Chapter 73: Seventy-Five: Teaching All Qi-Refiners to Lose Their Heads

Seventy-Five: Teaching All Qi-Refiners to Lose Their Heads

As it turned out, when one’s mood was already terrible, something even worse would inevitably happen.

The old craftsman set down his wine flask, then opened it again.

He sat alone in the corner, sipping his gloomy liquor, sip after sip.

He’d already drunk so much at breakfast—this flask wouldn’t last him through the evening’s sword forging.

It was like a man who had just reformed, setting a meticulous new daily schedule—down to the millisecond—to rise at seven, yet couldn’t resist one last indulgence before bed, staying up until six in the morning.

That was exactly how the old craftsman felt now.

Breakfast stall.

“Madam, when will the steamed rice cakes be ready?”

One of the swordsmiths at the next table, a young man, snapped impatiently.

Since entering, this youth had been surrounded by other swordsmiths, clearly the center of their small group.

He wore a clean blue craftsman’s robe, his hair tied in a flowing crown, his expression cold and aloof.

While the others chatted, he idly twirled a wooden chopstick between his fingers, too lazy to join in.

But when his companions mentioned the newly arrived county magistrate, he sneered and mocked twice.

At his impatient demand, the women in the kitchen instantly scrambled into chaos.

The lead woman wiped her hands on her apron, bowed low, and apologized:

“Forgive us, sirs—the new batch of rice cakes isn’t steamed yet…”

A middle-aged swordsmith who had been joking at the door laughed:

“Madam, hurry up—don’t delay Brother Chen’s shift. We idle hands can wait, latecomers don’t matter, but Brother Chen is different—he’s the son of Master Chen, our forge’s youngest newly promoted swordsmith, and after breakfast he’s heading to the Jia-3 furnace. Delay him by even a breath, and your little stall can’t afford the loss.”

The lead woman grew even more flustered, hurried forward, and bowed deeply in apology.

The sword furnaces at Gu Yue Sword Forge, on the west bank of Butterfly Creek, were ranked four tiers: Jia, Yi, Bing, Ding.

Jia-tier furnaces occupied the best positions near Butterfly Creek—Jia-3 was naturally among the top.

Everyone knew that, aside from the mythical Jia-1 furnace (rumored to be purely ceremonial) and the elite Jia-2 furnace (where master craftsmen forged only imperial tributes), Jia-3 was the most formidable in Gu Yue Sword Forge.

The blue-robed youth snorted softly. Facing the women’s reverent glances and the diners’ envious stares, he casually toyed with his chopsticks, saying nothing.

In truth, he’d only entered Jia-3 because of his father’s name—he was merely assisting him—but that didn’t stop him from being an unreachable idol in everyone’s eyes at this stall.

The blue-robed youth thoroughly enjoyed this atmosphere centered on him.

Then, a small girl in a cloth skirt stepped out of the kitchen with a steaming tray of rice cakes and, before all eyes, placed it on the lone table beside them—occupied only by a ragged old man.

Aqing turned and returned to weaving tassels.

The old craftsman quietly pulled out a pair of chopsticks, aligned them neatly, and prepared to eat.

The blue-robed youth’s face darkened instantly. The middle-aged swordsmith beside him noticed and frowned in displeasure:

“Madam, wasn’t the new batch not ready yet? How come some people are already eating? Are you mocking us—or did someone pay more?”

“No, no—this is a regular customer. Aqing brings him a fresh plate every morning…”

“Forget it. I’m not eating.”

The blue-robed youth rose to leave; his sycophantic companions immediately pulled him back.

One brutish swordsmith stood up, snatched the steaming tray from under the old craftsman’s chopsticks, and dumped it onto the blue-robed youth’s table, tossing off a careless line:

“Sorry, sorry—please wait for the next batch.”

The old craftsman held his neatly aligned chopsticks aloft, staring silently at the empty table.

Not a muscle moved.

Others glanced over. Moments passed, yet the lone, hunched old man remained motionless.

The women could only accept it silently, offering no resistance.

The breakfast stall resumed its morning bustle.

The blue-robed youth and his group continued eating and drinking.

The old craftsman ignored the madam’s apologies, lifted his half-empty flask of yellow wine, and drank on—this flask wouldn’t last till night.

He’d understood this since he was young.

If apologies worked, what need would there be for swords in this world?

Half a quarter-hour later than usual, the new rice cakes arrived—along with two extra.

The old craftsman said nothing, ate quietly, set down his chopsticks, and rose to leave.

Clunk.

Another flask of wine appeared on the table.

The old craftsman recognized it—identical to the one in his hand.

He lifted his withered eyelids and saw the clear, delicate face of the cloth-skirted girl.

She’d gone back to the kitchen and brought him another flask.

So this little errand girl didn’t buy fresh each day—she’d stockpiled several flasks.

The path had widened.

“Put it on my tab.” His voice was hoarse.

The old craftsman, who rarely spoke in the morning, said.

The cloth-skirted girl said nothing, turned, and ran back to the wooden bench, climbed up, sat down, and resumed weaving tassels, her slender legs swinging gently.

The old craftsman picked up both flasks, walked calmly through the bustling crowd, unnoticed by all.

The old man returned to the forge on the mid-slope. As soon as he entered, he told a servant standing by:

“Send for Liu Ziwen and Liu Zi’an.”

The servant didn’t hesitate—he left immediately.

