Chongqing
"These guys are seriously crazy! Get out right now!"
Naturally, Tang Mujin and Goiyi were thrown out of the forge.
Goiyi still wore a proud expression despite being kicked out, but Tang Mujin was different. His face burned so hot he could hardly think straight.
Getting scolded and tossed out was shameful enough, but that was a minor issue compared to the real humiliation—what Goiyi had actually suggested to the blacksmith.
Tang Mujin burst out:
"Elder, who on earth would agree to something like that?"
"Why not?"
"If you're going to make a proposal, it has to sound reasonable! Like, 'I don't have money right now, but I'll pay you back by making tools.' Sitting down and telling him to just watch us work—who would agree to that?"
Goiyi looked at him as if he were the strange one.
"And why shouldn't they?"
"What do you mean, why? Because—!"
"You've got skill. Watching you work is worth good money in itself. If a blacksmith can rent out his forge for a few days and broaden his horizons in the process, that's a bargain. The one who should be bowing his head isn't you—it's him. Why are you lowering yourself?"
"But… come on. How's he supposed to know who I am?"
Goiyi clicked his tongue.
"Think about it. If someone turned down the chance to witness the martial arts of the number one under heaven, would that be the master's fault? Or the fool's fault for not recognizing greatness? Same thing here. It's the blacksmith's lack of discernment, not yours."
Goiyi's words sounded insane.
But the logic, twisted though it was, held a certain weight. Tang Mujin found himself unable to argue.
"…Well, thanks for the confidence, but it doesn't feel right. I don't know how else to explain it, but refusing us—that's the normal response."
"What does it matter? We've got no money to rent a forge anyway. Just follow me."
"Yes, sir…"
The two wandered through the streets of Chongqing. First the second-largest forge, then the third.
But the results weren't good.
"Get the hell out, you clowns, before I smash your faces in!"
At the fifth-largest forge in Chongqing, the master cursed at them and raised fists the size of cauldron lids to drive them off.
So it was—Tang Mujin and Goiyi had already been rejected five times in short order.
Somehow, Tang Mujin felt relieved.
"That's it, right? Let's just go rest. We can think of another way to borrow a forge tomorrow."
"No. I saw a place earlier."
Goiyi strode off without hesitation. His pace never faltered, his stride never shrank. This wasn't the walk of someone who'd just been turned away five times. It was the stride of shameless confidence, beyond the reach of ordinary men.
Before long, they arrived at a forge unlike the others. Small, shabby, barely standing.
The half-rotted sign read: Pung's Forge.
Inside, an old man greeted them.
"What can I do for you?"
Only hoes, plows, and farming tools were on display—no weapons at all.
And again, Goiyi made the same outlandish request.
"…We'll let you watch!"
Tang Mujin hung his head in shame from a distance.
It had happened so many times already, but instead of getting used to it, he only felt more and more humiliated.
Another refusal. Please, just refuse this time so we can go home and rest.
But to his surprise, the old smith, Master Pung, nodded.
"Very well. I'll lend it to you."
Goiyi looked satisfied at last, as though he'd finally met a sensible man.
Tang Mujin was stunned.
"You'll lend us the forge? Truly?"
"I can't sell what I've already made, and the work's slow. If someone has use for it, I see no reason not to."
Tang Mujin glanced at the small hearth. It hadn't been lit today—or yesterday either. No embers, not even a wisp of smoke. The place felt cold, lifeless.
Master Pung's voice was weary.
"Few customers these days. And with this damned rain, no one's buying. You can use it for a day or two at most. I'll sit outside, smoke my pipe, and listen to the rain while you work."
"Thank you, elder."
Tang Mujin bowed politely. At last, a normal reaction.
But Goiyi, being less than normal, made an additional demand—boldly.
"Can we borrow materials and firewood as well?"
This time, Master Pung hesitated.
Tang Mujin could read his eyes clearly: What kind of lunatic is this man?
But the old blacksmith was as generous as the deep lines in his face.
"Fine. But in return, make me a sickle before you leave."
It wasn't that he truly needed one—dozens of unsold sickles already lay about. But he knew that asking for even a token payment would ease his sense of obligation.
He stepped outside under the eaves, lit a pipe, and watched the rain.
Inside, the forge came alive. A fire roared in the hearth. The steady rhythm of hammering filled the air.
Master Pung smiled faintly and closed his eyes, imagining his own youth in the faces of those inside—himself once young and diligent, the forge once bright and full of life.
The sound of rain lulled him toward sleep.
But then—clang, clang, clang. Strong, rhythmic hammering jolted him awake.
He peeked inside. The hearth glowed red.
For days, it had been dark. Now the flames burned, and the sound rang out, clear as a bell. Even the God of the Forge himself would be pleased.
Then came the shhhk, shhhk of something being sharpened.
Master Pung frowned. Too soon. That was a sound for the finishing touches.
