On the evening of the seventh day, fiery red clouds blazed along the horizon.
Qin Tiexin stood before the newly restored bright mirror armor, took one last look, then turned to Zhou Cang. "Master, I have to report to the training camp."
Zhou Cang was crouching beside the furnace, putting away his tools. His hands paused at the words, but he did not look up. "Mm."
Qin Tiexin went to the wall and picked up his bundle-inside were just two changes of clothes and those three taels of silver, wrapped tightly in cloth. He slung it over his back and walked toward the door.
Just as he reached the curtain, Zhou Cang's voice came from behind him. "Wait."
Qin Tiexin turned.
Zhou Cang stood up and walked to the innermost corner of the shed. Some old wooden chests were piled there beneath a dustproof oilcloth. He lifted the cloth and dragged out a chest half a man's height.
The chest had seen some years. Its edges were worn yellow, and a thin layer of green rust coated the brass clasp.
Zhou Cang opened the lid. A faded red cloth lay inside, covering what was beneath it. He reached in, seized a corner, and whipped it away-
Qin Tiexin's eyes widened.
Beneath the red cloth lay a heap of black objects with a dull metallic sheen. At first glance, they looked like piled chains. Only on closer inspection did he realize they were countless thumb-sized iron rings, linked one through another, woven densely into a sheet.
Zhou Cang reached in with both hands, gripped the sides, and lifted-
There was a soft clatter.
A suit of armor rose from the chest.
But it was not plate armor like the bright mirror armor. Countless interlocking iron rings made up this suit, as supple as a thick cloth garment, yet heavy, weighing at least twenty jin in his hands. Its body was black, without the bright mirror armor's dazzling bronze mirrors or ornamentation. There was only the cold, hard sheen of the iron rings themselves, glimmering faintly in the dim shed.
"Chain mail," Zhou Cang said.
Qin Tiexin stared blankly at it.
Zhou Cang held it out. "Try it on. See if it fits."
Qin Tiexin took it. It was cold to the touch, and the rings rubbed together with a faint rustling sound. He hefted it. Lighter than the bright mirror armor, but more flexible.
"Master, this is..." He looked up.
"Another method that old craftsman taught me." Zhou Cang leaned back beside the anvil, picked up his wine flask, and took a drink. "Simpler than bright mirror armor. The only difficult parts are the material of the rings and the weave. The rings have to be forged evenly, and the weave must be tight without being stiff, loose without falling apart."
He paused, looking at the chain mail. "I made this one for myself back then. I meant to wear it when I went to war, but..." He left it unfinished and merely shook his head. "When I saw you being called up last time, I knew there was more to it. So I dug this out and altered it while you were training these past few days."
Only then did Qin Tiexin notice that the armor had neither shoulder guards nor a skirt. It was simply shaped like a vest, with iron rings woven over the chest and back and leather straps fastening the sides.
"You're a size bigger than me. The original wouldn't fit," Zhou Cang said. "So I took apart a suit with shoulder guards and rewove it into a vest. Wear it. Consider it... an apprenticeship gift."
Qin Tiexin's throat tightened.
Holding the heavy chain mail, he felt that what rested in his hands was not iron, but Zhou Cang's decades of craftsmanship, along with those unfinished words about going to war.
He suddenly stepped back, bent his knees, and started to kneel.
Zhou Cang reacted swiftly, catching his arm. "None of that useless nonsense."
Qin Tiexin looked up, his eyes a little red.
"Come back alive." Zhou Cang looked at him. On that perpetually stern face, a rare, exceedingly faint expression appeared, almost gentle. "That's worth more than anything."
He let go and waved a hand. "Get going."
Qin Tiexin nodded firmly. He set down his bundle, took off his outer garment, and pulled on the chain mail.
The cold rings touched his skin, making him shiver. But his body soon warmed them. The armor fit snugly, just right across his broad shoulders and thick chest. When he moved, the rings rose and fell with his body, clattering softly without hindering him at all-he could bend, twist, and raise his arms freely.
