Qin Tiexin knelt on the cold ground, his forehead pressed against Old Qin's knees, which would never move again.
At first, only his shoulders shook, whimpers like those of a trapped beast rising from his throat. Then he could no longer hold them back and burst into great, wrenching sobs. In sixteen years, he had never cried like this, as if he would weep out his very organs. His vision went black, his ears rang, and he nearly passed out.
He stayed there on his knees, crying, until-
"Young Brother Qin? Are you there? I've come for my woodcutting knife!"
Hunter Zhao's rough voice rang out outside the shop, carrying the brisk frankness of the mountains.
Qin Tiexin shuddered, and his sobbing stopped short. He jerked his head up, his face streaked with tears, his eyes so swollen he could barely open them. He looked at his master, still standing erect beside the forge as though he were merely asleep, then at the light spilling in from outside.
I can't go on like this. Master said a blacksmith must have hard bones.
He braced himself against the ground and tried to rise, but his numb legs would not obey him. He staggered and nearly fell. He bit down hard on the tip of his tongue. A sweet, bloody taste spread through his mouth, and the sharp pain brought a little clarity. Supporting himself on the anvil, he rose inch by inch, wiped his face haphazardly with his sleeve, took several deep breaths, and forced his back straight.
"Coming," he answered, his voice terribly hoarse.
He pulled open the shop door. Hunter Zhao was waiting outside, rubbing his hands. Seeing him open up, he grinned. "Oh, Young Brother Qin, today... what happened to your eyes?"
Halfway through speaking, Hunter Zhao noticed his red, swollen eyes and pale face. His smile froze.
Qin Tiexin shook his head without speaking. He turned, took the woodcutting knife he had just forged that morning from the rack, and handed it over.
Hunter Zhao took the knife and paused as soon as it settled in his hand. Accustomed to handling weapons, he knew with one heft that its weight and balance had changed. Looking closer, he saw that the spine was visibly thicker, and the hemp cord around the handle had been wrapped tightly and precisely. He looked up at Qin Tiexin, then instinctively glanced into the shop-
That single glance struck him like a thunderbolt.
Inside the dim shop, the forge fire hovered on the verge of dying, illuminating a thin figure standing silently beside it. That was not a posture a living person should have.
"Old... Old Master Qin?" Hunter Zhao's voice trembled.
Qin Tiexin nodded in silence.
Hunter Zhao sucked in a cold breath. The woodcutting knife fell from his hand with a clang. He rushed into the shop, then stopped himself dead three feet from Old Qin. At a loss, he looked at the body that stood erect even in death, then back at the expressionless Qin Tiexin, whose eyes were rimmed red.
"When... when did this happen?" Hunter Zhao's voice had changed pitch.
"Between five and seven this morning." Qin Tiexin bent to pick up the knife and handed it to him again, his tone frighteningly calm. "Take your knife. You don't need to pay."
Hunter Zhao looked at the boy before him. At sixteen, he stood half a head taller than himself, like a silent iron statue bearing something inconceivably heavy. His nose stung, and he clapped Qin Tiexin hard on the shoulder. "My condolences, young brother. If there's anything you need help with, just say the word! I'll go fetch the people in the alley..."
"No need." Qin Tiexin interrupted him, his voice quiet but carrying an unquestionable resolve. "Master left instructions. I'm to handle his funeral alone."
Hunter Zhao opened his mouth, but as he looked into the boy's dark, bottomless eyes, every word stuck in his throat. In the end, he merely sighed heavily, picked up the woodcutting knife, and took the thirty copper coins he had prepared from inside his robe, forcing them into Qin Tiexin's hand.
"Take it. The old master... died unbowed." His eyes reddening, he glanced once more at the upright figure beside the forge, then turned and strode away, his steps a little unsteady.
Qin Tiexin stood at the shop entrance for a long time, gripping those thirty warm copper coins. Then he turned and barred the door.
He walked over to Old Qin, knelt, and respectfully kowtowed three times.
"Master, we're going home."
He stood, went into the backyard, and rummaged through the clutter for an old axe. Its handle had been polished glossy by hands, and its edge gleamed coldly-this was the first proper piece of ironwork the old man had personally taught him to forge, when he was ten.
Then he bent down and carefully hoisted Old Qin's already stiff body onto his back.
Light. Far too light.
The man who had once been able to lift an eighty-jin anvil was now as light as a bundle of dried firewood. Qin Tiexin steadied himself, supported his master beneath the knees with one hand, and picked up the axe with the other. He pushed open the back door and stepped into the faintly bright morning mist.