Don't tell me…
He thought the youth might simply re-grind one of the old sickles and pass it off as new. He was ready to storm in and kick them out—better no help at all than such shameless deceit.
But what he found inside stopped him cold.
The older one with gray-flecked hair was doodling idly on the floor, while the young man calmly drove the handle into a finished blade.
A sickle, complete.
And not one of Pung's own.
'Already finished?'
He snatched it up, expecting trash. But—
The blade shimmered faintly, blue light glinting along its edge. This was no ordinary farm tool.
He struck it with a scrap of iron.
Ping—!
A clear, ringing tone.
Again, on the tip. Ping—!
Again, on the thick curve. Ping—! The same clear sound.
Finally, he struck a piece of wood with it. He expected it to bite and stick.
Instead—shhhk!—it sliced clean through.
The handle was made of smooth ash wood. Though supple, it had been properly seasoned; it could not be called weak or flimsy.
Old Master Pung narrowed his eyes and examined the sickle's edge.
No dents. No chips. Just flawless sharpness.
Why?
His doubt was not how but why.
Not, "How was such a tool forged?"
Rather, "Why does such a thing even exist?"
He had never imagined such a tool could appear in this world.
A sickle is not straight. Its form bends in a soft curve.
Its edge is asymmetrical, its thickness uneven at different points. Far harder to forge than a simple, straight sword.
And yet, the reason lesser smiths make sickles instead of blades is simple:
Unlike swords, a sickle's poor performance does not mean life or death.
That is why sickles are usually crude, hastily made things. As long as they cut weeds and harvest rice stalks, it is enough. Even when they grow dull, a quick grind on a whetstone suffices.
But this sickle was different.
It bore an edge keener than a master-forged sword, with a strength both extraordinary and evenly tempered.
Pung thought, If a martial artist were handed an ordinary sword and this sickle, and told to stake his life on one… he might choose the sickle after long deliberation.
Yes—this was less a farm tool than a strange sword (奇形劍) in disguise.
If there was a flaw, it lay in its plain, almost bland shape. But Pung could guess the reason just by glancing at the young smith's bored expression.
He did not even put his full heart into this.
Master Pung's hands trembled violently. A crushing wave of self-loathing engulfed him.
The nameless young man noticed and asked:
"What's wrong, elder? Is something strange about it?"
"Of course it's strange… Yes, it's all wrong!"
Clutching the sickle, Pung rushed out into the pouring rain.
"Where are you going?"
The young man's urgent shout followed, but Pung had no time to answer.
His feet carried him straight to the very first forge where Tang Mujin and Goiyi had been rejected.
When Pung stormed inside, the blacksmith and his two apprentices looked up at once.
"Why, isn't that Master Pung? Out in this downpour—what brings you here?"
Their gazes shifted from his face to the sickle in his hand.
It looked ordinary at first glance—yet carried a chilling aura.
A flash of lightning tore the sky. Bzzak—! Krrrroooom.
The forge master instinctively stepped back. For a fleeting moment, he thought Pung might have come with vengeance in his heart, blaming their thriving forge for his own failing trade.
"M-Master Pung, please calm yourself…!"
But Pung's mind was elsewhere. He scanned the shop, seized a sword from the display.
It was finely made. Worth twenty or thirty taels of silver at least. To the right buyer, perhaps even gold.
He laid the sword flat on the table, blade up.
Then, with his right hand, he brought the sickle down upon it.
Ping!
He stared at the sword. Its edge had not just chipped—it had lost a chunk, as though a quarter, perhaps a fifth, of the blade itself had been severed.
He could hardly believe it. But it had happened before his very eyes.
"..."
The forge fell silent.
One of the apprentices, still too green to read the atmosphere, protested.
"Master Pung! That was merchandise for sale! How could you—"
The forge master silenced him with a sharp look, then turned back, voice unsteady.
"Elder… how did you make this sickle?"
"I didn't make it."
"Then who? Where did you buy it?"
"Not bought. Some strangers asked to borrow my forge. I had nothing better to do, so I lent it. They made this."
Two faces flickered in the forge master's mind.
"A gray-haired fellow, and a young man, not yet thirty. Was it them?"
Pung nodded. No need to say more.
Without another word, both men rushed into the rain, heading for Pung's forge.
The storm poured so hard it was hard to keep their eyes open. But they did not care.
When they arrived, the gray-haired man—Goiyi—stood outside as if waiting. Pung brushed past him without a glance; his only concern was the young smith inside.
But when the forge master tried to follow, Goiyi blocked his way.
"W-what's the meaning of this?"
"Entry fee is two taels of silver."
What forge in the world charges an entry fee—especially when one isn't even buying?
The master snapped, outraged.
"That's absurd! This isn't even your forge!"
Goiyi gave the interior a brief glance, then answered calmly:
"Of course it makes sense. Don't like it? Then leave."
Moments later, the blacksmith handed over two taels of silver.