He put his outer garment back on, covering the chain mail. From outside, it only made his shoulders look a little broader and thicker.
"Thank you, Master," Qin Tiexin said.
Zhou Cang waved a hand, turned his back, and began putting away the tools on the anvil.
Qin Tiexin bowed deeply to his back.
Then he picked up his bundle, lifted the curtain, and left the workshop.
Half the setting sun had already sunk below the horizon, leaving only a streak of dark red in the sky. He headed north along the familiar road, his steps heavier than when he had come, but steadier too.
The chain mail beneath his clothes rested against his heart, cold yet reassuring.
Over the next three months, Qin Tiexin's days seemed to be cut in two.
One half was spent in the Craftsmen's Camp.
Zhou Cang all but emptied his store of knowledge. Forging iron, refining steel, quenching, shaping, repairing armor, weaving rings... He did not just teach; he made Qin Tiexin do the work himself. Once Qin Tiexin returned from the training camp, the main jobs in the workshop fell to him. Zhou Cang instead stepped back into a supporting role, mostly giving guidance and occasionally lending a hand.
"This steel needs seven rounds of folding and forging. Not one fewer."
"Watch the color when you quench. Dark red is just right. Bright red is too far."
"When weaving chain mail, the openings of the rings have to face the same way, or they'll catch."
Qin Tiexin studied like a madman. By day, he swung his hammer in the workshop; by night, he ran simulations in the Illusory Realm Hall. The entries in the Illustrated Catalog of Ten Thousand Artifacts gradually increased: [Swords] reached (7/10), [Spears and lances] reached (8/10), [Heavy weapons] reached (4/10)... Slowest was [Unorthodox weapons]. Hooked sickles, iron rulers, judge's brushes-such weapons were rarely seen in the camp, so he could only broaden his knowledge through the old weapons Zhou Cang occasionally dug out.
But he could feel his understanding of iron deepening. Before, all he saw in a weapon was its shape, weight, and sharpness. Now he could see forging patterns, layers of quenching, and the distribution of its center of gravity. He could even guess by feel how many repairs a weapon had undergone.
Sometimes Zhou Cang watched him work without speaking, simply drinking. When he grew a little tipsy, a remark or two would slip out. "That drive of yours reminds me of myself when I was young."
Qin Tiexin would smile and keep swinging his hammer.
The other half of his days was spent in the Formation-Breaking Second Battalion, Squad A.
The training changed. It was no longer just basic martial skills and military strategy. They began taking "specialized lessons."
An old scout surnamed Wu, his face creased by wind and frost, taught them weighted cross-country running. They did not run over level ground, but plunged through mountain forests, waded through streams, and climbed steep slopes. Each man carried thirty jin of sandbags and ran sixty li a day, while also memorizing terrain, finding their bearings, and locating water.
"The Northern Di are good at mounted archery, but not mountain warfare," Old Wu said, panting heavily. "If you really need to escape or launch a surprise attack, head into the mountains. They won't catch you."
Shi Meng personally taught mud fighting. They picked a muddy pool after the rain, and all ten men rolled into it. Weapons were forbidden; only fists, feet, elbows, and knees were allowed. They learned how to exert force in the mud, how to use its slipperiness to deflect force, and how to push an opponent's head into it until he choked on water.
Qin Tiexin held every advantage in this training-he was strong and steady on his feet, and once he planted himself in the mud, he seemed to take root. Tu Dazhu tried to pit his strength against him, only to be knocked down by a single shoulder blow and plunge bodily into the mud. When he climbed out, only the whites of his eyes were still white.
A gloomy, tall, thin man surnamed Mo taught breath-holding assassination. He had supposedly once served in the Water Ghost Battalion. He made all ten men crouch in water vats and hold their breath while practicing throat stabs, rib thrusts, and upward strikes to the groin with wooden daggers.