Emerald Cloud Mountain was not far, just ten li south of Ink City. The road was not particularly difficult, but carrying someone uphill made every step heavy.
Qin Tiexin said nothing. He only walked. Sweat soon soaked his thin clothes and ran down past the corners of his tightly pressed lips. The mountain path was silent save for his labored breathing and the rustle of fallen leaves beneath his feet.
Occasionally, an early-rising woodcutter or herb gatherer saw him and recoiled at the sight of a boy carrying a corpse up the mountain. Qin Tiexin looked neither left nor right and kept walking.
By the time he reached the south-facing slope the old man had mentioned, the sun had climbed above the eastern ridge. Golden sunlight spilled down onto an unremarkable earthen grave. There was no headstone before it, only a smooth cobblestone set into the earth.
Qin Tiexin gently lowered Old Qin onto the open ground beside the grave, leaning him against that cobblestone to face the rising sun.
Then he picked up the axe and walked toward the nearby woods.
The sounds of chopping rang across the quiet slope: thock, thock, thock. He chose only dry hardwood, each stroke heavy and powerful, his rhythm steady. The dull thud of the blade biting into wood sounded just like a hammer striking red-hot iron. Sweat rained down as the bronze muscles of his back tightened and stretched in the sunlight, their lines sharp as knife carvings.
He made no sound, only chopped. As though he would hack all his grief, bewilderment, and the force bottled up in his chest with nowhere to go into the wood.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, a chest-high woodpile stood in the clearing.
Qin Tiexin returned to his master's side and straightened his old dark-blue jacket one last time. Taking the faded brocade pouch from inside his own robe, he gently placed it in the old man's hands, folded across his chest.
"Master, your wife and my little junior brother... are waiting for you."
He carefully lifted his master's remains onto the top of the woodpile and seated him upright, facing home.
He struck a firelighter alight and brought it close to the dry wood.
Flames leaped up with a roar and spread swiftly, gently swallowing that upright figure. Black smoke rose straight into the blue sky, slowly dispersing in the mountain wind.
Qin Tiexin knelt motionless before the fire. Waves of heat washed over his face, scorching his skin painfully, yet he seemed unable to feel them. He merely watched with wide eyes as the figure within the flames grew indistinct, watching the brocade pouch curl in the fire and turn to ash.
Until everything fell still, and only a pile of warm ashes mingled with white bones remained.
He had already prepared a coarse pottery jar. With a piece of wood, he gathered the ashes into it little by little, painstakingly careful not to miss the slightest bit. Finally, he sealed the jar and lifted it into his arms.
To the left of his master's wife's grave, he laboriously dug a deep pit with his hands and the axe. He gently lowered the pottery jar inside, covered it with earth, and packed it down. He erected no headstone, merely transplanting a wild mountain orchid from nearby onto the grave.
By the time all this was done, the sun had begun to slant westward.
Qin Tiexin knelt before the two graves standing side by side and kowtowed three more times. His forehead rested against the cold, damp earth, and for a long time he did not lift it.
"Master, Mistress, little junior brother... you're together again," he said softly. "I'll keep the shop. The craft won't be lost."
He rose, picked up the axe, and headed down the mountain without looking back.
It was evening when he returned to Soot Alley. Many neighbors had gathered at its entrance: Aunt Wang, Uncle Li, Tofu Xishi, Shopkeeper Wang from the wine shop... all were there. Seeing him return, they wore worried expressions, wanting to speak but stopping short.
Qin Tiexin walked up to them and bowed deeply.
"The old master... has passed away." His voice was hoarse but clear. "The funeral has been taken care of. Thank you, uncles and aunts, for looking after us these past days."
Sighs rose from everyone at his words. Wiping away tears, Aunt Wang stepped forward and reached for his hand. "Tiexin, how can you manage alone... If you have any difficulties from now on, you must tell me!"
"That's right! We're neighbors. Don't stand on ceremony!" everyone chimed in.
Qin Tiexin shook his head and bowed again. "The shop is still here. The craft is still here. I... can manage."
He said no more, turning to push open the shop door and step inside, shutting their concerned gazes and sighs outside.
He needed to be alone.
He lit the oil lamp, fetched water from the well, and washed himself from head to toe. The cold water stung his skin, clearing his muddled mind a little. Without putting on a shirt, his sturdy upper body bare, he began cleaning the forge-the place where his master had last stood.
