Chapter 72: Seventy-Four, the Swordsmith

Seventy-Four, the Swordsmith

The old craftsman stepped out of the thatched hut halfway up the hill.

His smoky blackened little finger gripped a wine flask.

Empty.

He descended alone.

The sky was just beginning to lighten.

June, west bank of the Butterfly River, the air before dawn was damp and cold.

The old craftsman tightened his narrow-sleeved hemp robe.

Wearing this rough hemp garment, it was hot inside the forge, but cold outside.

Every day at this hour, stepping out of the hut and descending the hill, he felt the same.

It gave him the sensation of being a sword, just pulled red-hot from the furnace, then plunged into icy stream water—with a hiss—tempered by heat and cold.

The old craftsman liked this temperature contrast.

Even though he was very old, his back bent as if ready to collapse.

Yet the elderly grew more resistant to heat and cold.

Like iron hammered and forged a thousand times.

But this was not why the old craftsman left the forge each day to descend the hill.

The old craftsman, little finger clutching an empty wine flask, walked down the hill.

Along the way, occasional early risers greeted him:

“Hey, Old Wu.”

Everyone called him that.

Because once someone had asked his name, he always answered, “Wu Ming”—not whether he was surnamed Wu or something else.

Over time, everyone began calling him Old Wu.

In fact, few in the entire Ancient Yue Sword Workshop even knew how long Old Wu had been there.

Few even knew what he did, and none cared.

But all the senior swordsmiths recognized him.

Like the old man who strolls downstairs—you don’t know where he lives or who he is, but you recognize him by sight, grow used to him, yet remain strangers.

To everyone, the old craftsman was exactly like that.

He was never seen during day or night.

Every morning at the second watch, precisely, he descended from the mountain, from the forge long extinguished, to the workshop’s market to buy wine.

Day after day, month after month, year after year, always the same.

In everyone’s eyes, he was a reclusive, ill-tempered old craftsman.

Why do they all call this “Old Wu” a craftsman?

Isn’t it obvious?

Within the Ancient Yue Sword Workshop, roles are divided; no idle hands are kept. Craftsmen are ranked: Craftsman, Sword Worker, Sword Smith, Master Smith…

The hierarchy is strict and harsh, based solely on skill.

To forge swords for Luoyang’s nobles, skill cannot be faked.

A Craftsman is the lowest rank, capable only of producing dull, soulless work.

The Ancient Yue Sword Workshop has an unspoken rule.

The closer a forge is to the Butterfly Creek, the higher the status of the craftsman.

The forge guarded by the old craftsman sits far up the hillside, long extinguished, clearly abandoned—so what else could this idle old man be but a Craftsman?

Moreover, after guarding the forge for years, it has never forged a single sword.

So…

He truly is a Craftsman.

The old craftsman admitted this to himself as he descended again to buy wine.

Today, someone on the path teased him again:

“Old Wu, off to get wine from the little girl again?”

The old craftsman ignored him, as if he hadn’t heard, walking past without reaction.

He ignored everyone who spoke.

If someone blocked his path and persisted, he would frown, wave his hand quickly, not even look, his face full of distaste, shooing them away.

The old craftsman wanted to make no sound.

He hoped others would notice this, and leave him in peace.

This wasn’t because he was mute, but because every morning his mood was terrible:

The old craftsman had not slept all night.

His schedule was reversed.

He slept by day, worked by night.

Thus, every morning, he was exhausted from a night’s labor.

In this state of sleep deprivation,

he hated the noise of waking nature, hated the blinding morning sun, even hated any cheerful early riser who tried to speak to him.

The old craftsman only wanted to shut himself away.

Let no one damn well bother him.

The old craftsman entered the morning market below the hill, punctual as always.

This morning market, strictly speaking, was not a market.

It was a cluster of open-air breakfast stalls run by female workers and family members from the workshop.

They prepared simple breakfasts for the many low-ranking craftsmen who rose early to labor.

Because craftsmen could not leave freely—leaving required permission—and outsiders could not enter the Butterfly River workshop to trade.

Only Master Smiths and Sword Smiths received three meals a day from the Liu family; other low-ranking craftsmen were paid in cash and had to feed themselves, yet the workshop’s canteen food was too expensive.

Many craftsmen were bachelors who had no idea how to buy ingredients or cook.

Thus, these breakfast stalls, run by diligent women who brought morning food from outside, arose naturally.

The Liu family turned a blind eye.

The old craftsman was in better spirits today, because few people disturbed him on the way down.