"The Northern Di mostly bathe by rivers." Instructor Mo's voice sounded as though it bubbled up from underwater. "If you get a chance, approach underwater and kill with one stab."
Li Zhenwei personally taught small-unit tactics. In groups of five, they learned how to coordinate, provide cover, and execute crossing assaults. He brought in a sand table and used wooden figures to represent both sides, playing scenarios out over and over.
"Your job is to cut off the head." Li Zhenwei pointed at the wooden figure representing an enemy commander. "Not charge straight into a battle formation. You find an opening, slip inside, and kill whoever poses the greatest threat-the one giving orders, the accurate archer, the drummer. One man's death can throw an entire unit into chaos."
A chill ran down the ten men's spines as they listened, yet they also felt faintly excited.
They also learned about the Northern Di. An old clerk surnamed Zheng, who had retired from the northern frontier, brought over a stack of files containing the banners of the various Northern Di tribes, their armor styles, portraits of their commanders, and even their habits-which tribe liked drinking, which believed in shamans, and which tribe's cavalry howled before charging.
Clerk Zheng pointed at a portrait of a vicious-looking man wearing a wolf-head fur cap on his brow. "This man is Wugushu, a thousand-man commander of the Iron Pagoda. He has boundless strength and usually wields a spiked mace. He led the force at Wolf's Mouth Ridge last time."
Qin Tiexin stared at the portrait and committed it to memory.
Beyond that, there was wilderness survival-finding food, making fire, and identifying poisonous plants; and covert communication-passing information through birdcalls, arrangements of stones, and the direction of broken branches.
And horsemanship and archery.
The horses were fine steeds carefully selected from the camp, with good endurance and powerful bursts of speed. The one assigned to Qin Tiexin was none other than Black Cloud.
Black Cloud stood over seven chi at the shoulder and nearly a zhang with his head raised, with a mane like a waterfall and four snow-white hooves. He was proud-tempered. When Qin Tiexin approached, he snorted and turned his head away.
Qin Tiexin was not annoyed. He took a piece of bean cake from inside his clothes-he had specially begged it from the fat cook in the mess hall. Black Cloud sniffed it, hesitated a moment, then lowered his head and ate.
After eating, he rubbed his head against Qin Tiexin's arm.
"Good boy." Qin Tiexin patted his neck and swung into the saddle.
Black Cloud was still a little unwilling at first, jolting along in short steps. But Qin Tiexin sat steadily and had strong hands; a tug on the reins left him no choice but to behave. After half a month of practice, horse and rider developed an understanding. A squeeze of Qin Tiexin's legs made Black Cloud accelerate; a light shake of the reins made him turn. When charging, Black Cloud's hooves flew, while Qin Tiexin crouched low, like an iron weight stuck to the horse's back, astonishingly steady.
But archery... was another matter entirely.
The archery range was at the western end of the camp, with ten straw targets in a row at a distance of a hundred paces. Zhao Ling and Li Shun were the squad's best archers. Not only could they pierce a willow leaf at a hundred paces, they could fire three arrows in rapid succession, every shot striking the throat.
The first bow Qin Tiexin ever handled was a one-shi bow-the army's standard issue, requiring one shi of force to draw. He took it, nocked an arrow, and pulled the string-
Crack.
The bow limb snapped.
The entire range fell silent.
The corner of Zhao Ling's mouth twitched. "Brother Qin, go a little easier..."
They switched to a two-shi bow. Qin Tiexin was extremely careful, drawing it only seven-tenths of the way.
The arrow flew out and went wide. Not a little wide-it hit the neighboring target, nearly striking Chen San as he practiced.
Chen San jumped in fright. "Brother Qin, watch your aim!"
Qin Tiexin scratched his head. "I was aiming at the middle one."
