Chapter 22
Chapter 22
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: Zhongjing
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"These guys are completely insane! Get the hell out of here!"
As expected, Dang Mujin and Yi Chung were chased out of the forge.
Yi Chung still wore a smug look despite being thrown out, but Dang Mujin was different. His face burned with embarrassment, leaving him unable to think straight.
Being scolded and kicked out was humiliating enough, but that was a minor issue by comparison.
What truly mortified him was the proposal Yi Chung had made to the forge owner.
Dang Mujin burst out.
"No, Elder! You can't just say it like that—who's going to listen?"
"Why not?"
"If you're making a proposal, at least make it reasonable! Something like, 'I don't have money right now, but I'll make something to pay you back with.' Who’s going to agree if you plop down in a chair and say you're just there to watch?"
Yi Chung looked at Dang Mujin as if he were the one who didn't get it.
"Why should I do that?"
"Because... well!"
"You have the skills, and people would pay good money to watch you work. Lending out the forge for a few days and gaining some knowledge in return? That's a fair trade. The one who should be bending over backward isn't you—why are you the one groveling?"
"But... how does that blacksmith even know who I am?"
Yi Chung clicked his tongue.
"Think about it: if you turned down a chance to witness the world's greatest martial artist's techniques, whose fault is that? The master's? Or yours for not recognizing him? It's the same here. It's entirely the forge owner's fault for lacking the discernment."
Yi Chung spouted his mad logic.
But the argument itself sounded oddly convincing, so Dang Mujin couldn't really refute it.
"...I appreciate you acknowledging my skills, but still. It just feels off. I can't quite explain it, but getting rejected is the normal response."
"What can you do? You don't have the money to rent a forge anyway. Just shut up and follow me."
"Yes, sir."
The two bustled through the streets of Zhongjing. The second-largest forge, then the next one down.
Unfortunately, the results weren't great.
"You fucking lunatic, say something that makes sense! Piss off!"
The owner of Zhongjing's fifth-largest forge spewed curses while brandishing a fist the size of a pot lid, threatening the pair.
That's right. In short order, Dang Mujin and Yi Chung had been turned away five times.
For some reason, Dang Mujin felt a strange sense of relief.
"That's it, right? Let's just head back and rest for the day. We can think of ways to rent a forge again tomorrow."
"No. There's a place I spotted on the way here."
Yi Chung led Dang Mujin along briskly.
His steps didn't slow, nor did his stride shorten. This wasn't the gait of someone rejected five times already. It was a shameless confidence that transcended ordinary mortals.
Moments later, they arrived at a place so small and shabby it couldn't compare to the others they'd seen.
The faded sign read [Feng's Forge].
As Yi Chung and Dang Mujin entered, a wizened old man greeted them.
"What are you looking for?"
Feng's Forge didn't make any weapons—only farming tools like hoes and plows were on display.
Yi Chung tried the same persuasion tactic this time too.
"...you can watch from over there!"
Dang Mujin stood a short distance away, head bowed low.
Even after repeating the scene several times, he wasn't getting used to it—in fact, he only grew more embarrassed.
They'd get rejected again, surely. And if they were, they could finally go back and rest—
But unexpectedly, the wizened blacksmith Feng nodded.
"Yes, you can use it."
Yi Chung looked satisfied, as if he'd finally met someone reasonable.
Dang Mujin asked in surprise.
"You're lending us the forge? For real?"
"I can't even sell all the stuff I've already made. No reason not to lend it out to someone who needs it."
Dang Mujin eyed the forge's small hearth. It hadn't been lit yesterday or today—not even embers remained. A chill even hung in the air.
Old Man Feng continued in a deflated tone.
"Business is bad enough already, and now the rain on top of it—nothing's selling. You can use it for a day or two, no problem. I'll just sit here listening to the hammering and watching the raindrops."
"Thank you, sir."
Dang Mujin gave a light clasped-hands salute in gratitude. A perfectly reasonable response.
But the less reasonable Yi Chung tacked on another demand. Boldly.
"Could I borrow some materials and firewood too?"
At this point, even Old Man Feng hesitated.
Dang Mujin could read the old blacksmith's hollow eyes: *What the hell is this madman?*
Yet Old Man Feng was as kindly as the deep wrinkles around his eyes.
"Sigh, fine. But at least make me a sickle before you go."
It wasn't that he needed a sickle—there were dozens unsold in the forge.
He just knew that having the other side pay even a small price would ease their sense of debt.
Old Man Feng stepped outside the forge and sat on a small stool under the eaves, lighting his pipe.
The damp tobacco gave off a harsh, straw-fire bitterness. Rainwater splashed up from the ground, wetting his ankles.
The forge interior was quiet. They must be lighting the hearth.
The old blacksmith closed his eyes and pictured the young man's face from moments ago.
It overlapped with his own younger self: a young, diligent smith in a small but tidy forge.
But now the young man had grown old, and so had the forge.
Rain pattered down. Old Man Feng nodded off with his eyes closed, slowly drifting into sleep.
What woke him was the sound of hammering from inside the forge. Strong and rhythmic.
Old Man Feng glanced inside. Red glows flickered from the hearth.
