After Zhou Cang threw out those words, the already scorching air in the shed seemed to grow a little more stagnant.
Qin Tiexin stood in the doorway, firelight dancing across his young but largely expressionless face. He neither backed down nor grew angry at that blunt "go back where you came from." Still holding his hands clasped in salute, he repeated evenly:
"Master Zhou, Clerk Wang assigned me to Third Section, Seventh Group as your assistant. If you don't want me, you'll have to speak to Clerk Wang first and have him send me somewhere else."
His words were reasonable and grounded, neither servile nor overbearing. He looked at Zhou Cang with clear eyes, neither challenging nor pleading.
The tongs in Zhou Cang's hand stopped in midair. He slowly turned, facing Qin Tiexin fully this time to size him up. Those sharp eyes narrowed further, scraping like knives over Qin Tiexin's face, neck, shoulders, and arms before finally settling on his large-knuckled hands, covered in calluses old and new. Only after studying him for a long while did he snort:
"Baldy Wang only ever dumps pretty but useless goods on me. Those last few-did any of them last three days before running off bawling for their parents? With that tender skin of yours, you're here to collect an easy military wage, aren't you?" His voice dripped sarcasm. "The Craftsmen's Camp is no place for an embroidered pillow. There's still time to get lost."
Qin Tiexin did not take the bait. He had already seen that Master Zhou had an eccentric temper and a venomous tongue; talking alone would accomplish nothing. Saying no more, he walked into the shed on his own, carefully set the enormous bundle on his back on a reasonably dry patch of ground in the corner, then unfastened the Edgeless Saber wrapped in coarse cloth.
The Edgeless Saber was simply too heavy. Even though he moved gently, it still landed with a dull thud, and the ground seemed to tremble slightly, rattling several small iron pieces on a nearby wooden stump.
Zhou Cang had just lifted his wine gourd for another swig. The noise startled his hand into shaking, spilling a few drops that stung him into a muttered curse. He whipped his head around, his gaze shooting like lightning toward the long cloth-wrapped bundle beside Qin Tiexin's feet.
"What is that?!" His tone was hostile. Setting down his wine gourd, he limped over, moving none too slowly.
Qin Tiexin did not stop him, only watched him approach. Zhou Cang bent down and reached out with his large hand, covered in burns and calluses, black ash packed beneath its nails. He seized a corner of the coarse cloth and yanked.
The dark, lusterless blade of the Edgeless Saber emerged, thick and weighty. The firelight falling upon it was almost entirely swallowed, leaving only the faintest gleam along the strange interwoven patterns of dark blue and crimson. The blade was broad, its ancient, simple design carrying an indescribable ferocity.
Zhou Cang's gaze changed instantly. His impatience and mockery vanished without a trace, replaced by the keen gleam found only in a craftsman's eyes upon seeing rare, fine iron. He extended two fingers and brushed the blade very lightly, feeling its fine, frosted texture and contained warmth. Then he tapped it gently with his knuckles and tilted his head to listen to the almost inaudible, extraordinarily deep and solid resonance.
"Well, now..." he murmured. Raising his head, he reassessed Qin Tiexin with a complicated look. "Where did you get this? This weight... this texture... Your family's got money, boy? Which master did you hire to forge it? This workmanship isn't something an ordinary craftsman could manage."
Qin Tiexin shook his head and answered honestly, "I didn't buy it. I forged it myself."
Zhou Cang's expression froze for an instant. Then, as though he had heard the greatest joke in the world, his lips pulled into an exceedingly ugly curve, his eyes brimming with undisguised doubt and ridicule. "You? Forged it yourself?" He looked Qin Tiexin up and down. He admitted that the youth was unusually tall and strong, clearly fine stock for someone who had spent years forging iron, but to say he could forge a saber like this, one plainly incorporating unique materials and extraordinary craftsmanship? In his thirty-odd years in the Craftsmen's Camp, what demons and monsters hadn't he seen? The boy couldn't even draft his lies before boasting!
"Fine. You forged it." Zhou Cang's tone turned cold again, even tinged with disgust. "Young in years, big in boasts, and you've already learned to lie with your eyes wide open. My little temple can't accommodate a great Buddha like you who can forge divine weapons himself. Take your precious treasure and go wherever you belong."
