The sun slanted westward, casting a dusky yellow halo over the Craftsmen's Camp. Even the coal smoke and dust drifting through the air seemed dyed gold. The ringing of hammers had grown much sparser as the craftsmen finished their day's work one after another, their rough voices and the clatter of tools replacing the daytime din.
Qin Tiexin finally laid down his hammer. On the ground before him sat a neatly stacked little pile of iron ingots-not many, only a dozen or so, each no larger than a palm. Yet they possessed the dense luster that came only after countless hammer blows. Their gray-black surfaces gleamed with a cold, hard metallic sheen in the sunset, a world apart from the loose, dusty heap of raw scrap beside them.
He had spent the entire afternoon wrestling with this pile of junk. His arms had long since gone from aching to numb, and now to a heavy, dull pain. Every breath tugged at the muscles of his chest, waist, and back. He had lost count of how much he had sweated; his waistband had soaked through and dried, dried and soaked through again, sticking stiffly against him. But his heart was steady. This step was unavoidable. Without forging ingots like these, there was no way to make usable blades afterward. He owed much to his master Qin Feng's early "torments," making him practice with all sorts of offcuts and scrap iron, and even more to his experience repeatedly refining poor-quality iron to save materials during the shop's hardest days. The hardship of those days had now become something he could lean on.
As he hammered that afternoon, he unconsciously imitated and experimented with Zhou Cang's seemingly casual yet precise and efficient way of exerting force while repeating the tedious work of purification. Fewer unnecessary swings, more carefully chosen striking points, using the metal's malleability to "guide" rather than "batter" it. It felt awkward at first. Accustomed to fine control, he always wanted to add another couple of blows in pursuit of "perfection." But once he gradually found the feel for it, his efficiency did improve somewhat, and even the burden on his arms seemed a fraction lighter.
Zhou Cang spent most of the afternoon repairing the two blades, casting a few glances at Qin Tiexin between tasks. He saw the lad occasionally pause while hammering, seemingly adjusting his stance or striking point, before his next few blows took on a faint trace of Zhou Cang's own "lazy" but effective style. Though still unpracticed, that drive to observe and learn, along with his composure and patience in stubbornly battling a heap of scrap, loosened Zhou Cang's prejudice that "this lad is just here to coast through his days" by the tiniest bit.
What damn use is liking smithing alone? Zhou Cang snorted inwardly and took a swig of wine, watching Qin Tiexin finally finish the last piece and straighten, his tall frame unable to conceal its exhaustion. Whether you're a mule or a horse, we'll have to see what you bring out. Four days from now, we'll see the real thing.
Qin Tiexin neatly stacked the final finished ingot and briefly put his tools in order. He carefully banked the furnace with ash, preserving the embers. Once he had finished, the burning hunger he had suppressed all day could no longer be ignored. His stomach's rumbling sounded especially clear in the emptying shed. He licked his cracked lips and looked toward Zhou Cang.
Zhou Cang was giving the last repaired blade its final treatment, carefully wiping it with a soft, oil-soaked cloth. His eyes were intent and his movements gentle, utterly unlike his rough manner when swinging a hammer that day. Seemingly noticing Qin Tiexin's gaze, he kept his head down and his hands moving, but spat out harsh words edged with his customary mockery:
"What are you staring at? I'm not a rice bucket like you, running to that lousy mess hall for every meal. Get yourself moving. Don't stand here being an eyesore."
His tone remained as punchable as ever, his disdain completely undisguised. Yet Qin Tiexin felt little stir within him at the words. That old basket containing the cornmeal buns, steamed buns, and pickles from noon was still sitting in the corner. He nodded without saying anything, went to the corner to collect his bowl and chopsticks-a rough wooden bowl and a pair of homemade bamboo chopsticks-and glanced once more at the neatly stacked ingots and properly stored tools before turning and leaving the shed.
The weather here was a little colder than in Ink City. The first lunar month was nearly over, yet the cold wind still bit into him, and he could not help drawing his padded coat tighter. The evening breeze carried the chill peculiar to a frontier dusk, raising gooseflesh across his sweat-soaked back, though it also drove away a little of his fatigue. He strode toward the mess hall, his steps heavy with hunger and exhaustion but still steady.
The mess hall's large shed was visible from afar, and it was now at its busiest. A dense mass of heads milled around the entrance and inside, while voices, clattering bowls and chopsticks, and mingled food smells drifted out. Qin Tiexin drew closer, his nostrils flaring-tonight seemed a little better than the morning. Even from a distance, he could see two large baskets by the entrance, piled high with dark yellow mixed-grain buns. Inside, a great basin of stewed cabbage steamed on a long table. Though he could plainly see scarcely any flecks of oil or scraps of meat, the smell of that hot vegetable broth was no less than a rare delicacy to him now.
A full meal was the greatest happiness he could have at this moment. Tightening his grip on his wooden bowl, he joined the end of the line. It moved slowly. People ahead kept leaving with their food, squatting or standing nearby to wolf it down. Qin Tiexin waited silently, his eyes on the two baskets of buns, and his stomach cramped fiercely again.
At last, it was his turn. The server was the same fat cook with the brutish face from that morning, wearing his grease-shiny apron and impatiently clanging his large iron ladle against the rim of the vegetable basin. The fat cook looked up, saw who it was, and paused before his mouth twisted into an undisguised sneer.
"Well, well, you again." The fat cook spoke loudly, his mockery deliberately pitched for everyone nearby to hear. "The new rice bucket."
