“Are you out of your minds? Get out of here, now!”
Naturally, Tang Mujin and Gwiui were promptly kicked out of the blacksmith’s shop.
Gwiui, despite being thrown out, maintained an air of confidence. Tang Mujin, on the other hand, was burning with embarrassment, unable to regain his composure.
Being scolded and kicked out was humiliating, but that was a minor issue compared to the real embarrassment.
The real shame lay in the outrageous proposal Gwiui had made to the blacksmith.
Tang Mujin couldn’t hold back his frustration.
“Master, who would ever agree to something like that?”
“Why not?”
“If you’re going to make a proposal, it should be reasonable! Something like, ‘I don’t have money now, but I’ll repay you by making something.’ Who’s going to agree if you just tell them to sit back and watch?”
Gwiui looked at Tang Mujin as if he couldn’t understand his concern.
“Why should it be like that?”
“Why? Because—”
“You have skills, and watching you work is worth paying for. If they can broaden their horizons by lending their forge for a few days, it’s a profitable deal. The one who should be bowing is them, not you.”
“But how would that blacksmith know who I am?”
Gwiui clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“Imagine missing the chance to witness the skills of the greatest martial artist. Is it the fault of the master, or the fault of the one who failed to recognize them? It’s the same situation. It’s the blacksmith’s lack of insight.”
Gwiui’s argument was absurd, yet it sounded strangely convincing, leaving Tang Mujin without a retort.
”…I appreciate the compliment, but it just doesn’t work that way. It’s normal to be turned down.”
“Well, what can we do? We don’t have the money to rent a forge. Just follow me.”
“Alright.”
The two wandered through the streets of Chongqing, visiting the second-largest blacksmith, then the third.
The results were less than promising.
“Are you out of your mind? Get lost before I beat you up.”
The owner of the fifth-largest blacksmith shop in Chongqing threatened them with a fist the size of a pot lid.
Indeed, Tang Mujin and Gwiui had been rejected five times in a short span.
Strangely, Tang Mujin felt a sense of relief.
“Is it over now? Let’s just call it a day and rest. We can think about renting a forge again tomorrow.”
“No. I saw a place on our way here.”
Gwiui led Tang Mujin with unwavering steps, neither slowing down nor hesitating. It was the stride of someone who had been rejected five times, yet exuded confidence beyond the ordinary.
Soon, they arrived at a small, shabby blacksmith shop, incomparable to the ones they had visited earlier.
The worn-out sign read [Pung’s Blacksmith].
As they entered, an elderly man greeted them.
“What can I do for you?”
Pung’s Blacksmith didn’t seem to deal in weapons; only farming tools like hoes and plows were on display.
Gwiui tried his usual persuasion tactic.
”…I’ll let you watch from over there!”
Tang Mujin hung his head in embarrassment from a distance.
Despite the repeated scenario, he only felt more ashamed each time.
They’ll probably get turned down again. If they do, maybe they can finally rest—he was thinking when, unexpectedly, the elderly blacksmith, Mr. Pung, nodded.
“Yes, you can rent it.”
Gwiui looked pleased, as if he had finally met someone sensible.
Tang Mujin asked in disbelief.
“You’ll really let us rent the forge? Are you sure?”
“I haven’t been able to sell the items I’ve made. If someone needs the forge, there’s no reason not to lend it.”
Tang Mujin glanced at the small forge. It seemed it hadn’t been lit today or even yesterday. The forge was cold, and a chill lingered in the air.
Mr. Pung continued in a subdued voice.
“With so few customers and the rain, nothing’s selling… You can use it for a day or two. I’ll just listen to the hammering and watch the raindrops.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Tang Mujin expressed his gratitude with a polite bow. It was a sensible response.
However, the less sensible Gwiui added another request, boldly.
“Could we also borrow some materials and firewood?”
At this point, even Mr. Pung hesitated to answer.
Tang Mujin could read the thought in the old blacksmith’s eyes: ‘What kind of lunatic is this?’
Yet, Mr. Pung, with his face lined with wrinkles, was a man of generous spirit.
“Alright, but make me a sickle in return.”
It wasn’t that he needed a sickle; there were dozens unsold in the shop.
Mr. Pung simply knew that asking for a small favor in return would ease the burden of debt.
He stepped outside, sat under the eaves, and lit his pipe.
The damp tobacco tasted acrid, like straw. Raindrops splashed up from the ground, wetting his ankles.
Inside the forge, it was quiet. They must be lighting the fire.
The old blacksmith closed his eyes, recalling the young man’s face he had just seen.
His own younger self overlapped with the image. A young, diligent blacksmith, a small but tidy forge.
But now, both the young man and the forge had aged.
The sound of rain filled the air. Mr. Pung nodded off, slowly drifting into sleep.
What woke him was the sound of hammering from inside the forge. Strong, rhythmic hammering.
Mr. Pung glanced inside the forge. The red glow of the fire was visible.
He hadn’t lit the forge in days. He had been worried that the Fire God might be displeased, so this was a good thing.
Soon, a scraping sound came from inside. The sound of something being sharpened on a whetstone.
Mr. Pung frowned. It was too soon for that sound. Sharpening was the final step.
‘Could it be?’
He had asked for a sickle, but it seemed they were just sharpening one of the unsold sickles.
He would rather have given his help for free than have it returned with such a thief’s mindset. Mr. Pung stood up, ready to kick them out.