He hadn't lit a fire in days and had been worrying the hearth spirit might be angry. This was good.
Soon after, a *shh, shh* sound came from within—like grinding something on a whetstone.
Old Man Feng furrowed his brow. It was too soon for that. Sharpening came at the end.
*No way.*
He'd asked for a sickle, so they were probably polishing one from the pile inside to give him.
Better to give freely than have his kindness repaid like a thief. With that thought, Old Man Feng stood to chase them out.
The forge interior was a sight. The graying man at the side showed zero interest in smithing, doodling on the floor, while the young one hammered away at a sickle blade onto a handle with a bored expression.
Just as Old Man Feng opened his mouth to speak, the young man set the finished sickle aside.
Its shape felt a bit off.
No matter that it was a farming tool—anything handmade bore the craftsman's personality.
To Old Man Feng, who'd made them for decades, this sickle clearly hadn't passed through his hands. Not a chance.
*Already finished?*
Old Man Feng strode over and picked it up. How badly had they botched it to finish so quick?
But his expectations missed the mark entirely.
The handle felt familiar—he'd made it himself. But the blade's condition was suspicious.
A bluish edge gleamed; it didn't look like a farming tool at all.
Old Man Feng tapped the side with a small metal scrap.
*Ping*—a clear ring, the kind only a well-made tool could produce.
He tapped the tip next. Clear again.
Finally, the thick curved part. Still clear, identical to the first.
Old Man Feng grabbed a scrap of wood from the floor and swung the sickle down.
He expected it to *thunk* into the wood, but it *sliced* through smoothly.
It was a soft paulownia stem, true, but well-dried—not something you'd call tender.
Old Man Feng narrowed his eyes and inspected the blade. No dents or chips. Perfectly clean.
*Why?*
His question wasn't *how*, but *why*.
Not *how did you make this?*, but closer to *why does something like this even exist?* He'd never imagined such a thing possible.
A sickle wasn't straight—it curved gently.
The blade was asymmetrical, thicknesses varying by section. Harder to make than a straight sword.
Yet an inferior smith would make a sickle over a sword for one reason: no life-or-death stakes if it underperformed.
Sickles were thus usually crude. Good enough to cut weeds or rice stalks. A bit dull? Hone it roughly on a stone and done.
But this sickle was different.
Sharper than a sword forged with a master bladesmith's utmost care, with excellent, uniform strength.
Show it and an ordinary blade to a martial artist and tell them to pick one for a duel to the death—they might agonize before grabbing this sickle.
Yes. This was less a farming tool and more a freakish sword.
If there was a flaw, it was the plain shape—but one glance at the young man's bored face explained that.
*No heart poured into it.*
Old Man Feng's hands trembled. Crushing self-loathing washed over him.
The nameless youth looked at him and said.
"Why? Something wrong?"
"Of course there is... Yes, something's wrong!"
Old Man Feng snatched up the sickle and dashed out into the pouring rain.
"Where are you going!"
The youth's urgent cry came from behind, but he had no time for it.
He stopped at the first forge where Dang Mujin and Yi Chung had been rejected.
As Old Man Feng entered, the smith and his two apprentices turned to stare.
"Old Man Feng? Out in this downpour—what's up...?"
Their eyes flicked from his face to the sickle in his hand.
Plain shape, but eerily menacing.
Thunder cracked just then. *Flash—boom.*
The forge owner instinctively stepped back.
Maybe Old Man Feng harbored a grudge, blaming his own failing business on this larger forge.
"Old Man Feng, calm down...!"
But Old Man Feng's focus was elsewhere. He scanned around, grabbed a sword from the display.
A finely made blade. Worth thirty or forty silver taels rough, or even gold from a rich fool.
Old Man Feng laid it on the table with the left hand, blade up, gripped firm.
Then struck down with the sickle in his right.
*Ping.*
He checked the sword. A large chip.
No—beyond a chip; the tip looked sliced off. About a quarter or fifth of the blade.
Impossible? Maybe. But he'd seen it happen.
"..."
The forge fell silent. The clueless young apprentice protested to Old Man Feng.
"Sir! That's merchandise—you can't ruin it like...!"
The owner cut off his tactless apprentice and asked Old Man Feng, voice shaky.
"Sir. How did you make this sickle?"
"I didn't."
"Then? Where'd you buy it?"
"No. Some fellows asked to borrow the forge. Nothing better to do, so I let 'em—and they made this."
The forge owner's mind flashed to those two idiots.
"The graying fellow and a young guy in his twenties. Right?"
Old Man Feng nodded. No need for more words.
The forge owner and Old Man Feng bolted toward where the two were working.
Torrential rain blinded them still.
But it didn't matter to the pair.
When they reached the forge, the graying man stood outside. Old Man Feng gave a nod and hurried in—his interest was the young smith, not the middle-aged man.
But as the forge owner tried to follow Old Man Feng inside, the middle-aged man blocked him.
"Wha... what's this?"
"Entry fee's two silver taels."
What forge in the world charged admission? Especially just to look!
The smith protested immediately.
"That's ridiculous! It's not even your forge!"
Yi Chung glanced inside and replied curtly.
"Of course it is. Don't like it? Turn around."
Moments later, the smith handed over two silver taels.