When Qin Tiexin went to the mess hall, the fat cook was busy. Seeing him arrive, he said little, simply ladling out a large bowl of thick porridge and thrusting six steamed buns and two eggs at him.
"So early today?" the fat cook asked.
Qin Tiexin nodded. "Work to do."
"Another big job, eh?" The fat cook smiled. "Look how your eyes are shining."
Qin Tiexin said nothing and bent his head to eat. The porridge was scalding, the buns substantial. He ate quickly, but did not wolf his food down as he usually did-a habit he had developed over these past few days in the secret camp. Meals had to be eaten quickly but steadily, or he could easily choke.
Once finished, he wiped his mouth and headed straight for Zhou Cang's workshop.
Inside, the furnace had yet to be lit, the anvil stood cold, and the tools hung neatly on the wall. Zhou Cang stood in the middle of the workshop with his back to the door, looking at something.
Qin Tiexin walked in and called, "Teacher."
Zhou Cang did not turn around, only asking, "Have you figured out those three knives?"
Qin Tiexin paused, then remembered-seven days ago, before he left for training, Zhou Cang had given him three small knives wrapped in deerskin and told him to take them along to study.
He quickly took the little leather pouch from inside his robe. The pouch had been worn glossy. Carefully undoing its cord, he tipped out the three knives.
Each knife was only a palm long, identical in design, with a single edge and a straight spine. Yet closer inspection revealed differences.
The first had an edge as bright as a mirror, but several fine cracks ran through its blade. Qin Tiexin flicked it with a finger. The sound was brittle, like cracking ice.
The second had a dull edge and no cracks in its blade, but it was soft-when he gently bent it, it curved, then sprang back when he let go.
The third had an edge of a subdued, steady gray-white. Its blade had smooth lines, and when weighed in his hand, it felt solid yet resilient.
Qin Tiexin spread the three knives across his palm and looked up at Zhou Cang. "I've figured them out."
Only then did Zhou Cang turn around, his face expressionless. "Tell me."
"The first was quenched at too high a temperature, for too long." Qin Tiexin pointed to the cracks in the blade. "It's hard, but brittle. One clash on the battlefield could easily chip it."
"The second wasn't quenched enough. The temperature was too low." He picked up the soft knife. "It's resilient, but it won't cut through things, let alone cleave armor."
"The third..." He picked up the last one, running his fingers over the blade. "The quenching temperature and duration were just right, and it was forged with the Layered Edge Technique-steel layers around an iron core, hard outside and soft inside, combining strength with flexibility. It's a good knife."
Having finished, he looked at Zhou Cang.
Zhou Cang stared at him for several breaths, then suddenly tugged up a corner of his mouth-the smile was so faint it was barely visible.
"Good. My teaching wasn't wasted." He walked to the anvil, picked up a water flask, and took a drink. "You've gained a foothold in the Battlefield Quenching Technique and the Layered Edge Technique. Today, I'll teach you the third secret method."
Qin Tiexin perked up. "The third?"
"Yes. The last one." Zhou Cang set down the flask, his voice low. "The method for forging armor."
He paused, as though recalling something, his gaze growing distant. "When I was young, I learned it from an old craftsman in the Military Craftsmen's Camp. By then, he'd spent thirty years repairing armor on the northern frontier and was close to retiring. He thought I was reasonably dependable, so he passed this skill on to me-how to use the Fold-Forging Quenching Technique to make iron plates both hard and resilient, then forge those plates into set shapes and join them into armor."
Qin Tiexin listened intently.
"Privately making armor among the common folk is illegal, a crime that costs you your head," Zhou Cang continued. "So not many people know this craft. Even in the Craftsmen's Camp, no more than ten know the whole process. I'm passing it on to you today. Remember it well, and don't spread it."
Qin Tiexin nodded firmly. "Yes."
Only then did Zhou Cang walk to a corner of the workshop and lift a thick oilcloth.
Beneath it lay three suits of armor.
Bright armor. Separate chest and back plates, shoulder guards, belly guards, and thigh skirts-all the pieces were there. It should have been an imposing standard design, but now-
Qin Tiexin sucked in a cold breath.
On the first suit, something had cleaved clean through the round breast mirror on the left side of the chest. The split ran from its center to its edge like a savage bolt of lightning. The surrounding armor plates were twisted out of shape, their edges curled up to expose broken iron stubs beneath.
The second suit had a deep dent in the center of its chest. Not a sharp weapon, but a blunt one-more than a dozen tiny punctures marked the bottom of the dent, as though it had been struck by a spiked wolf-tooth mace. Cracks radiated outward through the plates like a spiderweb.
The third... was the worst. Its breastplate had almost been cleaved in two, a split running diagonally from the left shoulder to the right ribs, deep enough to expose the leather cords inside. The plates along the split had shattered into more than a dozen pieces. Some still hung from the cords; others lay scattered nearby.
All three suits were stained with broad swaths of dark-brown blood. Some had dried black and seeped into the gaps between the plates; some still held scraps of torn cloth, as though forcibly ripped from someone's body.
For a moment, the workshop was terrifyingly quiet.
