The rising sun dispersed the morning mist, and Xinyang Pass fully awoke in the biting air. Bugle calls, the sounds of drilling, and the ceaseless clang of forging from the Craftsmen's Camp intertwined into the rough symphony unique to the frontier.
When Qin Tiexin entered the dilapidated shed belonging to the Third Section, Seventh Group, the lingering warmth of last night's forge fire still mingled with the smells of liquor and rust. Zhou Cang had not arrived yet. Qin Tiexin put down the dry rations left over from last night and his waterskin, glanced at the dusty pile of inferior iron in the corner, then looked over the old tools he had briefly cleaned yesterday.
His stomach was indeed still a little empty; that thin bowl of morning gruel had long since turned into an urge to urinate. But he clenched his fists, feeling the strength stored throughout his limbs and bones-the foundation laid by several days of substantial meals and meat was still there, and his Qi and Blood remained fairly abundant. It should be enough to support a morning of heavy physical labor. Without further delay, he rolled up his sleeves and began the real preparations.
The tools were far too battered. The little furnace had several cracks in its chamber, which needed to be carefully sealed with wet clay, or the air leaks would affect the heat. The bellows' leather bag was damaged in several places. He found a few discarded scraps of soft leather and carefully stitched them on with the coarse needle and hemp thread he had brought along-Aunt Wang had insisted he take them, saying they would come in handy away from home. The anvil was solid, but its surface was badly rusted and pitted. He ground it down little by little with the coarsest whetstone he could find, until a relatively level metal surface emerged. Hammerheads, tongs, clamps... he inspected, repaired, and reinforced every piece.
Though the shed was a mess, it contained plenty of discarded parts and scraps. Qin Tiexin searched carefully and soon gathered all the washers, rivets, and replacement leather he needed. He worked quietly, but his movements were deft and solid. His large frame crouched in the corner, he concentrated as though carving jade rather than handling these greasy, battered iron implements.
He struck a spark with his fire steel, lit the dry grass used as tinder, and stuffed it into the furnace. He added crushed coal and worked the repaired bellows. Whoosh-the flames were weak at first, but as the bellows pumped rhythmically, they gradually flourished, orange-red tongues licking the furnace walls. The repairs were good; the air leaks were mostly sealed, and heat began to build.
Only once the tools were ready and the fire was burning did Qin Tiexin straighten up and wipe the fine beads of sweat from his forehead. He needed a hammer that suited his hand. Yesterday's old hammer was too small, and its handle was rotten. He searched inside and outside the shed again, finally digging an old hammer with a larger head from the bottom of the "mountain of junk" by the entrance. Its wooden handle had long since vanished, leaving only the bare mounting hole.
He hefted the hammerhead. Its weight was decent, but without a handle, he could not put his strength into it properly. His gaze swept over the wreckage and settled on the rear section of a broken spear shaft-hardwood, reasonably straight, and the right length. He pulled it out and used the billhook he carried, still tucked behind his waist, to shave away the splinters and trim it into a rough shape, then tried fitting the hammerhead onto it. The hole was a little loose, so he found some scraps of hemp and a little melted pine resin-surprisingly, there was some in the shed-and carefully packed them in and hammered them tight. Finally, he took a piece of old leather cord he had found and wound it repeatedly around the joint between the head and handle, cinching it tight.
A simple but sturdy forging hammer was finished. Gripping the newly fitted wooden handle, he swung it through the air a few times, raising a whooshing wind. It was still a little light, but much better than yesterday's. A trace of regret passed through his mind. Had he known, he would have brought the trusty hammer he had used at home for years; that one truly fit his hand. Still, this would suffice for now.
By the time he finished, the sun was already high, and the shed had grown noticeably hotter. Qin Tiexin prepared to begin processing the inferior iron in earnest. He had just bent down to move a few pieces into the furnace when he heard footsteps behind him, one light and one heavy.
Zhou Cang limped inside, carrying his signature liquor gourd. He saw that Qin Tiexin was already there, that the shed had clearly been tidied, and that the forge fire was blazing. The big fellow was handling an old hammer with a newly fitted handle, his movements practiced. Zhou Cang did not even lift his eyelids. He gave a barely audible grunt through his nose and went straight to his own forge.
His workload seemed substantial today as well. Several spears broken in two and two sabers with chipped edges lay by his feet. Rather than light the fire immediately, he first took a great swig of liquor and exhaled a strong alcoholic breath, then slowly began cleaning his furnace and adding charcoal.
