The sun had barely passed noon when Squad A assembled again on the muddy training ground.
The ten men stood straight, weapons in hand. Lin Feng had a sword, Zhao Ling carried a shortbow on his back, Chen San had two short daggers tucked at his waist, and Tu Dazhu...
Qin Tiexin stared at the thing in Tu Dazhu's hand, taken aback.
It was a great axe. Its head was broader than a washbasin, its haft as thick as a child's arm, and the whole thing was pitch-black except for a line of cold gleaming steel along the edge. Tu Dazhu held it in one hand, its head resting on the ground and pressing a shallow dent into the earth.
"What're you looking at?" Tu Dazhu grinned. "Found it in the storehouse. Fits my hand."
Qin Tiexin nodded and lowered Edgeless from his shoulder. He unwrapped the coarse cloth, revealing the dark, heavy blade, and the training ground fell quiet for a moment.
Edgeless was even more intimidating than the great axe, with its thick spine and broad blade. Though unsharpened, its heavy, savage presence pressed down so hard it was difficult to breathe.
Shi Meng emerged from the shed, still holding that whip. He glanced over their weapons, his gaze lingering on Edgeless, but said nothing.
"Train." His voice was hoarse.
The ten men spread out, each finding an open patch of ground. Lin Feng drew his longsword, spun it through a flourish, and began an unnamed sword routine, his movements graceful, his blade flashing. Zhao Ling took down his bow and drew an arrow from his quiver. Without nocking it, he held it and went through some motions, narrowing his eyes as though aiming at something.
Qin Tiexin stood where he was, rather at a loss.
He knew no sword or saber techniques. In all his years at the Craftsmen's Camp, he had done nothing but forge iron and temper his body. Zhou Cang had taught him the Layered Edge Technique, but that was for a hammer. A saber... how was he supposed to train with it?
Lin Feng finished his routine, saw him still standing there in a daze, and lowered his voice. "Brother Qin, get moving! The captain wants to see your movements. He'll come around to give pointers!"
"Oh," Qin Tiexin said, gripping the Edgeless Saber's hilt with both hands.
After some thought, he began practicing the Body Tempering Technique.
It was a very basic set of movements, originally designed to condition the body for smithing, with stretches, twists, and lowered stances. Qin Tiexin applied it to the saber-holding it in both hands, he slowly pressed it downward, as though bringing a forging hammer down onto its mark; he turned, letting the saber follow his body through a half-circle, as though turning the metal; then he sank at the waist and touched the saber's tip to the ground, as though quenching steel.
His movements were slow but steady. In his hands, Edgeless looked less like a saber than an exceptionally long forging hammer.
The others on the training ground could not help looking over. Tu Dazhu had been swinging his axe, but at the sight, he stopped it in midair. "Brother Qin, are you... forging iron?"
Qin Tiexin did not stop. He earnestly finished the last movement before nodding. "Body Tempering Technique."
Shi Meng was instructing Zhang Shan-Zhang Shan used a saber, but his stance was too unsteady. Shi Meng kicked the bend of his knee. "Stand firm!"
Then he walked over to Qin Tiexin.
Qin Tiexin stopped and stood properly, holding his saber.
Shi Meng studied him for a few breaths, then looked at Edgeless. He held out his hand. "Saber."
Qin Tiexin handed it over.
Shi Meng took it one-handed-and failed to hold it. The blade sank, and he hurriedly caught it with his other hand before steadying it. He tested its weight, frowned, and returned it to Qin Tiexin.
"Never learned?" the hoarse voice asked.
Qin Tiexin shook his head.
Shi Meng went to the weapon rack and drew a standard-issue long saber. Its blade was three feet long, forged from refined iron, the standard military design. He came back, gripped it in both hands, and assumed the most ordinary stance imaginable.
"Learn."
Qin Tiexin watched closely.
Shi Meng moved. There was nothing fancy about it, just a diagonal downward chop. His movement was clean, his burst of force short and sharp, and the blade cut through the air with a swish.
After the chop, he drew back his saber and looked at Qin Tiexin.
"Chop," he said. "A hundred times."
Then he turned away to check on Chen San.