Qin Tiexin stared at the bloodstains, his throat tightening. It was as though he could see it-the sound of iron striking flesh, the shriek of armor tearing apart. And the people who had worn this armor-were they dead or alive?
Zhou Cang's voice brought him back. "The Northern Di army has a heavy cavalry unit called the Iron Pagoda."
Qin Tiexin looked up.
"Both men and horses wear armor, a fen thick. Blades and swords can hardly penetrate it." Zhou Cang walked over to the suit dented by the wolf-tooth mace and tapped the hollow with a finger. "Their weapons are either heavy hammers or spiked wolf-tooth maces, specifically for breaking armor. Arrows can't pierce them. Ordinary anti-cavalry stakes-they charge straight through, horse and rider together."
He paused, his voice sinking lower. "These three suits belonged to a squad from our Northern Army's Formation-Breaking Camp. Three days ago, they encountered the Iron Pagoda at Wolf's Mouth Ridge. Ten against five. The result-two dead, one badly wounded, in exchange for only one enemy rider and one horse. They even snatched back that corpse."
Qin Tiexin clenched his fists.
"These three breastplates are what we're repairing." Zhou Cang looked at him. "Ten taels per piece, with ten days to finish. But the higher-ups also said they'd prefer us to find a way to counter the Iron Pagoda by improving the armor."
He patted Qin Tiexin's shoulder. "Watch carefully. Today, I'll dismantle the first one, and you'll learn."
Over the next five days, Qin Tiexin practically took root in the workshop.
When Zhou Cang dismantled the first suit, his movements were as slow as embroidery. First, he undid the slipknots in the leather cords, removing the shoulder guards and belly guards piece by piece and arranging them in order on the oilcloth. Then he began working on the main breastplate-the cleaved breast mirror.
"Look here." Zhou Cang pointed at the edge of the split. "This slash came diagonally downward with tremendous force, and the cutting edge was curved-not a straight blade, but a curved saber. It's a common design among Northern Di cavalry sabers."
He gripped a shattered plate with small pliers and gently twisted. With a crack, the plate came free, exposing a leather cord beneath. It had already snapped.
"The plates in bright armor are made with the Fold-Forging Technique." Zhou Cang picked up an intact plate and handed it to Qin Tiexin. "Look at this pattern."
Qin Tiexin took it. The plate was palm-sized and roughly two fen thick, its surface covered in fine, fish-scale patterns-the forging marks left by a thousand hammerings and a hundred refinements. Held against the light, the markings varied in depth. The deeper areas were hard steel, the shallower ones soft iron, layer upon layer like a thousand-layer pancake.
"With plates like these, the hard areas resist slashes, while the soft areas absorb shock," Zhou Cang said. "But against heavy weapons like the Iron Pagoda's, the hard areas shatter and the soft areas cave in. They need improving."
He continued dismantling as he spoke. One by one, the shattered plates came off and went into a bamboo basket. He wiped the intact plates clean with a soft cloth and arranged them in their original positions.
By the time the entire breastplate was dismantled, parts covered the oilcloth: besides a stack of intact plates, fifteen damaged ones needed repair, and twelve completely shattered ones needed reforging. Seven leather cords had snapped, and two copper clasps on the breast mirror had broken.
"Now, sort them." Zhou Cang pointed at the damaged plates. "Repair what can be repaired, reforge what can't. And what you reforge must be better than the originals."
Qin Tiexin followed along and learned.
Repairing armor plates was harder than repairing knives. A knife was a single whole, while a plate was only one part, yet every plate had to fit seamlessly with the others. Curvature, thickness, and hardness all had to match. Even a slight discrepancy would leave the assembled armor uneven, digging into the wearer and restricting movement.
Zhou Cang first taught him to forge new plates.
Select refined iron, heat it red-hot, and fold-forge it-not simply stacking layers, but sandwiching two layers of steel between three layers of iron and hammering all five together. Once forged into one, fold and hammer it nine more times, thoroughly fusing the steel and iron. Finally, forge it into a thin sheet, cut it into the shape of an armor plate, then use a specially made small curved anvil to hammer out its curvature, blow by blow.
This was no work for brute force.
At first, Qin Tiexin struggled to adjust. His strength was great, and each hammer blow either warped the plate or cracked it. Zhou Cang watched beside him without scolding, only saying, "Lighter. You're making armor, not hammering an iron ingot."
Qin Tiexin drew a deep breath and eased his strength.
Only then did he discover that forging armor plates required a kind of "deft force"-each hammer blow had to penetrate without being fierce, evenly rather than off-center. Each strike had to follow the curve, like caressing, yet also like pressing.
Only after an entire day of practice did he forge his first acceptable plate.
Zhou Cang took it, inspected it, and nodded. "Passable."
Qin Tiexin breathed out in relief. Only then did he notice his arms trembling with soreness-not from exertion, but from the fatigue of such precise control.
Back in his room that evening, he put off eating and first took out his charcoal pencil and little notebook to record the key points he had learned that day: the number of layers in fold-forging, the number of folds, the quenching temperature, the essentials of hammering curved surfaces... His writing was crooked, but he could read it.