Qin Tiexin glanced over, then withdrew his gaze and began his own work. First, he selected a few relatively intact pieces from the pile of inferior iron, choosing those that appeared to contain fewer impurities, and used tongs to place them deep inside his little furnace to heat. Then he went to the water vat, scooped up a dipper of cool water, and gulped down half of it. The cool liquid temporarily suppressed the dryness in his throat and the emptiness in his belly.
Zhou Cang had lit his forge as well. When he drank, his eyes looked somewhat cloudy and unfocused, and even his body swayed slightly. Yet the moment he stood before his larger anvil and gripped the large hammer, glossy with oil and clearly used for many years, his whole bearing abruptly changed. His back straightened somewhat, his small eyes instantly sharpened, and he stared intently at the iron heating red inside the furnace. His hands did not waver at all.
While tending the iron in his own furnace, Qin Tiexin watched Zhou Cang from the corner of his eye. Zhou Cang was repairing a spearhead removed from a broken spear. It was badly deformed and missing a small corner. Qin Tiexin watched him draw out the red-hot spearhead with his tongs, place it on the anvil, and raise his heavy hammer.
Clang!
The first blow landed precisely on the worst bulge, its force heavy and fierce, sending sparks flying. The protrusion visibly collapsed a little.
He did not strike a second time immediately. Instead, he adjusted the spearhead's angle with his tongs and checked its glowing red color.
Clang! The second blow landed right beside the first. It seemed a little lighter, but was more skillful, "driving" the compressed metal around it toward the gap.
Then came the third blow, the fourth... his movements were not fast; they could even be called "slack." Yet every blow landed exactly where it was needed, without a single unnecessary strike. The intervals between hammer blows carried a distinctive rhythm, as though he were not laboriously repairing the metal, but guiding it back to the shape and strength it should originally have possessed. He cleverly filled the missing corner with a small scrap, and after a few blows, it fused into the whole, leaving almost no visible seam.
With the spearhead repaired, Zhou Cang gripped it with his tongs and quenched it. White vapor rose with a hiss. He tossed the spearhead into a bucket to cool, then, without another glance, picked up another piece of iron in need of repair and thrust it into the furnace. He casually took another drink, and that slightly tipsy, utterly indifferent expression returned to his face.
Qin Tiexin watched silently, noting several things: precise blows, with no wasted effort; skillful use of heated metal's malleability to guide the repairs; control of heat and force that had become almost instinctive. Most importantly, this method saved as much time, precious fuel, and material as possible while ensuring the quality of the repair. It was an entirely different approach from the repeated forging done in Ink City to pursue absolute perfection or meet a customer's specific requirements. This was a battlefield. Efficiency, practicality, and economy might matter more than "perfection."
He gathered his thoughts. His own iron was almost ready. He drew out a piece and placed it on the anvil. It was dark red, with obvious sand holes and pores in its surface. He took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the newly fitted hammer, drove through his waist and legs, and brought it crashing down!
Clang!
The sound was not as deep and resonant as Zhou Cang's, but the force was considerable. The anvil trembled slightly, and gray-black fragments of impurities burst from the red-hot iron's surface. Its volume seemed to shrink a fraction.
He repeated the process of heating and hammering. Sweat soon seeped from his temples, ran down his sharply defined jaw, and struck the anvil, instantly evaporating. The muscles in his bronze arms tightened and stretched with every swing, their lines clear and powerful, gleaming with an oily sheen in the firelight. Entirely focused, he stared at the subtle changes in the iron beneath his hammer, adjusting the point of impact and force by feel, striving to squeeze out those stubborn impurities little by little.
It was an extremely tedious and physically draining process. Partway through, Zhou Cang finished repairing the second spearhead, fitted it to the repaired shaft, and hammered it tight. He glanced toward Qin Tiexin. The youth was bare-chested-it was too hot, and he had long since removed his thin shirt. Sweat had soaked his waistband, and the clearly defined muscles of his back and chest rose and fell with his hammering, brimming with youthful, primal strength. The hammer rose and fell at a steady rhythm. Though his technique still carried some of a civilian blacksmith's "craftsman's manner," lacking the simplicity and directness of military craftsmen, his fundamentals were clearly solid. His stance was stable, and he drove his strength through fully.
Hmph. He has a bit of the proper form, at least. Who knows how many days he'll last, Zhou Cang thought. He took another drink and wiped his mouth. In truth, he had long since recognized that Qin Tiexin had genuinely worked iron before. The calluses on his hands and the burn scars on his body could not lie.