Qin Tiexin stood there, stunned. Just... that one movement?
Lin Feng leaned over beside him and whispered, "Brother Qin, just do it. If the captain says chop, then chop."
Qin Tiexin nodded, tightened both hands around Edgeless, and copied Shi Meng's posture, bringing it diagonally downward-not chopping, but smashing.
The blade was so heavy that the wind it raised howled like a raging gale sweeping past. Zhang Shan, practicing his saber nearby, jumped in fright and hastily leaped aside. "Brother Qin! Go easy!"
Qin Tiexin felt a little embarrassed, but his hands did not stop. A second strike, then a third.
At first, it was all right. His movements were clumsy, but he had plenty of strength, and each strike landed with tremendous force, cutting marks of varying depths into the ground. Qin Tiexin did not notice. He was counting: Ten, eleven, twelve...
At thirty strikes, his breathing began to grow heavy. The wound on his left arm had not fully healed, and a dull pain throbbed beneath the bandages. But he did not stop. He merely adjusted his breathing, as he had while crawling through the mud that morning: inhale, raise the saber; exhale, chop.
At fifty strikes, his movements began to distort. His waist and legs fell out of coordination, and the falling blade no longer followed a diagonal line, veering slightly off course. His arms ached and felt swollen. Without that substantial midday meal sustaining him, he probably would not have been able to lift it now.
Qin Tiexin gritted his teeth. He remembered Sun Yun's palm strikes on selection day, remembered the sound his fists had made when they collided with them. Compared with that, what was this little bit of exhaustion?
Sixty strikes, seventy.
By eighty, he was no longer chopping, but "sending"-lifting the saber and letting it fall on its own, relying on its weight to smash downward. It pounded a shallow pit into the ground, sending mud flying.
Shi Meng walked over.
"Stop."
Qin Tiexin halted his saber, breathing hard. Sweat streamed from his temples into his eyes, stinging fiercely.
Shi Meng shook his head without speaking and simply drew another standard-issue saber from the weapon rack. He walked to where Qin Tiexin had been chopping and examined the chaotic marks on the ground.
Then he raised his saber.
The first strike fell as fast as lightning. The edge sliced into the mud with a soft hiss, leaving a perfectly straight cut.
He drew back and chopped again. The second strike followed almost exactly along the first mark, without the slightest deviation.
The third strike followed the same line.
The marks of all three strikes overlapped completely, as though someone had measured with a ruler before carving them with a blade.
Qin Tiexin's eyes widened.
Shi Meng drew back his saber and looked at him, his hoarse voice uttering the words, "Learn this."
Qin Tiexin stared at the three overlapping saber marks, and suddenly understood. It was not about learning to chop, but learning control. No matter how tired he was, no matter how much it hurt, when the saber fell, it had to land in that position, at that angle, with that force.
"A hundred times." With that, Shi Meng left.
Qin Tiexin drew a deep breath and tightened his grip on Edgeless again. This time, he did not rush to chop. He first set his stance, adjusted his breathing, felt the saber's weight, and thought about that line.
Raise the saber, chop.
Still crooked.
But he did not stop. A second strike, a third. After every chop, he looked at the mark and made a small adjustment. By the twentieth strike, the marks were beginning to look more orderly. By the fiftieth, he could maintain roughly the same direction.
Exhaustion. His arms felt filled with lead, his waist and back ached so badly he could not straighten them. But there was only one thought in his mind: that line.
The sun gradually sank westward. Everyone else had finished training and sat in twos and threes on the ground, catching their breath. Only Qin Tiexin kept chopping, again and again. The saber wind howled, mud flew, and he was soaked through, his clothes plastered to his body, but his gaze was intent, as though he were completing a piece of exquisitely delicate work.
Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.
After the last chop, he staggered a step and nearly fell to his knees. His saber stood embedded in the ground, supporting his body as he gasped for breath.
On the ground lay a hundred chaotic saber marks. Only the last few roughly overlapped.
At some point, Shi Meng had appeared before him again. He looked down at the marks, then at Qin Tiexin.
He said nothing, only nodded.
Then he walked to the center of the training ground and clapped his hands.
The ten men struggled to their feet and gathered around.
