Qin Tiexin opened his eyes before the rooster crowed.
Snores and grinding teeth mingled in the barracks, and the air smelled of stale sweat and stinking feet. He got up quietly and walked out to the clearing. The sky was still ink-blue, with only a sliver of fish-belly white showing in the east.
He stripped off his shirt and stood bare-chested in the cold. Opening stance, breathing, eight cycles. By the time sweat emerged, the sky had brightened a little more. He finished the form and exhaled a long plume of white breath.
The mess hall had just opened. When the fat cook saw him, smiles piled onto his face. He sank his ladle to the bottom of the bucket and scooped up a brimming ladleful of thick porridge.
"Morning, Master Qin! The porridge is nice and thick today!"
Qin Tiexin nodded and handed over his bowl. Three corn buns and two steamed buns were piled on, along with a small mountain of pickles.
"Come back for more if that's not enough!" the fat cook said in a low voice.
Qin Tiexin said nothing and carried his bowl to a corner. He sat down, broke open a corn bun, tucked pickles inside, and ate it with the porridge. His cheeks worked, the muscles in his neck shifting as he swallowed. He ate quickly but quietly, his bowl and chopsticks barely making a sound.
He stopped when he was seven-tenths full. Looking at the half steamed bun left in his bowl, he wrapped it in oiled paper and tucked it inside his clothes.
Inside the shed, Zhou Cang was already grinding a spearhead. He heard the footsteps but did not look up.
"Master Zhou," Qin Tiexin called.
"Mm." Zhou Cang grunted through his nose, the whetstone rasping in his hands.
Qin Tiexin walked over to the pile of iron ingots. He had purified them yesterday, a dozen or so dark, heavy-looking pieces. He picked one up, hefted it, and set it down. He lit the fire, added coal, and worked the bellows.
When the furnace burned fiercely, he did not rush to begin.
He closed his eyes and concentrated.
[Appraisal].
The internal structure of the ingot emerged in his mind-impurities like pebbles in sand, carbon content like uneven ink stains. He "looked" very slowly, his brow faintly furrowed.
Opening his eyes, he gripped an ingot with his tongs and put it into the furnace. Heated it red, drew it out, brought down his hammer.
Clang!
The first blow was heavy, striking where the impurities were most concentrated. Sparks burst outward.
He stopped to let the ingot cool a little, then heated it and hammered again. The second blow was lighter, landing beside the first, yet carried a deft force, like pushing, like guiding.
Clang... clang... clang...
The rhythm of the hammering changed. One heavy blow, several light ones, a pause, then another heavy blow.
Zhou Cang's hands slowed over the spearhead. He turned his face, peering sideways from beneath drooping eyelids toward Qin Tiexin.
Something was off about the way the boy swung his hammer.
Too steady. Where had a half-grown sixteen-year-old gotten such steadiness? And those strikes were uncannily accurate. He judged the heat precisely, too-when to heat, when to stop, as though the boy had a set of scales in his mind.
Zhou Cang took a swig of liquor, the strong drink burning his throat. He smacked his lips and turned back to grinding the spearhead, but the whetstone rasped louder.
By noon, the second purification of the ingots was complete. Qin Tiexin went to the mess hall to eat. When he returned, he took the cold half bun from inside his clothes and finished it with cold water.
Time to forge the sabers.
He walked over to Zhou Cang's workbench, where several regulation sabers stood against the wall. He picked one up-the one Zhou Cang had forged a few days earlier. He ran his fingers over the blade, gauged its weight, and flicked its spine to listen to the sound. After studying it for a long time, he set it down.
Returning to the anvil, he lit the fire and heated an ingot.
Heated it red, drew it out, raised his hammer.
An image of Zhou Cang swinging his hammer flashed through his mind-that seemingly languid force that actually landed every blow exactly where it belonged.
Clang!
Under the first blow, the ingot flattened.
He kept hammering, deliberately imitating Zhou Cang's effort-saving method. Shape the rough outline quickly; refine the details later.
