Chapter 211 — Eighty Bars of Iron

CHAPTER 211

Eighty Bars of Iron

“A needle,” He Zhen said. “Grade 1. A finger long, straight, hollow in the core, and able to carry one thread of qi from end to end.”

Shi Feng looked at the bar on the anvil. It was dull grey and as long as his hand. Behind it, the little forge in the lean-to at the back of his hut glowed red.

“That's all?” Shi Feng asked.

“Nothing more,” He Zhen said. “The outer workshops teach it to twelve-year-olds. Most manage it within ten tries. Haste won't let you eat hot tofu. Start with the basics before you think about a sword.”

Zhu Liu stood on his new stool by the door with his receipt book ready. He was nervous before the fire was even lit. After the puppet array, he no longer trusted an elder’s claim that a lesson would be simple.

“Elder He Zhen,” Zhu Liu said carefully. “He's already a 1 Mark alchemist. Why does he need to refine?”

“Because he's an inner disciple of Artificer Hall,” He Zhen said. “A disciple who can brew but can't forge a needle makes the whole sect look lazy.”

Shi Feng thought, That's fair. He had a broken sword in his storage ring and no idea how a new one was made.

“How many bars do I get?” Shi Feng asked.

“Eighty,” He Zhen said. “It's the sect's whole stock of Grade 1 spirit iron. A failed lump can be melted down again, but it comes out poorer every time. After the third melt it's just iron.”

Zhu Liu wrote that down. His brush was shaking.

“Eighty bars is the entire year's repair budget,” Zhu Liu whispered.

“Then don't waste them,” He Zhen said. He went to stand against the wall with his arms folded.

Shi Feng put the first bar in the crucible and lit the fire.

Refining demanded different control from brewing. Shi Feng had to hold the fire steady, shape the bar with his hammer, and send qi through the metal at the same time. Each task disturbed the others. His first few movements were awkward.

He drew out the glowing bar and hammered qi into it. The metal held for six strokes. On the seventh, its middle swelled, folded inward, and went dull. Shi Feng frowned at the useless lump.

“Lump,” He Zhen said.

A pale line of script appeared in Shi Feng's mind, the way it always did.

[Ledger: Attempt 1. Result: lump. Note: round.]

“Again,” He Zhen said.

On the second day the lumps were flatter. On the fourth, one of them cracked down the middle with a sound like a snapped bowstring. Zhu Liu dropped his brush and picked it up before anyone saw. He wrote out a receipt for every bar that went in and every lump that came out, in a small neat hand.

Received, one bar. Returned, one lump.

Received, one bar. Returned, one lump.

“Does it have to be that many receipts?” Shi Feng asked.

“The sect master will ask,” Zhu Liu said miserably. “He'll ask about every one.”

Shi Feng didn't doubt it.

On the ninth day the outer court began to gather at the fence. Disciples passing the back wall slowed down to sniff at the smoke and look through the gaps.

“He's been in there since dawn!”

“What is he making?”

“Lumps. Only lumps. Rotten wood can't be carved.”

“Maybe it's a very slow weapon.”

“Maybe he's trying to burn down the sect before Martial Palace gets the chance.”

Shi Feng ignored them and kept hammering.

On attempt eleven he got something thin and straight. It was hollow at the wrong end, bent near the tip, and it snapped in half when He Zhen touched it. The elder looked at the two pieces for a long time.

“A bad needle,” He Zhen said finally.

Zhu Liu wrote progress in the margin. Then he crossed it out, because the next bar gave a lump again.

The Ledger kept writing, and each line was shorter than the last.

[Ledger: Attempt 9. Result: lump. Note: flatter.]

[Ledger: Attempt 31. Result: lump. Note: see Attempt 1.]

[Ledger: Attempt 70. Result: lump.]

By then even the Ledger had run out of kind things to say. Shi Feng thought, At least it's honest.

Nobody else was so polite. After twelve days of work, the sect's newest champion had made one hundred and ten lumps and one bad needle. He Zhen still came every evening, looked at the pile, said “Again,” and went home.

On the twelfth night, Shi Feng pulled the next bar from the fire. Zhu Liu had stopped counting the remaining stock out loud. The errand disciple only stared at the shelf and kept his lips pressed together.

This time Shi Feng slowed his hammer. He tried to feel the iron instead of forcing it. For a moment the bar seemed to hum under his qi.

Then it exploded.

Bang!

The lid of the crucible flew across the lean-to and struck the wall. A thin black cloud rolled out, and a very small piece of burning iron landed in Zhu Liu's lap. He batted it away without making a sound.

[Ledger: Attempt 112. Result: lump.]

Shi Feng wiped soot from his face. The wreck annoyed him, but losing his temper wouldn’t restore the iron. He set the hammer down and checked the damage before beginning again.

Then he heard another sound. It came from the other side of the wall, outside his door: a short, dry scrape. Then another, and another.

Someone was writing on the wall.