Beside him, Lin Feng staggered with laughter. "Brother Qin, those eyes of yours-have you watched too many iron sparks? Is everything looking double?"
After ten days of practice, Qin Tiexin's best record was three hits out of ten at a hundred paces. Even those three arrows struck the edge of the target, barely qualifying as hits.
Tu Dazhu, by contrast, had started out a mediocre archer, but after these three months of practice, he could land six or seven shots out of ten at a hundred paces. Though less accurate than Zhao Ling, his shots had plenty of force, sinking three-tenths of a cun into the wood whenever they hit.
"Brother Qin." Tu Dazhu patted Qin Tiexin's shoulder, his face full of sympathy. "Those hands of yours are better suited to swinging a hammer."
Qin Tiexin was deeply frustrated.
He excelled at every other kind of training. In weighted cross-country running, he could carry fifty jin and still finish first; in mud fighting, he could take on three men without losing ground; in horsemanship, he could now ride Black Cloud over a ditch a zhang wide; in weapons sparring, his cotton-padded wooden maul had already smashed seven shields and three wooden sabers.
Only archery remained beyond him, however much he practiced. Either he pulled so hard that the bow snapped, or his shots went absurdly wide. He had tried using less force, but then the arrows became feeble and fell before reaching the target.
At first, the others in Team A held themselves back. Eventually, they simply could not stand it anymore, and whenever Qin Tiexin picked up a bow, stifled chuckles rose around him.
Once, as a joke, Zhao Ling closed his eyes, turned his back, and casually loosed an arrow-
Whoosh!
A perfect bull's-eye.
He turned to look at Qin Tiexin, who was staring wide-eyed as his tenth arrow missed again.
"Brother Qin," Zhao Ling said, holding back laughter, "how about... you stop practicing archery? With shooting like yours, just not hitting our own men on the battlefield would be enough."
Qin Tiexin's face darkened. He set down the bow. "I'm done!"
He turned to practice with his maul. The cotton-padded wooden maul roared through the air in his hands, pounding the wooden post with repeated thuds, as though he were venting.
Lin Feng sidled up and said quietly, "Brother Qin, this is actually pretty good. If you could shoot accurately too, that would be too frightening. As you are now, everyone finally feels you're 'human.'"
Qin Tiexin glared at him.
Lin Feng hurriedly waved his hands. "I mean, you have to have some weakness, or we'd be under too much pressure."
That was true enough. Over these three months, the ten members of Team A had competed with one another, each striving to catch up and pull ahead. Yet Qin Tiexin had always loomed like a mountain in front of them all-the strongest, the hardest to hurt, the fastest to improve at riding, and the most thorough in learning. Now that they had discovered his archery was abysmal, everyone actually breathed easier.
So there was something even this monster could not do.
That night, Qin Tiexin lay on the communal bunk in the barracks, listening to the snores rising and falling around him, still pondering archery.
He closed his eyes and entered the Illusory Realm Hall.
Within the hall, the phantom of a bow and arrows floated in the air. He "picked up" the phantom bow, nocked an arrow, drew the string, and aimed-in his mind, his movements were correct and his force evenly applied. The arrow should fly straight toward the bull's-eye.
But in reality, it simply did not work.
"Why?" he asked himself.
He could not figure it out. He left the Void Realm and rolled over, his hand accidentally touching the chain mail beneath his clothes.
The iron rings were cool, but after three months of being warmed against him, they had taken on his body heat.
He suddenly remembered Zhou Cang's words. "Those hands of yours were born for smithing."
Perhaps it was true. His hands were suited to holding a hammer, a saber, anything that called for weight, steadiness, and ferocity. But not that light, nimble bow, which required delicate control.
He sighed and stopped thinking about it.
Moonlight streamed through the window onto his face. He closed his eyes and soon fell asleep.
In his dreams, he was still shooting arrows. The instant an arrow left the string, it turned into an iron hammer and smashed the target to pieces.
He smiled.