Seok Jiseung
The next morning, Tang Mujin left the house as soon as he woke.
Just as the Tang family had long been responsible for the Qingcheng Sect's medical practice in Chengdu, the Seok family oversaw its blacksmithing. The head of the Seok family was Seok the Smith.
Seok the Smith was nearing seventy. His body was small and his appearance unimpressive.
But among all those who lived under the Qingcheng Sect's umbrella in Chengdu, none were more famous than Seok. For one reason only—his skill.
His metallurgy was unrivaled in all of Sichuan, and his name was even known beyond the province.
So renowned was he that even Mujin, who usually trusted his own eyes and judgment, could not help but place greater faith in Seok's reputation.
Come to think of it, there's no way Master Seok would have made something poorly. I must have been mistaken.
For a moment, Mujin considered turning back. But he changed his mind.
It had been a long time since he had paid respects to Master Seok, and that alone was reason enough to visit.
Inside the forge, Seok might have been a gruff craftsman, but outside, he was the sort of grandfatherly figure who slipped candy to children.
When Mujin was a boy, he too had received such treats more than once. Now that he was already on the road, he thought he might as well ask after the old man's health.
After a short walk, Mujin arrived at the forge. Countless weapons and tools were displayed outside.
Ordinary smiths dared not display their wares outside, for fear of petty thieves.
But Seok's forge lay within Qingcheng's protection—there was no need for such worries.
Mujin peered inside, intending only to greet Master Seok.
But instead of the white-haired elder, a man in his thirties was hammering away at glowing-hot steel.
Who is that?
The man sensed his presence, turned his head, and looked at him.
"Looking for something in particular?"
"No. I came to pay my respects to Master Seok."
"My father? He hasn't been well. He hasn't come to the forge since last winter."
So this was Seok's son.
If the elder hadn't been working since last winter, then surely it was his son who had forged the new needles. The timing was too coincidental. Could the flaws he noticed truly not have been his imagination?
"Then I'll just take a look around before I go."
"Feel free."
The man turned back to his work. Mujin glanced at him briefly before shifting his gaze to the wares displayed outside.
Some pieces were reasonably well-made, but most bore clear flaws.
It was obvious at a glance that not all of them were the work of the same hand.
The fine pieces must be Master Seok's. The clumsy ones, the son's.
Though even calling them "clumsy" seemed a stretch. By the standards of ordinary martial artists, even those blades would be considered middling to fine quality.
Strange. I've never even swung a hammer, yet now I look down on these as if my eyes had grown sharper.
After inspecting the weapons for a while, Mujin's eyes drifted back to the smith at work.
The sight of him sweating, hammering away—it felt oddly familiar.
Once, Mujin had known nothing of blacksmithing. He hadn't known the sequence of work, or the tools used. But now it was different.
That was no ordinary dream. I can see exactly how the forge operates. I can even anticipate what he'll do next.
At last, Mujin was certain: the dream must have been some kind of fateful encounter. Perhaps useless to him as a physician—but an encounter nonetheless.
His purpose was, for all intents, fulfilled.
Yet Mujin did not leave. He lingered, simply watching the forge.
The clanging of iron, the glow of heated metal—it soothed him somehow.
After some time, the blacksmith finished shaping a short dao.
He plunged the glowing blade into a basin of water. Chiii! Steam hissed up as the dao cooled. Now it only needed to be reheated once more, cooled slowly, and given its finishing touches.
The smith wiped sweat from his brow and looked at Mujin.
"You've stayed quite a while. Seems you had more than a casual visit in mind. What brings you here?"
Mujin considered brushing it off, but in the forge he found he didn't want to speak empty words. He chose honesty.
"My father purchased needles here, about half a month ago."
"Needles? Then you must be the son of Physician Tang. Mujin, was it?"
"That's right."
"I'm Seok Jiseung. Did your father lose them, perhaps?"
"No, nothing like that."
"Then what's your business? A man doesn't stand around a forge this long without a reason."
In truth, he hadn't had a real purpose—he had simply lingered because the atmosphere eased his heart.
But now that the conversation had begun, he decided he might as well speak frankly.
"To be honest, I wasn't satisfied with the condition of the needles my father received."
"What?"
He had barely begun to speak when Seok Jiseung cut him off.
One eyebrow arched sharply—as if to say, And what would some physician's brat know about steel?
The way he glared made it clear: he had no interest in hearing the rest of Mujin's explanation.
