Chapter 311 — Sword

CHAPTER 311

Sword

The first furnace exploded at noon.

The furnace burst with a flat, wet crack that shook the whole refining yard. Black smoke rolled across He Zhen's refining yard, and three apprentices dived behind the charcoal heap.

“That was the lightning residue,” Shi Feng said, coughing. “It doesn't like the slag.”

“No kidding,” He Zhen said. The elder stood at the edge of the yard with his brush case clutched to his chest. “That furnace was forty years old.”

“I'm sorry,” Shi Feng said.

“It's fine. It's—” He Zhen watched a piece of brick slide off the roof. “It's fine.”

Shi Feng had brought a cloth bundle that morning: uneaten Thunder-Marrow, grey slag from a month of failed pills and needles, and the cracked knife. He wanted to forge his own sword for the first time. The Treasury’s swords cost more than he wished to pay, so he’d decided to make this one himself.

Zhu Liu had written Own sword, first attempt at the top of the page. By the third furnace, he had given up writing anything.

The second furnace went at the hour of the goat. It did not crack, it simply folded inwards and sat down. The third exploded at dusk with the loudest bang yet, and blew the yard's door off its hinges.

“Ah,” Shi Feng said.

He stood in the smoke with his sleeves scorched. His face was black to the eyebrows.

“Senior Brother Shi,” Zhu Liu said through his sleeve. “Maybe you should rest.”

“One more,” Shi Feng said.

“Elder He Zhen's last furnace is the apprentice forge,” Zhu Liu said. “It's very small.”

“Small is good,” Shi Feng said.

The apprentice forge was a squat clay box for making nails. Its fire was already low. For once, he let the low fire set his pace. Shi Feng knelt and fed it a thin thread of Thousand Forge Flame instead of flooding it. He added slag to the Thunder-Marrow a pinch at a time. Then he hammered the lump flat, folded it, and hammered again.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Outside the yard, a small crowd had gathered. Elders from the hall stood among the apprentices. Tian Luo, with his register tucked under his arm, watched with the face of a man who had seen cauldrons explode but never so many in a day.

He no longer watched the gathered elders. Each hammer blow and change in the metal’s sound held his attention. At the fortieth fold, the lightning residue finally settled into the slag instead of fighting it. Shi Feng kept the heat steady.

At the hundredth fold, he plunged the blade in a bucket of cold well water.

The hiss went on for a long time.

He lifted it out.

The sword was three feet long, dull grey, broad, and thick-backed. No pattern, inscription, or tassel decorated it. Shi Feng lifted it to inspect the clean edge from guard to tip. The fading daylight slid along the blade without making it shine.

“It looks like a plank,” a young apprentice whispered.

“A heavy plank.”

“Watch,” Shi Feng said. He swung it slowly down at the iron anvil.

There was no crash. The blade went through the anvil's horn, through the top of the stand beneath it, and stopped an inch above the dirt. The cut half of the horn slid off with a dull, heavy thud.

The yard went absolutely still.

“…My anvil,” He Zhen said.

“I'll pay for it,” Shi Feng said.

Tian Luo had stepped forward. He leaned over the blade, not touching it, and his eyebrows climbed slowly towards his hairline.

“Three days apart, one must look at a man with new eyes,” Tian Luo murmured. “It's not a Mark piece. It's not graded. It's made from garbage. The lightning marrow in it is… sleeping.”

“It's just a sword,” Shi Feng said.

“The waves behind push the waves ahead! This will be talked about for a hundred years!” He Zhen cried, forgetting his furnaces entirely. “It needs a name! A great name!”

“Dragon-Slaying Marrow Fang!” an elder called.

“Heaven-Cleaving Ash Blade!”

“Thunder Emperor's Plank!”

“Stop that last one,” Tian Luo said wearily. “Shi Feng, the Hall wants to know. What do you call it?”

Shi Feng looked at the sword for a moment.

“Sword,” Shi Feng said.

The elders waited for the rest.

“That's all?” He Zhen asked.

“It's a sword,” Shi Feng said. “That's its name.”

A clatter came from the storehouse roof. Lin Langtian was laughing so hard that his chestnut bag tipped over. He scrambled after the rolling nuts, still howling at Shi Feng’s choice of name.

“Sword!” Lin Langtian wheezed. “He named it Sword! Junior Brother, I taught you better than this! Call it Lin's Gift!”

“No,” Shi Feng said.

A broom handle tapped the ground behind him.

“Three furnaces,” Li Changyuan said. The old man had appeared in the smoke, without anyone seeing him come. He held a stub of brush and a scrap of paper. “Forty years old, thirty, and an apprentice's. Plus one anvil horn, one door, one roof corner. Four hundred and twelve stones.”

“It was the third furnace that took the door,” Shi Feng said.

“Four hundred and twelve,” Li Changyuan said. “Pay at the Treasury. Qian Mo will give you a receipt.”

He shuffled off into the dusk.

Zhu Liu looked at the page, then at the sword, then at Shi Feng.

“Senior Brother Shi,” Zhu Liu said. “Do I write it as an expense of the Sword?”

“Yes,” Shi Feng said. “It'll be the most expensive plank in the Hall.”