Shi Meng pointed toward the edge of the ground-at some point, three wooden dummies had been erected there, made from straw mats and wooden sticks bound with hemp rope, each with a red circle painted on its chest.
He drew his saber.
At the first dummy, he stepped forward and thrust the tip straight out, driving it into the very center of the red circle with a muffled thud. Not a slash, but a stab, so fast they could not make out the movement. He pulled the saber free, leaving a hole in the dummy's chest.
At the second dummy, he turned sideways and swept his saber upward, cutting into its "neck." The straw mat tore, and the blade sank halfway through the wooden post inside. One more strike separated its head from its body.
At the third dummy, he circled to its side and struck horizontally with the flat of the blade, smashing into the bend of its knee. The dummy fell. He followed it with a step and stabbed downward, pinning the tip into its "throat."
Within the time it took an incense stick to burn, the three dummies had become fragments scattered across the ground.
Shi Meng put away his saber and straightened. His face showed little expression, and the three claw scars looked even more savage in the setting sun.
The ten men stared, dumbfounded.
They had seen martial skill and saber techniques, but never anything like this-no tricks, no posturing, every strike aimed at a vital spot, fast, precise, and ruthless, like a butcher slaughtering livestock.
Shi Meng swept his gaze over them, his hoarse voice like a dull blade grinding against stone:
"Killing. Three moves." He held up three fingers. "Life or death."
Then he turned and left.
Deathly silence filled the training ground.
During the hour of the Dog, the fifty men gathered in the central command tent after supper.
The tent was spacious, its floor covered with straw mats, and the fifty men sat cross-legged in a dense crowd. Qin Tiexin's squad sat on the left. He looked over the other four squads. Every man had a bruised and swollen face. One fellow had his arm in a sling, and another had a dark purple eye socket. It seemed none of the squads had had an easy time.
Lin Feng leaned over and whispered, "Compulsory every evening. General Li teaches military strategy."
Qin Tiexin nodded. He took the little notebook wrapped in oilpaper from inside his clothes, then pulled out a stub of charcoal pencil-Zhou Cang had given it to him for recording measurements while smithing, and he had carried it with him ever since.
The tent flap lifted, and Li Zhenwei walked in.
He had changed into ordinary clothes and wore no armor, carrying a volume in his hand. He stopped at the front of the tent and looked around, his gaze lingering briefly on Qin Tiexin before moving on.
"Lesson two," Li Zhenwei began, his voice quiet but clear. "The Art of War says: warfare is the way of deception."
He began to lecture. From "when capable, appear incapable" to "when employing forces, appear inactive," from "when near, appear far" to "when far, appear near." He cited the classics and interspersed them with accounts of battles-in a certain month of a certain year, he had led a feint against the eastern line while launching a surprise attack on the western camp; during a night battle, he had used torches to bluff a show of strength and frighten off an enemy several times his number.
Some listened drowsily-Tu Dazhu's head kept nodding until Zhao Ling elbowed him from beside him. He jolted awake and hurriedly sat straight. Others listened with rapt attention, their eyes shining, such as Chen San, who had somehow produced a little notebook and was taking notes too.
Qin Tiexin listened very carefully. He did not understand those scholarly phrases, but he understood Li Zhenwei's battle accounts. It was like forging iron: sometimes a heavy hammer was needed, sometimes a light tap; sometimes the metal had to be heated red-hot, sometimes quenched cold. The principle was the same.
He drew in his notebook. A circle represented the enemy camp; several arrows represented the feint; then a curving line represented the surprise attack. The charcoal pencil was rough, and his drawings were crooked, but he understood them.
Two hours passed quickly. Li Zhenwei closed his book and looked at them.
"You still don't know what responsibility you bear," he said slowly. "In time, you will. You will be the sharpest blade in my Northern Army. You will carry out the most dangerous missions."
The tent quieted. Even those who had been dozing woke up.
"Every bit more you understand today means a little less danger on the battlefield." Li Zhenwei's gaze swept over every face. "Your instructors and I wish we could give you everything we know. In the end, all we hope is-"
He paused, his voice very soft, yet clear to everyone:
"That you can come back alive in the end."
