's memorial tablet and stood quietly for a while.
Tomorrow, General Li should be coming.
He took one last look at the shop where he had lived for sixteen years, filled with the warmth of furnace fires, the smell of rust, and his master's presence, then blew out the oil lamp.
Night swallowed Soot Alley completely.