"My skill is indeed less than my father's. But not so poor as to be called a hack. It's been twenty years since I first stepped into this forge to assist him, and twelve years since I first took up the tongs and hammer."
It was the kind of reply that could easily offend. Mujin, however, had no intention of quarreling with Seok Jiseung. Without hesitation, he apologized.
"I didn't mean to imply that Brother Seok lacked skill. If my words sounded insulting, I apologize."
Yet the faint anger on Seok Jiseung's face did not fade. Mujin's words had touched a raw nerve.
Does he think I want to be less than my father?
When he first inherited the forge, Seok Jiseung had been confident.
He thought he could take his father's place immediately, his name spreading far and wide. That martial masters would bow their heads, begging him to craft them a single sword.
But for the past half-year, not a single person had praised his work.
Influential figures within the Qingcheng Sect bluntly compared his skills to those of the elder smith.
Even green novices who had just joined the branch weren't much different. Outwardly they pretended otherwise, but they rifled through the racks, searching specifically for the late Master Seok's blades.
What infuriated Seok Jiseung most, however, was their so-called discernment.
Ninety-nine out of a hundred couldn't even recognize a good blade when they saw one.
If he claimed one of his father's swords was his own, they frowned. If he claimed one of his own was his father's, they beamed with delight.
For them, the quality of the sword meant nothing. What mattered was boasting of a weapon made by a famous master.
Each encounter like that filled Seok Jiseung with bitterness.
Now he looked Mujin up and down. A neat appearance, pale hands.
Yes—pale hands. Not thick with calluses like his own, not stained with the rust of iron under the nails. Plainly the hands of one who had never held a hammer, who knew nothing of smithing.
And then another thought crossed his mind:
This brat isn't even a martial artist.
Even the finest craftsman, when faced with the frown of a martial artist, had to bow his head. For if sharp words led to drawn steel, the outcome could be dire.
But Mujin was different. The Tang family was no higher in status than the Seok family. And Seok Jiseung was older, if only by a little.
True, Mujin had apologized sincerely. But wrong was wrong—why should he be obliged to accept it?
A faint smile touched Seok's lips. At first glance it seemed genial, but beneath it lurked something sly.
"There's no need for such words. It's true, I fall short of my father."
"You're still young, Brother Seok. In time, you may well surpass Master Seok. They say the indigo grows deeper than the blue, after all."
"Kind of you to say. But lately, I've been at a loss. I can't quite tell where I'm lacking."
"Is that so."
"But now, a customer with keen eyes has come. That's quite an opportunity for me, don't you think?"
Mujin sensed the shift in atmosphere. But before he could speak, Seok pressed on.
"With such discerning eyes before me, perhaps I'll learn exactly where my shortcomings lie. Isn't that so?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"It's simple. With your fine eye, point out my flaws. But first, I need to be sure of your discernment. Wait here."
Seok Jiseung stepped outside, returning with an armful of weapons. Then went out again, and brought back another load.
He spread them all across the floor.
"Most of what you see here was forged by me. My father set down his hammer half a year ago, so naturally it falls to me. But not all of his work has been sold—after all, not everyone has eyes as sharp as yours."
Gesturing to the weapons, he continued:
"Let's test how discerning our Physician Tang really is. Then we'll see if you truly know what you're talking about, or if you're just another who complains without knowledge."
"What is it you want?"
"Among these blades, pick out the ones my father forged. His reputation reached beyond Sichuan, while I—barely keep food on the table. The difference in skill should be obvious. Shouldn't it?"
Mujin glanced at him. Seok Jiseung was watching with a sly grin, confident that failure was inevitable.
So, you think I'm easy to make a fool of, do you?
In truth, Mujin was equally displeased. He knew he had misspoken earlier. But he had admitted his fault and apologized at once. Was that not enough? For Seok to press him this hard was excessive.
When Mujin didn't answer right away, Seok sneered.
"What's wrong? A moment ago you said my needles were clumsy."
At that point, Mujin felt any thought of backing down vanish. He let out a sigh.
"…Very well. I'll take a look."
He lowered his gaze to the blades laid across the floor. There were perhaps twenty in all.
Forged for the training of outer sect disciples, their forms were nearly identical. None had been honed to a sharp edge. Seok had deliberately chosen similar ones.
But as Mujin examined them, his brow furrowed.
He could see right through Seok Jiseung's shallow little ploy.