Not a sound stirred in the tent.
By the time they returned to their quarters, it was completely dark.
Ten large wooden tubs stood outside the shed, steam rising from them. The water was black, with leaves and roots bobbing in it, giving off a strong medicinal smell.
Shi Meng stood beside the tubs, stirring with a wooden stick.
"In," he rasped. "One hour."
Without another word, the ten men stripped and jumped into the tubs.
Qin Tiexin had barely put one foot in before sucking in a sharp breath-the water was scalding, and the medicine potent. The instant it touched his skin, it felt as though countless needles were stabbing him. His wounds were especially painful. Once the bandages came off and the medicinal water seeped in, he clenched his teeth hard.
But he made no sound, sinking his whole body into the water until only his head remained above it.
The others were the same. Tu Dazhu's face twisted as he gasped hoarsely; Lin Feng squeezed his eyes shut, veins throbbing on his forehead; Chen San, the thinnest, trembled all over from the pain but stubbornly refused to cry out.
Slowly, the pain passed, and warmth began to spread through their bodies. It seeped from their skin into their bones, pleasantly warm, and their aching muscles seemed to melt loose in warm water. The medicinal water bubbled in the tubs, the bitter fragrance of herbs mingling with the smell of sweat and spreading through the night.
Qin Tiexin leaned against the tub and closed his eyes. Now Shi Meng's three strikes filled his mind, now Li Zhenwei's words, "come back alive," and now the hundred saber marks on the ground.
After an hour, the warmth in their bodies gradually turned cool, leaving them refreshed, much of their exhaustion gone. One after another, they climbed out, dried themselves, and changed into clean underclothes.
Shi Meng inspected each tub, stirring with his wooden stick and checking the color of the medicine. In the dim yellow lamplight, the three claw scars on his face looked a little softer.
"Sleep," he said.
The ten men crawled into the shed and collapsed onto their straw mats. Almost as soon as their heads touched the mats, snores rose and fell like thunder.
Qin Tiexin was exhausted too, but before lying down, he still took out his notebook. By the faint light coming through the doorway, he traced over the diagram of the feint against the enemy camp once more, then wrote a few crooked words beside it: Come back alive.
Only then did he close his eyes.
Outside the shed, Shi Meng had finished putting away the tubs and was about to leave when he heard footsteps.
Li Zhenwei emerged from the darkness, with Adjutant Sun following behind him.
"How are they?" Li Zhenwei asked.
Shi Meng was silent for a moment, then rasped, "There's one who uses a heavy saber. No foundation, but willing to train."
"Qin Tiexin?"
Shi Meng nodded.
Li Zhenwei looked toward the shed, where snores thundered. He smiled, then let it fade. "Using medicinal baths like this consumes a great deal."
"Worth it," Shi Meng said.
Adjutant Sun frowned beside them. "General, these medicinal ingredients were all transferred from the north with supplies already tight. Training like this, one month costs as much as half a year for an ordinary camp..."
"Adjutant Sun." Li Zhenwei interrupted him, his voice soft but carrying unquestionable weight. "Do you know how many people die each year in the fighting on the northern frontier?"
Adjutant Sun choked on his words.
"If these fifty succeed in their training, they can be worth five hundred men. Five thousand." Li Zhenwei gazed at the shed, light and shadow both in his eyes. "This war has dragged on too long. We cannot afford this attrition."
He paused, then spoke quietly, as though to himself:
"They... may be our greatest hope of ending the war."
The night wind swept past. Outside the shed, the torches swayed, light and shadow trembling wildly across the ground.
Carrying the empty tubs, Shi Meng turned and left, his heavy footsteps vanishing into the darkness.
Li Zhenwei stood outside the shed for a long time before turning to leave.
The night lay deep. In the camp, there was only snoring, the wind, and the occasional cry of a night bird in the distance.
Inside the shed, ten young men slept soundly. They still did not know what they would face. For now, their exhausted bodies were pleasantly warm after the medicinal baths, and perhaps their dreams held cooking smoke from home, steamed buns of white flour, and that fragrant, crisp-roasted venison leg.
And tomorrow, another tomorrow.