Without asking, he used his ladle to scoop two mixed-grain buns from the basket beside him and tossed them into Qin Tiexin's outstretched wooden bowl with two dull thuds. Then he scooped up a ladleful of stew that was almost entirely broth, with only a few cabbage leaves floating in it. A flick of his wrist spilled most of the liquid back into the basin, leaving less than half a ladle of watery vegetables, which he poured over the buns.
"Next!" he shouted without even looking at Qin Tiexin, then cursed under his breath, "Damn it, these newcomers only know how to eat for free. Haven't contributed a damn thing, but they've sure got appetites..."
Qin Tiexin stood still, holding his bowl. There were only two buns, dry, hard, and coarse, and the little bit of broth did not even cover the bottom. He had clearly seen several unfamiliar men ahead of him, likewise dressed in old uniforms, ask for three or four. Though the fat cook had cursed at them too, he had given them what they asked for. Besides, both baskets were plainly still more than half full, their buns heaped like little mountains.
Fire shot up inside him. He was not angry at being called a "rice bucket" or a "freeloader." He had heard those words plenty of times. What he could not bear was such blatant, senseless bullying and withholding of rations. He could accept working hungry, but why should he be denied what was his?
He drew a deep breath, forcing down some of the anger rushing to his head. Keeping his voice as level as possible, though it remained hoarse from work, he addressed the fat cook, who was already preparing to serve the next man:
"Not enough."
The fat cook paused and turned, giving him a sidelong look with his triangular eyes as though he had heard something amusing. Deliberately drawing out his words, he asked in a mocking tone, "Oh? Not enough? Then tell me, how many do you want, Brother Rice Bucket?"
Several soldiers and craftsmen nearby, both waiting in line and eating, looked over with varying expressions: curiosity, numb indifference, and a little eagerness to watch the show.
Qin Tiexin ignored their gazes. He seriously considered his present hunger and how much he had expended that afternoon, then gave a number that did not seem excessive to him. "Eight." After a pause, he added, "Six would do too."
"Pfft-hahahaha!" The fat cook burst out laughing as though he had heard the greatest joke in the world, his flesh shaking all over. Pointing his iron ladle at Qin Tiexin, he shouted to everyone around him, "Listen to this! All of you, listen! This new lad opens his mouth and asks for six or eight buns! Why don't you just carry off the whole basket? Huh? Do you think you're sitting on the heated bed back home, with all you can eat?"
He deliberately raised his voice, drawing more eyes, his face full of contempt and ridicule. "Get lost, get lost! Take your two buns and scram! Stop holding me up from serving everyone! Look at that thickheaded face of yours. You're only fit to shoulder the heavy loads, and now you're trying to be picky?"
As he spoke, he actually waved the heavy iron ladle impatiently at Qin Tiexin, making as if to drive him away. "Get out of here! Hear me?"
Watching the greasy, broth-stained ladle swing toward him, Qin Tiexin exhausted the last of his patience. A cold gleam flashed in his eyes. Just as the ladle was about to touch the front of his coat, his right hand shot out like lightning, fingers spread, and clamped around the greasy long handle just behind its bowl!
The fat cook felt his wrist jolt as an utterly irresistible force struck, and the iron ladle instantly left his hand! His eyes widened in shock. Before he could react, Qin Tiexin carried the motion through and tossed the ladle into the broth bucket beside them. It landed with a dull clang, splashing broth.
Immediately afterward, Qin Tiexin's other hand closed like iron pincers around the fat cook's thick wrist.
"You... what are you doing?! Let go!" Shocked and furious, the fat cook instinctively tried to break free, pulling back with every ounce of strength he had. But the fingers gripping his wrist seemed rooted in place, not budging in the slightest. Instead, they squeezed until his bones ached.
"I came here to be a soldier, to be a craftsman," Qin Tiexin said, staring at him and speaking each word distinctly. His voice was not loud, but it carried a weighty, unquestionable force somewhat at odds with his youthful face. "Not to be bullied by you."
He tightened his grip and dragged the fat cook outside. "Come on! We're going to Clerk Wang! I'll ask him why soldiers who work and toil can't even get a full meal! Just what are the rules?"
"Let go! You insolent bastard! Help! He's hitting me! The newcomer is hitting me!" The fat cook howled like a pig being slaughtered, throwing his weight backward and kicking wildly against the ground. Yet he could not impede Qin Tiexin's seemingly ordinary steps, which held astonishing strength. Qin Tiexin was tall and long-strided, and dragged him along like a somewhat unwilling sack of grain.
An uproar instantly erupted inside and outside the mess hall. The onlookers stirred, talking among themselves. Some wanted to step forward and intervene, but the sight of Qin Tiexin's tall, powerfully built figure and taut face, along with the fat yet utterly helpless cook in his grasp, left them hesitating. Several kitchen helpers who might have known the fat cook tried to crowd around, only to stop involuntarily when Qin Tiexin swept them with a cold glance.
Qin Tiexin paid no attention to the surrounding clamor or the voices trying to persuade him-"Let it go," "Brother, don't be rash," "Talk it out." He held to just one principle: this matter had to be settled somewhere reason could be heard. Dragging the fat cook, who kept screaming and struggling, he strode swiftly toward Clerk Wang's stone-walled hut by the entrance to the Craftsmen's Camp, under countless startled, curious, and complicated gazes.
The setting sun stretched their shadows long, one tall and steady, the other struggling in disarray, forming an eye-catching picture as they moved toward that little place in camp where "reason" resided.
Inside the hut, Clerk Wang was checking the day's numbers of equipment entering and leaving storage beneath an oil lamp. Startled by the sudden clamor and wailing outside, he raised his head, pushed his slipping homemade glasses back up his nose, and looked toward the doorway in puzzlement.
Outside, Qin Tiexin had just come to a stop, dragging the ashen-faced, disheveled fat cook.