His efficiency improved, but his stamina drained quickly, too. After only the first rough blank, his arms ached and his breathing grew heavy.
At this rate, six at most in five days.
Not enough.
Qin Tiexin stopped, leaning on his hammer as he caught his breath. Sweat dripped from his chin and hissed against the anvil.
He closed his eyes, thinking of that body-tempering method. Eight cycles, breathing in and out...
Suddenly, he opened his eyes.
He gripped the hammer again and adjusted his breathing-deep, slow, even.
He exhaled, drove through his waist and legs, and brought the hammer down!
Clang!
He inhaled, and strength surged back.
Another exhalation, another swing.
Clang!
One breath in and out, one hammer strike. Awkward at first, it smoothed out after a few blows. His breathing and exertion fell into rhythm. He was still tired, but the aching tension seemed to disperse, spreading evenly into each breath.
And the rhythm of his breathing helped him concentrate. In that brief instant before each blow landed, he could "feel" more clearly where the iron should move and how much force he should use.
Clang... clang... clang...
The hammering took on a strange rhythm, like a heartbeat, or the pumping of bellows.
For a long time, Zhou Cang did not lift the wine gourd in his hand.
On the third night, the moon was already high when Qin Tiexin finished the eighth saber blank.
He put away his tools and banked the furnace. The shed darkened, leaving only the dim red glow of embers.
He picked up his things and headed out. At the doorway, his foot struck something.
Looking down, he saw an oiled-paper package on the ground. He picked it up and opened it.
In the moonlight lay a thick piece of dried meat, sprinkled with coarse salt, its grain distinct.
Qin Tiexin paused. He turned to look into the depths of the shed. Pitch-black, silent.
He stood for a while, then wrapped the oiled paper back up and tucked it inside his clothes, against his skin. He turned and left.
On the fourth day, Zhou Cang arrived later than usual. When he entered the shed, Qin Tiexin was already forging the ninth saber.
The old man glanced at the row of blanks in the corner-eight, neatly arranged. He walked to his own anvil, picked up a broken spearhead, and began repairing it without a word.
At noon, Qin Tiexin went to get his meal, and the fat cook gave him generous portions as usual. He finished eating and saved half a steamed bun.
That afternoon, the ninth saber took shape. By the time he began the tenth, the sun had already slanted west.
Zhou Cang finished repairing the last spearhead, washed his hands, and picked up his wine gourd to leave. At the doorway, he paused and glanced back.
Qin Tiexin was drawing a red-hot ingot out with his tongs. Sweat had soaked the back of his shirt, plastering it against his muscles and pulling their contours into sharp relief as he moved. His hammer rose and fell, his breathing deep and long, keeping time with the blows.
Zhou Cang watched for a few breaths, then turned and left.
On the fifth day, just past the hour of the goat.
Qin Tiexin set down his hammer and plunged the tenth saber blank into water.
Hiss-
White vapor rose. He straightened, every bone in his body cracking. Five days, ten sabers, all the rough blanks finished. Next came shaping, sharpening, quenching, and polishing.
Without resting, he immediately picked up the first blank and began refining its edge line. His small hammer tapped lightly, the sounds fine and closely spaced.
Zhou Cang stayed in the shed all afternoon, repairing several damaged shields. His clinking and clanging mingled with the sounds from Qin Tiexin's side.
At the end of the hour of the monkey, Qin Tiexin finished polishing the last saber and immersed it in quenching oil.
Sizzle-bluish smoke rose.
He lifted the saber out and wiped it dry with a cloth. Ten sabers stood in a row along the wall. Their dark blades gleamed coldly in the dusk, identical in shape, as though carved from a single mold.
Zhou Cang set down the shield in his hands and walked over.
Without speaking, he casually drew a saber from the middle, hefted it, and walked into the clearing outside the shed. Some hardwood posts used for slashing practice were piled there.
Zhou Cang gripped the saber in both hands. Without any visible gathering of strength, he twisted at the waist, and the blade flashed.
