The forge of Old Man Lu sat at the eastern tail of Foundry Lane. There, the town drainage canal emptied into the reed shallows.
The roaring blast smelters of the Zhao Clan used forty water-powered air pumps and dumped tons of grey melted rock waste into the river. Unlike them, Lu’s shop was a single stone hut. Inside, an old charcoal hearth glowed cherry red under the rhythmic wheeze of a wooden box pump worked by a young helper with burn-scarred shins.
Old Man Lu was seventy years old. His right arm was twice as thick as his left, his knuckles twisted by five decades of hammer recoil, his eyes squinting against flying embers through eyes clouded by years of iron smoke.
He didn’t sell fancy dress swords with gold-trimmed brass handles to young master rich young men.
Along the soot-stained timber racks hung working tools. Tree-felling axes, quarry wedges, iron crowbars, and mountain sabers forged for border escort drivers.
Pei Jing walked into the shop.
The heat hit his tough, leather-hard skin, but he didn’t break a sweat. His thick outer skin blocked out the heat and kept his body cool inside.
“Looking for steel,” Pei Jing said, his voice cutting through the hiss of cooling water.
Old Man Lu looked up from his anvil. There, he was straightening the tooth of an iron farm rake. He looked at Pei Jing’s stance. The balanced stance, the unmoving shoulders, the quiet thickness of his forearms. His watery old eyes narrowed as they stayed on the grey, thick, calloused knuckles of Pei Jing’s right hand.
“You’ve been pounding stone, young fellow,” Lu rasped, dipping his tongs into cold salt water with a violent hiss of steam. “Those aren’t the soft knuckles of an ink-brusher. Escort blades are on the north rack. Three silver coins for hardened spring steel. One silver five hundred for folded iron.”
Pei Jing walked to the north rack.
There were eight sabers hanging from rawhide loops.
He didn’t test them by swinging wildly in the air. He unhooked the first blade, held the handle with his right hand, and laid the flat of the metal across his left index finger four inches forward of the iron handguard.
The blade tipped forward right away, the point crashing against the timber floorboards.
“Balance point’s too far forward,” Pei Jing murmured. “Six inches past the guard. Way too tip-heavy. Takes too much wrist strength to pull it back after a missed downward swing.”
He put it back and took the second.
The second saber was too light—barely four pounds—with a thin spine that bent under two fingers of sideways push. A thin blade would buckle when striking the skull plate of a mountain hunting beast.
He moved down the rack until his fingers touched the seventh weapon.
It was a three-foot mountain saber—a Shan Dao.
The blade was thirty-six inches of cold, dark metal, single-edged, with a straight spine half an inch thick at the blade collar that narrowed to three-eighths of an inch near the clipped point. The profile was broad—two inches wide along the belly—with a shallow groove running two-thirds of its length to reduce weight without making the blade bendy.
Pei Jing balanced the weapon on his finger.
The balance point sat just under four inches in front of the iron guard.
It weighed about eight pounds.
A heavier blade hits harder, while a blade with its weight closer to the handle turns much faster in your hand. If too much weight sits out near the tip, the blade feels clumsy and slow to turn. That left you wide open if you miss.
This blade was built right. The steel narrowed smoothly toward the tip. That kept the weight close to his hand while leaving plenty of punch in the sweet spot to chop through bone.
An ordinary young man swinging an eight-pound iron saber for five minutes would strain his wrists and wear out his shoulder.
For Pei Jing, whose Tier 5 Skin Tempering had locked his joints tight and steady, the eight pounds felt like a natural part of his own forearm.
He held the saber before his eyes and inspected the edge.
It was a classic three-layer blade. Two outer sides of softer iron wrapped around a core of hard steel. The softer iron sides soaked up impact so the blade wouldn’t snap on a hard hit. Meanwhile, the hard steel core held a keen twenty-degree edge.
The grind was still rough. It had been shaped on a coarse river grindstone. That left sideways scratches along the edge that would catch and drag on bone.
“How much for this one?” Pei Jing asked.
Old Man Lu walked over, wiping his soot-blackened hands on his leather apron.
“That one was forged for an escort master who died of swamp fever before he could collect it,” the old smith said. “Hard steel core, charcoal-forged and cooled in sheep fat. One silver coin and four hundred copper cash, including the sword sheath of split elm and cured pigskin.”
Pei Jing didn’t bargain. The materials and charcoal alone were worth one silver.
He reached into his sleeve, drew out one royal silver metal bar and four neat stacks of one hundred copper cash, and laid them on the wooden anvil block.
He picked up the saber and its pigskin sword sheath.
A grey pulse flickered across his vision:
“A fair contract,” Pei Jing said.
He slipped the saber into the pigskin sheath. Then he walked out of the forge shop, returning to the West Pavilion.
In his room, he set up the Black Mountain Whetstone.
He removed the saber from its sheath and clamped the handle between his knees.
Those rough grind marks on the edge had to go. A rough blade catches and drags on tough meat, losing its power before it reaches the bone. A smooth, polished edge glides straight through muscle without sticking.
He poured well water onto the dark rock slab.
Shhh-krrr. Shhh-krrr. Shhh-krrr.
Pei Jing began the evening sharpening ritual.
He held the blade at exactly nineteen degrees, moving the steel along the dark stone in long, nonstop strokes from heel to tip.
One hundred strokes along the right edge. One hundred strokes along the left edge.
Black metal shavings piled up in thick strips along the dark rock face. The dark rock cut away the rough grind marks. Then, the hard steel core emerged as a dark, cloudy grey line sandwiched between the lighter outer iron layers.
After forty minutes of nonstop work, he wiped the edge with an oiled rag and tested it against a loose thread from his hemp sleeve.
The thread parted before the steel touched the wooden table beneath it.
“The edge is true,” Pei Jing said.
He stood in the dark courtyard, the night sleet dusting his shoulders.
He raised the three-foot saber with both hands, entering the deepest stance of Gale Saber: Nine Slits. A standard military saber form recorded on an old training signboard he had learned by heart from the town guard post gate.
The form consisted of nine smooth, flowing moves. Three slanted downward chops, two level waist sweeps, two rising blocking cuts, one straight thrust, and one reverse spin recovery.
He began his practice.
Hah.
The eight-pound saber cut through the cold air.
His left foot dug into the frozen mud, his right hip snapped forward, and his back muscles tightened. He drove the heavy eight-pound blade down in a sharp angled slash.
The blade whistled—a low, deep hum that shook through the pigskin-wrapped handle into his palm.
He didn’t pause at the bottom of the stroke. He let the driving force carry the blade around his left hip, rotating his wrists to shift directly into the second slit: a level sweep at kidney height.
Whuff.
For two hours, Pei Jing repeated the nine-stroke set without a second of pause.
The heavy eight-pound blade yanked hard at his shoulders with every swing. But his Tier 5 Skin Tempering kept his joints locked tight. Nothing slipped. Nothing strained or burned.
Right at the two-hour mark, the floating sight screen lit up:
Pei Jing lowered the blade, sinking his breath down into his lower belly.
He returned inside, stoked the hearth fire. Then he stewed three pounds of pork fat and cracked beef bone in his cooking pot with wild ginger. As the rich, steaming broth filled his bowl, he drank deeply. He felt the rich fat and warm broth pour strength back into his tired shoulders and forearms.
He wiped the dew from the steel with a greased rag, slid the saber back into its pigskin sword sheath with a crisp snick. Then he secured it to his hemp belt.
He had his blade. The first night’s work was in the books.
Now his daily grind had cold steel behind it.