Qin Tiexin frowned slightly. He knew the saber's appearance and weight were unusual, so Zhou Cang's disbelief was understandable. But he could not be bothered wasting more words arguing about it. Some things were better proven through action than words.
His gaze passed Zhou Cang and settled on the small mountain of broken, twisted weapons outside the shed. Broken spears, cracked armor, rolled-edged sabers, chipped axes... all were military equipment urgently awaiting repair. His fingers rubbed together unconsciously, a habit formed through years of gripping a hammer. Seeing these damaged iron implements was like a man who had starved for three days seeing a table of food. His hands itched, and so did his heart.
More importantly, the Illustrated Catalog of Ten Thousand Artifacts needed to record different weapon forms. Though these wrecked weapons were damaged, their forms varied, making this a fine opportunity. When he first saw the pile, he had tried concentrating to "sense" them, but the catalog had not reacted at all. Apparently, it either required intact objects or at least objects repaired to a certain degree before recording could be triggered.
He could not waste any more time.
Ignoring Zhou Cang's mockery and attempts to drive him away, he strode toward the pile outside. At a glance, he picked out a standard-issue spear snapped in two at the middle, its head still attached to half the shaft, the jagged break stained black and red. He bent down and reached for it.
His hand had just touched the cold shaft-
Smack!
A rough, powerful hand with bulging veins slapped hard against his wrist. It was Zhou Cang.
"Who said you could touch that?!" Anger filled Zhou Cang's voice, his sharp eyes fixed on Qin Tiexin. "These all have to be repaired and sent to the front! Could you afford to pay if you ruined them? Or do you think that mouth of yours can blow them whole again?"
Qin Tiexin withdrew his hand and looked at Zhou Cang, his tone still calm. "Master Zhou, I can repair them. Let me try."
"Try? With what? That divine saber you 'forged yourself'?" Zhou Cang sneered, snatching up the broken spear and cradling it against his chest as though protecting a treasure, though it was only an ordinary piece of damaged military equipment. "Listen, boy. I don't care whose connections got you shoved in here, or how many flowers you make rain from the heavens with your boasting. Here, mule or horse, you have to be led out for a run. If all you can do is flap your lips, get lost now!"
Seeing Zhou Cang's impervious, disbelieving expression, Qin Tiexin knew that unless he produced something tangible today, he would not be touching a single iron implement here. The anger kindled by being repeatedly doubted and driven away slowly rose within him, but he forced it down, only his jaw tightening a little.
"What sort of run would you like, Master Zhou?" he asked, his voice betraying no emotion.
At Qin Tiexin's air of a dead pig unafraid of boiling water, Zhou Cang grew so angry that he laughed. His eyes shifted, and an idea suddenly came to him. Carrying the broken spear, he limped back into the shed, picked up the still-warm standard-issue saber he had just finished forging, and tossed it to the ground at Qin Tiexin's feet with a clang.
Then he went to the very back of the shed, where a small pile of dull, rough-surfaced iron stock lay, with obvious pits and impurities visible in it. One look showed that it was the poorest scrap or slag iron from failed smelting. He kicked the pile of inferior iron and lifted his chin at Qin Tiexin:
"See that? That pile of stock, and this saber." He pointed to the saber on the ground. "You have five days. Use that rubbish to forge me ten standard-issue sabers exactly like this one, with edges that won't roll when they chop hardwood. Forge them, and you stay. You can tinker with all these broken things however you like. Fail, or forge even one saber that doesn't pass muster..."
He paused, his gaze icy. "Pack your things yourself and get the hell back where you came from. I don't keep useless trash here, much less liars whose mouths run wild."
Five days, ten sabers, and using the worst iron stock at that. The demand would have been harsh even for an experienced blacksmith, let alone a newcomer already branded a "boaster." This was plainly deliberate obstruction, meant to make him retreat before the difficulty.
Only the crackling of the furnace filled the shed. Faint forging sounds drifted over from the other sheds in the distance.
Qin Tiexin lowered his head to examine the standard-issue saber on the ground. Its form was standard, but its materials and craftsmanship could only be called "usable." Then he looked at the dusty pile of inferior iron in the corner. After a few breaths of silence, he raised his head and looked at Zhou Cang.
"Fine."
Just one word. No bargaining, no complaints, not even any further questions.