Then he lay on the bed, closed his eyes, and entered the Illusory Realm Hall.
The phantom image of that suit of bright armor was still in the hall. Qin Tiexin approached and carefully examined the patterns on its plates, the threading of its leather cords, and the curve of its breast mirrors. Then he "simulated" forging in the Void Realm-there were no real hammer and anvil, but in his mind he repeated those movements again and again, feeling the force, the points of impact, and the rhythm.
The second day, the third...
By day, he followed Zhou Cang in repairing the first and second suits; by night, he reinforced what he had learned in the Void Realm. By the fourth day, he could independently complete most plate repairs. By dusk on the fifth, both suits were restored.
Zhou Cang stood the repaired suits in a corner of the workshop.
The bright armor gleamed darkly in the furnace light. The split breast mirror had been mended, and the newly forged plates mingled with the old ones, indistinguishable without close inspection. The leather cords had been replaced with new ones soaked in tung oil, both tough and glossy.
Zhou Cang circled the armor, then patted Qin Tiexin's shoulder. "Not bad."
Just two words, but Qin Tiexin knew this was already the highest praise Zhou Cang could offer.
Early on the sixth day, Zhou Cang pushed the most badly damaged suit in front of Qin Tiexin.
Its breastplate had almost been cleaved in two, the split hideous, and thirty percent of its plates needed replacing.
"Repair this one yourself," Zhou Cang said. "I'll be your helper, but you make the decisions and do the work. I'm going to get on with mine."
With that, he really did walk to the other end of the workshop and begin repairing several damaged blades that had been sent in, no longer looking this way.
Standing before the ruined armor, Qin Tiexin drew a deep breath.
First, he examined it carefully.
The split ran diagonally across the entire breastplate from the left shoulder to the right ribs. The force of that slash had been terrifying, cleaving not only the plates but even the leather lining beneath. Along the split, some plate edges had curled, some plates had shattered, and some still held thin shreds of bloody cloth.
He carefully began dismantling it.
His movements were slower than Zhou Cang's, but steadier. As he removed each plate, he carefully examined its damage, deciding whether to repair or replace it. He untied the leather cords one by one, setting broken ones aside and wiping usable ones clean for later.
Two double-hours later, the ruined armor was dismantled.
On the oilcloth lay twenty-four plates that needed replacement and another eighteen that needed repair. The breast mirrors were utterly ruined; a new pair had to be forged.
Qin Tiexin began forging new plates.
Select iron, heat it red-hot, fold-forge it. This time, experience gave him better control over his strength. Three layers of iron sandwiching two layers of steel, folded nine times, forged into a thin sheet. Cut to shape, place on the small curved anvil, hammer out the curve blow by blow.
"Clang, clang, clang..."
The hammer rang clearly and rhythmically. Fine beads of sweat seeped from his forehead, but his eyes remained focused, as though he were completing a work of art.
After finishing one plate, he lifted it against the light. Even patterns, natural curvature, moderate hardness. He nodded, set it aside, and continued with the next.
Over the whole day, he forged twenty plates.
That night in the Void Realm, he repeatedly simulated forging the breast mirrors-the hardest part. Round, curved, and both pieces had to be perfectly symmetrical. He "failed" dozens of times in the Void Realm before finding the right feel.
On the seventh day, he continued.
By noon, all the new plates were forged. He began repairing the old ones-those with less serious damage went back into the furnace to be heated, hammered flat again, quenched, and then hammered back into curves.
In the afternoon, he began assembly.
First, he arranged the intact old plates in their original positions, then fitted in the repaired plates, and finally filled the gaps with newly forged ones. The leather cords wove between the plates like needle and thread, knotted and pulled tight.
The breast mirrors went on last. With utmost care, Qin Tiexin fastened the two newly forged round copper mirrors at the chest, adjusting their angles until their curved surfaces fitted the breastplate's contours perfectly, then securing them with copper clasps.
By the time everything was finished, evening had come.
The furnace fire hovered on the verge of dying, and the sunset filtered through gaps in the workshop, falling upon the bright armor, now renewed.
The breastplate stood gleaming, its breast mirrors reflecting the firelight like two little suns. The plates were neatly aligned, the leather cords taut. The split was gone, the bloodstains washed away. Only the cold, hard luster of metal remained, and that weighty air of killing solemnity.
Qin Tiexin stepped back twice and looked at his work.
He suddenly remembered Zhou Cang's words-the Formation-Breaking Camp squad, two dead and one wounded, in exchange for only one enemy rider and one horse.
He reached out and gently touched a breast mirror.
Cold to the touch.
Perhaps... perhaps when this suit he had repaired next went to the battlefield, it could block one more slash, withstand one more hammer blow, and give its wearer one more measure of a chance to survive.
Even if only one measure.
He closed his eyes. In his mind, the "Armor" entry in the Illustrated Catalog of Ten Thousand Artifacts quietly stirred.
[Armor · Common iron] Collection progress (2/10)
At the other end of the workshop, Zhou Cang had stopped working at some point and was watching silently. He looked at the armor restored to new condition, then at Qin Tiexin's back in the sunset. On that perpetually stern face appeared a faint, almost imperceptible smile.