Just then, someone knocked.
The knock was not loud, almost refined, but it rang particularly clearly in the quiet evening.
Qin Tiexin frowned, went over, and lifted the door bar.
A young man in brocade stood outside, fair-faced and seemingly in his early twenties, waving a folding fan. It was Zhao Ming, the Heavenly Craft Workshop's young proprietor. Two broad, burly assistants stood behind him.
Zhao Ming wore just the right measure of regret. His gaze first swept over Qin Tiexin's bare upper body-the sharply defined muscles, the still-wet droplets on bronze skin, and the chest rising and falling slightly with each breath made his pupils contract almost imperceptibly. But he quickly recovered and sighed:
"Little Brother Qin, my condolences. I just heard from the people in the alley that Old Master Qin... Ah, Heaven truly envies talent. While the old master lived, he was a hallmark of Ink City's ironworking trade."
Qin Tiexin said nothing, merely watching him quietly, his eyes dark.
That gaze made Zhao Ming somewhat uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, spread his folding fan, and waved it. "Now that the old master is gone, and you're still so young, little brother, this shop... will be hard to keep afloat, won't it? I hear you emptied your savings treating his illness?"
He paused, then, seeing Qin Tiexin remain silent, continued on his own, his tone growing ever more "sincere." "How about this? Out of respect for the old master's former reputation, and pity for your lonely circumstances, I'll offer six hundred taels for this shop, land and signboard included-that's thirty percent above market price! With that money, you could start a small business or go study. Surely that's better than clinging to this dead-end blacksmith's trade, isn't it?"
Having finished, he looked confidently at Qin Tiexin. A sixteen-year-old boy, suddenly bereft of support, with nothing but four bare walls to his name, faced with the enormous sum of six hundred taels-enough to buy a small courtyard house in Ink City and live comfortably for years-how could he refuse?
At last, Qin Tiexin moved.
He took one step forward.
Just one step, and his tall frame almost filled the doorway, the shadow he cast enveloping Zhao Ming completely. His broad shoulders, bulging chest, and taut waist and abdomen, honed through years of forging, brimmed with the most primal sense of strength in the dim light. Water slid down the channels between his muscles and struck the ground with a faint sound.
The smile froze on Zhao Ming's face. He instinctively stepped back half a pace, and both assistants immediately tensed.
Then they heard the boy speak. His voice was quiet, even somewhat dry, but like cold iron scraping:
"Not for sale."
Zhao Ming froze. "You... what did you say? Six hundred taels, do you know-"
"The shop was Master's," Qin Tiexin interrupted, enunciating every word. "Master passed it to me. I am not selling."
Zhao Ming's face slowly flushed. His feigned regret and sincerity fell away, exposing the humiliation-fueled anger beneath. "Qin Tiexin! Don't spurn a kindness! In your hands, this shop will shut its doors sooner or later! When that happens, you won't get a single copper!"
Qin Tiexin said nothing more. He merely raised a hand and pressed it against the door.
That hand had thick knuckles, a palm covered in heavy calluses, and long, powerful fingers. Just a light press made the old door creak as though it could not bear the burden.
Intimidated by the undisguised strength contained in that hand, Zhao Ming and his assistants involuntarily took another step back.
"Please leave." Qin Tiexin uttered the words, moving his hand from the door's surface to grip its edge.
Zhao Ming's expression shifted. He looked at Qin Tiexin's expressionless face, then at his inhuman musculature. Finally, he gritted his teeth and squeezed out, "Fine! Fine! Qin Tiexin, you've got guts! We'll... just wait and see!"
He flung his sleeve and turned to stride away, the two assistants hastening after him, their retreating figures looking rather bedraggled.
Qin Tiexin watched them disappear at the alley entrance, then slowly closed the shop door.
After barring it, he leaned his back against the cold door and slid down to sit on the floor.
The oil lamp's glow flickered in the darkness, illuminating his young face, exhausted yet still held upright. He lowered his head to look at his hands, covered in calluses just like his master's, then raised his eyes toward the empty patch of ground beside the forge.
It seemed an upright figure was still there, never having left.
Outside the window, Ink City's evening lights were coming on. The Heavenly Craft Workshop's neon sign shimmered with flowing colors, staining half the night sky in gaudy hues.
But deep within Soot Alley, in this silent blacksmith's shop, there remained only a newly kindled forge fire, silently lit by a boy's hands.
The firelight shone in his calm eyes.
This road had only just begun.