Everyone seemed to know his foul temper and mostly ignored him.

The old craftsman liked this quiet solitude amid the bustle.

Like an ice blade stuck inside a roaring furnace.

He walked again to the familiar breakfast stall, took his usual seat near the back.

No sooner had he sat than a little girl in a cloth skirt, with a “Yue” character carved into her forehead and bright, lively eyes, set down her needlework, jumped off her stool, ran to the kitchen, brought back a full flask of wine, and placed it on the old craftsman’s table.

The old craftsman stared at the greasy, grimy tabletop, not glancing at the girl beside him. He silently placed his empty flask on the table, then pulled eight copper coins from his robe and laid them out in a row.

The girl tiptoed, her small hand reaching to the table’s edge, carefully gathering the eight coins into her palm.

She collected the payment, left the full flask, and picked up the empty one.

She walked away without looking back.

Not a word exchanged. Not a single glance passed between them.

The old man and the girl—this routine was perfectly in sync.

The other women and customers at the stall were not surprised; for the reclusive old man, this was routine.

The old craftsman unsealed the new flask, leaned in, and sniffed.

Familiar scent.

He nodded in satisfaction.

This breakfast stall was run by several skilled women who wove sword tassels; the leader was an older, capable woman, and the girl with the bright eyes was one of them—the quietest.

Few words. Didn’t bother him.

That was why the old craftsman chose her to fetch wine from an old tavern in the county.

Every day, eight cash.

Five cash bought three taels of yellow wine.

Two cash bought a plate of steamed rice cakes.

One cash was her fee for running errands.

Day after day, always the same.

Except once, during the flood, when she disappeared for a while, making his mornings unbearably irritable.

This slender, graceful girl in the cloth skirt had been fetching his yellow wine for nearly two years.

And she had never once asked for a raise in her fee.

But for the old swordsmith, who grew especially irritable each morning, what mattered most was… few words and good sense.

She had spoken only once, when she first bought wine for him—what had she said?

Something like… her name was Qing…

Forgotten.

The old craftsman felt not the slightest interest.

On some days, he caught sight of the cloth-skirted young weaver being bullied by older female weavers—who stole her money or woven goods—but the old craftsman showed no reaction, continuing to eat slowly his meal, called breakfast but actually dinner; he was old, and had to chew carefully.

The old craftsman felt his time was running short; he must finish that one thing quickly, then die. He had no time to mind such trivial matters.

In the breakfast shop, the old craftsman sat at a seat tucked away from the morning sun, sipping a small mouthful of yellow wine, squinting as he waited for his meal from the kitchen.

At this hour, there were few customers; including the cloth-skirted young weaver, several female weavers had paused their work and sat on a row of benches to the right, heads bowed, meticulously weaving variously patterned sword tassels.

The old craftsman watched quietly as they worked with nimble, skillful hands.

These sword tassels were beautiful, adorned with patterns whose lines felt profoundly pleasing to his eyes—especially the strange curves spontaneously woven by some spiritually attuned female weavers, which sometimes offered the old craftsman no small measure of inspiration.

Exquisitely refined works of sword tassel art were born from the hands of these ordinary, humble women, struggling to make ends meet.

But this was not surprising.

Who could have imagined that the finest sword techniques in the world were held by a small group of Wu-Yue female cultivators living in seclusion within the great marshes?

The old craftsman suddenly recalled someone once telling him this:

Myths are born from the mundane.

The old man tilted his head back, pouring the wine down his throat—this saying was worth another sip.

The old craftsman was in good spirits.

But then, at a neighboring breakfast table, a group of swordsmiths arrived, sat down, and one of them turned to the shopkeeper to tell a bawdy joke, sparking a burst of laughter and good-natured scolding.

It was loud.

The old craftsman set down his wine flask, his wine-induced mood fading.

And the next topic of conversation among these noisy swordsmiths made the old craftsman’s spirits plummet.

The old man quietly tucked away his wine flask and turned to gaze toward the county government offices on the eastern bank of Butterfly Creek.

A new, young county magistrate had come, determined to build a new waterway called Zhe Yiqu in Longcheng, completely diverting the flow of Butterfly Creek.

If the water was cut off, how could swords be forged?

For the first time in his life, the old craftsman had heard such a decision that defied ancestral tradition.

To be honest, beyond anger, there was a touch of… amusement.

He laughed in disbelief.

What kind of oddity had arrived?

Here it comes—words followed by action. There will be more tonight—back to two updates!

(End of Chapter)