Zhou Cang was taken aback, not expecting him to agree so readily. He watched Qin Tiexin bend down, pick up the saber, weigh it in his hand, and carefully examine its edge and the patterns on its blade. Then Qin Tiexin walked to the pile of inferior iron, crouched, picked up a piece, rubbed it in his hand, and held its broken surface toward the firelight.
His movements were practiced, his gaze intent-the very image of an old craftsman examining stock.
Zhou Cang's conviction that this boy must be putting on an act wavered slightly. But he quickly reaffirmed his judgment: Anyone can examine stock. Forging it is what shows real skill!
"What about tools?" Qin Tiexin stood after examining several pieces. "A hammer, tongs, an anvil, and a furnace. Which do I use?"
Zhou Cang pointed toward an old furnace in the corner, thick with dust and seemingly long unused, and a set of equally rust-covered tools. "There. Some short-lived fellow used them before. He's gone; the things are still here. Clean them up yourself."
The furnace was clearly a size smaller than the one Zhou Cang was using, with poor ventilation, and the tools were all worn out. Even the hammer handle was nearly rotten. This was yet another obstacle.
Qin Tiexin said nothing and went over to begin cleaning. First he found a rag, dampened it with a little water, and carefully wiped away the accumulated ash and rust inside and outside the furnace chamber. He checked the bellows next. The leather bag was somewhat damaged but still usable. Then he cleared the rust from the anvil, polished the hammerhead, and searched for usable tongs. He worked slowly but with utmost care, neglecting nothing, as though handling a delicate work of art rather than a set of worn-out tools.
Zhou Cang merely folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe, watching him work with cold eyes. From time to time, he lifted his wine gourd for a swig, saying nothing.
By the time Qin Tiexin had gotten the tools into some semblance of order, it was completely dark outside. The shed relied entirely on the furnace for its dim light. The forging sounds from the other sheds had thinned as the craftsmen finished work one after another.
Qin Tiexin straightened and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Cleaning these things was more tiring than forging, and his hands were covered in black ash and rust. He glanced at Zhou Cang. "Master Zhou, where are the quarters? And the mess hall..."
Only then did Zhou Cang seem to remember something. He waved impatiently. "Turn right outside and go to the end. Those adobe houses are the Craftsmen's Camp quarters. Find an empty one yourself. The mess hall..." He glanced at Qin Tiexin's tall frame. "Go back the way you came, past the clerk's shed and farther on. It's the big smoking shed. Probably nothing much left by now, though."
Qin Tiexin nodded, not taking issue with the dislike in his tone. He went to the corner where he had left his bundle and took out an oiled-paper packet containing his remaining hard flatbreads and dried meat-the provisions he had not finished on the road. Picking up his waterskin, which held little water now, he glanced again at the inferior iron and the tools and furnace he had just cleaned. A rough plan formed in his mind.
"I'll be here first thing tomorrow," he told Zhou Cang. Without waiting to see whether he responded, he shouldered his bundle, picked up the Edgeless Saber, and left the shed.
Zhou Cang watched his tall, steady figure disappear into the night, then looked at the inferior iron and cleaned old tools in the corner. He tipped back his head for a long drink and muttered an indistinct curse. Then he limped to his furnace, added a handful of coal fragments, banked the fire, and locked the shed door-really just barring it with a wooden stick-before heading in another direction. He did not live in the Craftsmen's Camp's communal quarters; he had a little shack of his own inside the pass.
The Craftsmen's Camp quarters were even more rudimentary than Qin Tiexin had imagined. Rows of low adobe houses had peeling walls and windows haphazardly blocked with straw mats or broken boards. Piles of assorted clutter stood outside many doors, and the air reeked of sweat, feet, and mildew. Following Zhou Cang's directions, Qin Tiexin went all the way to the back before finding a room with its door ajar, dark and apparently unoccupied inside.
He pushed open the door and entered. The cramped room held only a bare earthen sleeping platform strewn with dry grass, with some broken household items piled in a corner. At least it was reasonably dry. He put down his belongings, gave the room a quick cleaning, and spread out the thin bedding he had brought. The Edgeless Saber was too heavy; he feared the platform would not bear it. He carefully wrapped it in coarse cloth and stood it against the wall in a corner.