Shhk!
The wooden post split at the sound, its cut clean and even. The blade did not shift in the slightest, and not even a white mark marred its edge.
Zhou Cang planted the saber back in the ground, turned, and walked deeper into the Craftsmen's Camp. An incense stick's worth of time later, he returned with three men.
All were elderly craftsmen in their fifties or sixties, wearing tattered leather aprons much like Zhou Cang's, their faces and hands covered in coal dust and burn scars.
"Old Zhou, what've you dragged us here to see in the middle of the afternoon?" hollered an old man missing half an ear.
Zhou Cang ignored him. He walked to the wall, picked up all ten sabers with a clatter, and tossed them onto the clearing.
"Take a look."
The three old craftsmen exchanged glances, squatted down, and each picked one up.
They hefted them, inspected their shape, felt their edges, and flicked the blades to hear their ring. After studying them for a good while, the old man with the missing ear spoke first. "These sabers... the material wasn't much, was it?"
"Forged from scrap," Zhou Cang said.
All three old craftsmen paused. Another, with a burn scar on his face, picked up two sabers and tapped them together. Listening to the resonance, he smacked his lips. "That sound... doesn't sound like scrap."
The third old craftsman, who had remained silent, suddenly drew the old dagger at his waist and scraped its spine hard across the blade several times. Then he leaned close to inspect it and felt it with his fingers.
"The impurities were removed cleanly," he said hoarsely. "Enough toughness, too. Old Zhou, has your craftsmanship improved again?"
Zhou Cang jerked his chin toward the shed. "He forged them."
All three old craftsmen turned at once toward Qin Tiexin, who had been standing in the shed's doorway the whole time.
The youth was so tall and broad that he nearly blocked the doorframe. His upper body was bare, his sweat still wet and glistening in the dusk. There was little expression on his face. He simply stood quietly.
"Him?" The old man with the missing ear widened his eyes. "This boy? How many days?"
"Five," Zhou Cang said.
The burn-scarred craftsman stood and walked up to Qin Tiexin, looking him up and down. "Boy, how old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"Who taught you smithing?"
"My master."
"What's your master's name?"
"Qin Feng."
The three old craftsmen exchanged looks. None had heard the name. The burn-scarred craftsman looked back at the ten sabers on the ground, then at Qin Tiexin, and shook his head. "Five days, ten sabers, scrap... Old Zhou, you've found yourself a treasure."
Zhou Cang grunted and walked up to Qin Tiexin, his face still stern. "Barely usable. Don't get smug."
After a pause, he added, "Starting tomorrow, you're repairing spearheads with me. That pile in the corner is all damaged stuff sent back from the front. Have twenty repaired before dawn the day after tomorrow."
With that, he stopped looking at Qin Tiexin and waved at the three old craftsmen. "Done looking? Scram."
The three old craftsmen left amid laughter and curses, each taking a couple more looks at Qin Tiexin before leaving.
Quiet settled outside the shed. The setting sun slanted west, stretching their shadows long.
Qin Tiexin walked over to the pile of damaged spearheads, crouched down, and picked one up.
The spearhead had snapped at the neck. It was mottled with rust and still bore blackish-red stains. He rubbed away the rust, exposing the metal's own gray-black color. His fingers passed over the fracture, rough and jagged.
Suddenly, a faint warmth stirred between his brows.
Deep within his consciousness, the dark-gold illustrated scroll silently unfurled. A line of archaic script appeared:
[Recorded: military-issue spearhead (damaged)] [Analyzing... material: ordinary cast iron, forging technique: Threefold Forging, damage type: fatigue fracture] [Spear category recording progress: 1/10]
Qin Tiexin froze for a moment.
He looked down at the broken spearhead in his hand, then at the small mountain of damaged military equipment in the corner.
Dusk deepened, and scattered lights began to glow throughout the Craftsmen's Camp.
He stood, gently returned the spearhead to the pile, and turned to put away his tools. His movements were unhurried, just as they had been for the past five days.