Inside the forge, the scene was a sight. The older man, with graying hair, seemed uninterested in the work, doodling on the ground, while the young man, with a nonchalant expression, was fitting a handle onto a sickle with a small hammer.
Just as Mr. Pung was about to speak, the young man placed the finished sickle beside him.
The sickle’s shape was unfamiliar.
No matter how simple a tool, a craftsman’s touch always leaves its mark.
To Mr. Pung, who had crafted farming tools for decades, this sickle was not one of his creations. Not at all.
‘Already finished?’
Mr. Pung approached and picked up the sickle. How poorly made must it be to finish so quickly?
But his expectations were completely off.
The handle was familiar, as it was one he had made. But the blade was peculiar.
A bluish sheen ran along the edge, far from the look of a mere farming tool.
Mr. Pung tapped the side of the sickle with a small piece of metal.
Ting—a clear sound rang out. The kind of sound only well-made tools produce.
He tapped the tip of the sickle. Again, a clear sound.
Finally, he tapped the thick, curved part of the sickle. The same clear sound as before.
Mr. Pung picked up a piece of wood lying around the forge and struck it with the sickle.
He expected the blade to stick into the wood with a thunk, but instead, it sliced through with a smooth swish.
Though the wood was soft ash, it was well-dried and not something easily cut.
Mr. Pung squinted at the sickle’s edge. There were no dents or chips. It was pristine.
‘Why?’
His question wasn’t ‘how,’ but ‘why.’
Not ‘how was this made,’ but ‘why does such a thing exist?’ He had never imagined such a tool could exist.
A sickle is a tool with a curved blade.
Its shape is asymmetrical, and the thickness varies. It’s harder to make than a straight, even sword.
Yet, the reason less skilled blacksmiths make sickles instead of swords is simple.
Unlike swords, a sickle’s performance doesn’t determine life or death.
Thus, sickles are often made crudely. As long as they can cut grass and harvest rice, they’re good enough. Even if they dull, a quick sharpening suffices.
But this sickle was different.
It had the sharpness of a sword crafted with utmost care by a master swordsmith, and an exceptional, consistent strength.
If a martial artist were shown this sickle and an ordinary sword and asked to choose one for a life-or-death duel, they might, after much deliberation, choose this sickle.
“Right. This thing is more of a bizarre sword than a farming tool.”
If one had to nitpick, it was a bit plain in design, but the reason for that was clear from the indifferent expression on the young man wielding the hammer.
“This wasn’t made with any real care.”
Old Man Pung’s hands trembled as a wave of intense self-reproach washed over him.
The young man, whose name Pung didn’t know, looked at him and asked, “What’s wrong? Is there something off about it?”
“Of course it’s off… Yes, it’s strange!”
Clutching the sickle, Old Man Pung dashed out into the pouring rain.
“Where are you going?”
The young man’s urgent shout echoed behind him, but Pung had no time to pay attention to such voices now.
He stopped at the blacksmith’s shop where Tang Mujin and Gwai had first been turned away.
As Pung entered, the blacksmith and his two apprentices turned their eyes toward him.
“Isn’t it Old Man Pung? What brings you here in this heavy rain…?”
Their gazes shifted from Pung’s face to the sickle in his hand.
It was an ordinary-looking object, yet there was something eerily unsettling about it.
Just then, a clap of thunder roared. Flash—boom.
The blacksmith instinctively took a step back.
He wondered if Old Man Pung held a grudge against him for his relatively large blacksmith shop, which might have been affecting Pung’s business.
“Please, calm down, Old Man Pung…!”
But Pung’s focus was elsewhere. He glanced around, then picked up a sword displayed in the shop.
It was a well-crafted sword, worth at least twenty or thirty silver coins, and if sold to a wealthy fool, it might even fetch gold.
Pung placed the sword on the table with his left hand, holding it steady with the blade facing up.
Then, with the sickle in his right hand, he struck the sword.
Ping—
Pung stared at the sword. A large chip had formed on the blade.
No, it was more than just a chip; it looked as if a quarter or a fifth of the blade had been sliced off.
Whether such a thing was possible, he didn’t know. But it had happened right before his eyes, so he had no choice but to believe it.
”…”
Silence fell over the blacksmith’s shop. An apprentice, unaware of the situation, protested to Old Man Pung.
“Sir! How could you ruin something we’re supposed to sell…?”
The blacksmith, blocking his oblivious apprentice, asked Pung, his voice slightly trembling.
“Old Man, how did you make that sickle?”
“I didn’t make it.”
“Then where did you get it?”
“Some people asked to borrow the forge. I had nothing better to do, so I let them, and they made this.”
The image of two fools flashed through the blacksmith’s mind.
“A man with graying hair and a young fellow, right?”
Pung nodded. There was no need to say more.
The blacksmith and Pung ran toward the forge where the two were working.
The rain was still pouring down so heavily that it was hard to keep their eyes open.
But that didn’t matter to them.
When they arrived at the forge, the man with graying hair was standing outside. Pung gave him a nod and went straight inside. His interest lay with the young blacksmith, not the middle-aged man.
However, as the blacksmith tried to slip inside after Pung, the middle-aged man blocked his way.
“Why… why are you stopping me?”
“There’s an entrance fee of two silver coins.”
What kind of forge charges an entrance fee? Especially when you’re not even buying anything!
The blacksmith immediately protested.
“How does that make any sense? It’s not even your forge!”
Gwai glanced inside the building and replied curtly, “Of course it makes sense. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
Moments later, the blacksmith handed over two silver coins.