His stomach had long since begun growling with hunger. He took out his provisions and slowly chewed them with cold water. The flatbread was hard and the dried meat salty, but they filled his belly. As he ate, he worked through tomorrow's plan: first, thoroughly repair the old tools, particularly the bellows and hammer handle; then carefully sort the inferior iron and select the relatively usable pieces; after that, repeated forging to purify them... Time was tight, but it was not impossible. During his hardest days in Ink City, he had used worse material than this.
After finishing his provisions, he went outside, found the communal well, and drew a bucket of icy water. By moonlight, he briefly washed the grime from his body and hands. The shock of the cold water refreshed him.
Back in the room, he did not lie down immediately. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the straw bedding, closed his eyes, and tried to enter the "Virtual Realm · Forging Hall." Everything he had encountered today-Zhou Cang's obstruction and the challenge of the inferior iron-required clearer thinking and preparation. He could not waste his four hours of virtual-realm practice in real-world time. There, he would simulate forging acceptable sabers from the worst materials.
His consciousness sank into that vast gray void...
The next day, Qin Tiexin woke at first light. The camp's wake-up horn had not yet sounded, but years of habit woke him on time. He stretched his somewhat stiff muscles and joints, then completed his body-tempering exercises with Edgeless in the cramped room. This was a habit formed in childhood, unshaken by thunder, unhindered by wind or rain.
Then he picked up his bowl and chopsticks and headed for the mess hall, following the directions he had memorized the previous night.
The so-called mess hall was an enormous shed built from wood and thatch, furnished with dozens of rough wooden tables and benches. Some early-rising soldiers and craftsmen were already queuing for food. The line moved slowly, and the air carried a mixture of wheat gruel, pickled vegetables, and cheap grease.
When Qin Tiexin's turn came, the server was a fat cook in a greasy apron, his face heavy with flesh. He glanced at Qin Tiexin's unusually tall build but said nothing, scooping a large wooden ladle of sticky mixed-grain porridge whose ingredients were unrecognizable from a bucket into the huge bowl Qin Tiexin held out. Then he added a tiny pinch of blackened pickled vegetables on top.
Qin Tiexin looked at the ladleful of porridge barely covering the bottom of his bowl and did not move.
"What are you staring at? That's all! Next!" The fat cook waved impatiently.
Qin Tiexin still did not move. His voice was quiet but clear. "Not enough."
The fat cook blinked, then looked him up and down. "Hey, new here? Don't you know the rules? One ladle per person outside wartime! Grain's scarce at the border. You think you're sitting on your own warm bed at home?"
"I eat a lot," Qin Tiexin said, still calm. "You can deduct it from my pay. Or is there anything solid? Steamed buns, flatbread, either will do."
The fat cook seemed to find this amusing. "Pay? You've barely been here, and you've already got pay? Solid food?" He pointed to an empty basket beside him. "The buns are long gone! There's only porridge. Eat it or don't!"
The people behind him began urging him on. Qin Tiexin looked at the little watery porridge in his bowl, then at the cook's impatient face. Without saying anything more, he carried his bowl aside and found an empty seat in a corner.
He ate quickly, shoveling the porridge and pickles into his mouth in a few bites. He barely tasted anything, only feeling the emptiness in his belly more keenly. But he had no time to dwell on it. There were more important things to do today.
He got up and washed his bowl. Just as he was about to leave the mess hall, he saw Zhou Cang limp inside carrying his own old earthenware bowl. Zhou Cang had clearly noticed him too. His gaze swept over the empty bowl washed spotless in Qin Tiexin's hands, then over his face, plainly still hungry yet calm. His lips twisted, but he said nothing and went to get his food.
The fat cook was rather more polite to Zhou Cang. Though he did not give him much either, the porridge was noticeably thicker, and he added an extra chopstickful of pickles.
Bowl in hand, Zhou Cang ambled over and sat on the opposite side of the table where Qin Tiexin had just been sitting. Without looking at him, he simply slurped his porridge noisily.
Qin Tiexin did not linger. He turned and left the mess hall, striding into the cool morning wind toward the dilapidated shed belonging to Third Section, Seventh Group deep within the Craftsmen's Camp.
In the faint morning light, Xinyang Pass gradually awoke behind him, horn calls drifting faintly through the air.
A new day-the challenges had only just begun.