Soon, a sickly youth in brocade robes arrived first—Liu Zi’an.

Upon entering, he lowered his hands and eyes, speaking respectfully:

“Brother is still in the county seat; we’ve already sent word. Old Master, please wait.”

“I won’t wait. Go tell him yourself.”

The old craftsman rose from beside the furnace, passed Liu Zi’an, stepped outside, and stood on the grassy slope facing Butterfly Creek, sipping wine, watching the qi.

Liu Zi’an dismissed his attendants and followed the old man to the windy grass, standing silently behind him.

“What’s going on with Zhe Yiqu?”

“The new county magistrate is slipping out of our control.”

“Hah. Is there anything in Longcheng that can escape your Liu family’s control?” asked the old craftsman, who hadn’t left in years.

“Old Master flatters us. This new magistrate is indeed troublesome—Brother still hesitates whether to act…”

The old craftsman cut him off coldly:

“I don’t care how you two handle things, or how hard it is. I only demand one thing.”

“Old Master, please speak.” Liu Zi’an grew solemn.

“For the next three months, the water level of Butterfly Creek must not change. Maintain the status quo—whether it’s Zhe Yiqu or the plum rains swelling the Yunmeng Marsh, the water level on the west bank must remain unchanged!”

The old craftsman added coldly: “After three months, I don’t care if floods drown the land.”

Liu Zi’an froze, then trembled violently, his throat dry: “Old Master’s meaning is…”

“Within three months.”

The old craftsman took another sip. Today’s yellow wine had an extra flask—plenty to spare.

He exhaled a breath of wine, nodded: “Within three months, it will emerge.”

“Good… good… good!” Liu Zi’an nodded vigorously, repeating the word three times. “Is it finally coming…”

The Liu family’s second son’s fingers trembled, clenching and unclenching into fists, even pacing restlessly across the grass.

His face glowed with excitement—as if a dream he’d nurtured for ten years was about to come true.

The old craftsman frowned: “Already excited? Has Zhe Yiqu been resolved?”

Liu Zi’an calmed slightly, shaking his head gently: “Old Master, Zhe Yiqu doesn’t need our attention for now.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand this. Don’t play games with me.”

Liu Zi’an spoke plainly:

“Zhe Yiqu is a massive hydraulic project. Straightening the bends might permanently solve Longcheng’s flooding—but unlike Di Gong Dam, which is technically precise and small-scale, this is the opposite: enormous in scale. It’ll take at least a hundred days to complete.”

He sighed with relief: “But Old Master only needs those final three months. So for now, the west bank of Butterfly Creek is safe—though this will affect Gu Yue Sword Forge’s livelihood six months from now…”

The old craftsman lost interest in the rest—he’d already said: after three months, he didn’t care about floods.

“What about Di Gong Dam?” the old man asked sharply. “I heard it hasn’t been repaired. What are you all dawdling over?”

Liu Zi’an looked embarrassed:

“Di Gong Dam should be built by the county government—they should be rushing. But now… the new magistrate has led them astray—they’ve turned to digging Zhe Yiqu instead.”

The old craftsman waved him off: “So you’re not repairing it either?”

Liu Zi’an immediately shook his head vigorously.

The old craftsman turned, fixed his eyes on Liu Zi’an’s, and spoke slowly:

“Don’t burden me with these messy distractions. I care only for that sword, and only watch the ‘qi’ of Butterfly Creek. The rest is your problem—that’s what you promised me when I brought it to your Liu family.”

Liu Zi’an bowed his head: “Understood, Old Master. Di Gong Dam will be repaired. Butterfly Creek’s water level will not rise in three months. I’ll discuss it with Brother immediately.”

The old craftsman studied him for a moment, then nodded, preparing to return to his thatched hut.

Liu Zi’an’s face showed a look of hesitation, as if he wanted to speak but held back.

The old craftsman halted, too lazy to turn his head: “Spit it out.”

“It’s like this—the new county magistrate is a nuisance. Big Brother’s already trying to consult with higher-ups, but I thought, aren’t you also a big shot? Maybe you could spare a little…?”

Liu Zian paused appropriately and said earnestly: “But it’s fine—if you’re too busy to help, that’s no problem.”

“You’re quite clever, boy.”

The old craftsman chuckled softly, standing still for a moment in thought. “Fine.”

He suddenly turned, his withered finger pointing to the bustling Forge Jia-3 down the mountain by Butterfly Creek, and said calmly:

“Forge Jia-1 won’t be touched. I’m taking that little furnace below. Though it’s been a long time since I last worked… heh, in a few days I’ll make you a little trinket—use it to solve your trouble, or give it to someone who can. Don’t bother me again for three months.”

“Yes!” Liu Zian immediately nodded, deciding on the fate of nearly a hundred swordsmiths below without a second thought.

He wore an expression of deep gratitude: “Thank you, Master!”

The old man turned and walked back inside. On the way, he seemed to remember something, shook his head, and muttered: “What kind of trash are these, using the same furnace as me?”

Liu Zian, who had been holding his breath, frowned in confusion but dared not ask further. He stood motionless, respectfully watching the old man depart.

The old man walked with his hands behind his back, a wine flask dangling from his fingers, heading toward Forge Jia-1, long extinguished and abandoned like ruins.

He was no craftsman.

He was a swordcaster.

He would forge a flying sword to make every Qi-refiner in the world bow their heads.

Here he comes!