The next morning, the granite was hard enough to send every stroke back through the pick. Pei Jing kept at it in long shifts, stopping for water, food, and a chance to stretch his back. Even a tempered arm could tire. Even a good tool could break if he swung at the rock in anger.
Earth qi braced his bones. Metal qi sharpened the feel of the pick in his hands. When it struck a seam, he could tell by the sound where the stone was ready to part. The old stream had already cut most of the depth. He worked along the fracture, widening the neck and clearing ledges and loose rock from the shaft. At the end of the first day, he could see twelve feet down. By the end of the second he’d opened it to twenty-six. Each day he put in two focused hours on the layout and the seams. By the third morning he could feel where the weight of the bank would go if the ground gave way.
He hauled the rubble out and cleared the stream’s path. The rope he’d taken from the man with the gaff kept him from climbing back and forth with a load on his shoulder. By the third afternoon, the bottom lay forty feet below the canyon bed. It smelled of damp stone and crushed iron. The cold reached him through his sweat-soaked tunic.