But that was precisely why he was even less accommodating. An ordinary village smithy forged farm tools and repaired pots, valuing fine workmanship and good looks; taking one's time was acceptable. But this was the Craftsmen's Camp. Tasks piled down like mountains, materials were scarce, and time was pressing. What mattered was repairing or producing as many sufficiently sturdy weapons as possible in the shortest time. That meticulous mindset of slow work yielding fine results was the first thing to be eliminated here.
Of the previous young men sent here through "connections" or because they "had some skill," which had not found this intense, high-pressure environment and its harsh conditions unbearable, then found an excuse to transfer out or simply run away within a few days? Wasn't it better to stay home and peacefully forge your kitchen knives and hoes? Why insist on coming here to suffer?
Zhou Cang shook his head, stopped watching Qin Tiexin, and began working on the two chipped sabers.
Near noon, the sun had baked the shed roof hot. Zhou Cang finished repairing the three broken spears scheduled for the morning and had made a start on the two sabers. He put down his tools, wiped his hands and the sweat from his face with a rag so dirty its original color was unrecognizable, picked up his liquor gourd, and limped out to eat. Passing Qin Tiexin, he saw that less than a fifth of the inferior iron had been processed, while a layer of black-gray impurity fragments had accumulated on the ground. Qin Tiexin was still swinging his hammer. Sweat had already formed a small puddle at his feet, and his bare upper body looked as though it had been washed with water. Heat and exertion had turned his skin deep red, and his breathing was heavy. Yet his eyes remained focused, and though the rhythm of his hammering had slowed somewhat, it was still steady.
Zhou Cang paused briefly, said nothing, and walked straight out.
Qin Tiexin did not stop until he finished hammering the last red-hot piece of iron in the furnace. He straightened his back and let out a long, scorching breath. His arms ached and felt swollen, his waist and back were stiff, and he was so hungry his belly seemed pressed against his spine. He could hear his own stomach rumbling. He went to the water vat, drained the remaining half-dipper in one go, then scooped up another and poured it over his head. The cold water made him shudder, reviving him a little.
He picked up his last piece of hard flatbread and chewed it slowly with cool water. It was very dry and difficult to swallow, but he ate with great seriousness, as though completing an important task, replenishing his body with the sustenance it needed.
I'll go to the mess hall after finishing all this forging in one stretch.
About two incense sticks' worth of time later, Zhou Cang returned. Besides the liquor gourd that seemed never to leave his side, he carried an old basket covered with coarse hemp cloth. Entering the shed, he saw Qin Tiexin squatting on the ground, gnawing dry rations with cool water, his empty waterskin beside his feet.
Zhou Cang frowned, walked over, and set the old basket beside Qin Tiexin's feet. His tone was still stiff and impatient:
"Take it. Don't starve to death in my place. Bad luck."
Without waiting for Qin Tiexin to react, he went over to the wooden stump he used as a "stool" and sat down. He uncorked his liquor gourd, tilted his head back for two swallows, then narrowed his eyes and leaned against the shed wall, seemingly preparing for a short nap.
Qin Tiexin paused, set down the dry rations in his hand, and lifted the hemp cloth covering the basket. Inside were two blackish-yellow mixed-grain cone buns, two white-flour steamed buns, and a small, dark lump of pickled vegetable. The food was still warm. Plain though it was, it was far better than his own dry, hard flatbread.
He looked up at Zhou Cang, who seemed to have fallen asleep already. The old man's eyes were closed, and the old scar on his cheek stood out especially clearly in the light leaking through the shed roof. His chest rose and fell gently with his breathing.
Qin Tiexin said nothing. He picked up a still-warm steamed bun, broke it open, tucked in a little pickled vegetable, and took large bites. The bun was soft, carrying the natural sweet fragrance of grain. Though the pickle was intensely salty, it was just right with the bun. He ate with relish, quickly finished one steamed bun, and picked up a cone bun. Its coarse texture scraped his throat, but it was very filling.
He did not wolf the food down, but maintained a steady pace and ate everything in the basket clean, leaving not even a scrap of pickle. Afterward, he felt a solid warmth in his belly, and some of his lost strength seemed to return.
He gently placed the empty basket a short distance from Zhou Cang's feet and covered it with the hemp cloth.
"Thank you," he said softly. Whether Zhou Cang heard him or not, he gave no response.
Qin Tiexin returned to his forge, took a few deep breaths, stretched his aching arms, and once again gripped a cold piece of inferior iron with his tongs and placed it in the fire.
The forge fire blazed, illuminating his silent, resilient young face.
That afternoon, there was still more iron to refine beneath his hammer.