Today, like many other days, Cha Ming stepped out of the Clear Sky World in the middle of the morning. The air in the city, which blew through an open window in his chambers, was unusually good today due to a strong wind from the east. He shut the window and walked down the stone steps that led to the reception area. The smiths gave him rushed greetings as he entered the workshop. Their busy workload was due in large part to his growing reputation. With more work came more practice, and with more practice came increased quality. Now, it was difficult to find anyone who didn’t know about Pai Xiao’s smithy.
“Ease up on those blows,” Cha Ming instructed one of the masters, who nodded and did as he was told. The metal he was working on, golden plum iron, was a soft metal that was typically used to craft defensive jewelry. The man, one of the two jewelers in his smithy, was aware of that fact, but unaware of another. “You’ll shape it faster if you pound harder,” Cha Ming continued. “But golden plum iron retains its best internal structure from the first casting and quenching. The more force you use, the more you destroy that structure. It’s the same reason you didn’t heat the metal to more than half its melting point before working with it.”
“Thank you for your instruction,” the master said, grateful for the advice. His blows softened even more as he adjusted his approach to use the least strength possible in forming the leaflike brooch. It would soon be covered in tiny runes and socketed with many rune-covered gems. He would only realize the benefits of his care during the final assembly, when the runes were integrated into the jewelry. The intact structure of the golden plum iron would lead to better energy conductivity and a slightly faster activation—a crucial metric when assessing the value of the brooch.
Satisfied at the man’s progress, Cha Ming continued through the forge. He nodded as he passed some, but to others, he left small pointers. These pointers were all within the bounds of his experience, the epiphanies he’d gained on those three main late-grade weapons and those hundred or so other mid-grade creations.
It seemed like a normal day, but as he walked, he spotted a flash of movement and felt a faint sense of trepidation. “Stop!” he shouted, zipping through the room in a flash, crashing through some workbenches. He arrived just in time to snatch a man’s wrist as he was smacking down on a freshly cast sword. The room grew silent, and Cha Ming breathed out a sigh of relief.
“You stupid, stupid man,” he scolded.
The smith, confused and uncertain, banished his hammer. Cha Ming motioned to all the other smiths to huddle around the man’s workbench. “What do you all see?” he asked the smiths. They looked at each other uncertainly. Was this a test?
“Pyric iron,” one of the older, more experienced smiths said. “I’ve worked with it a few times. Great for forging flame-aligned blades, though it’s a little finicky when you try alloying it with anything.”
“That’s right,” another man said. “If you add too much of anything else, it seems to either weaken the metal to the point that it’s useless or solidify until it’s unworkable and brittle. It’ll sometimes crack when you work on it, even when hot.”
“Very good,” Cha Ming said, nodding. “I’ve worked with the metal a few times too. You can forge weapons up to peak-magic grade with it. It’s best alloyed with fire or metal-based alloys, though earth-based alloys can also be used if you want a little more sturdiness and heft. Limited amounts are fine. If you use water-based alloying metals, any blades you create will crack as you forge, since it hardens so quickly. It’s still doable, but anything you make will have to be cast directly without subsequent hammering. Warhammers will work just fine with that method—they’ll be hard but a bit brittle.”
He tapped on the table near the cast blade, which hadn’t even been knocked out of its mold yet. It had been cooling as Cha Ming spoke. “What do you think he alloyed this with?”
One of the men, who’d answered before, shrugged. “I see flecks of red in the metal. I’d guess it’s a fire-based alloy.”
“I’ll have to agree with him there,” another man said, nodding. “Look at how those red specks are squirming about in the metal, looking for release. I’d have melted them for longer if I were him, but it’s nothing a little hammering won’t fix.”
The first man nodded.
“And what did you actually use?” Cha Ming asked the man, who’d finally recovered from his initial confusion.
“I was in a mood to experiment,” the man said. “Just like you do every day. I decided to see what would happen if I mixed in azure nickel flakes.”
He heard a couple of groans from the audience. One of them was the most senior man among them, but another was one of the youngest smiths, the same one who’d seen him crafting the demon blood steel spear.
“It looks like someone’s been studying,” Cha Ming said with a smile. “Tell me, why is it a bad idea to alloy azure nickel flakes with pyric iron?”
The younger man hesitated, then spoke. “Because pyric metal is mildly pyrophoric.”
“Pyro-what?” another smith said. “Use plain words, friend.”
“It means,” the oldest among them said, “that given enough air, it will catch fire. Burn, as it were.”
“But that makes no sense,” another man said. “We’ve got the pyric iron stored in open air in the shed. If it could catch fire, it would have done so.”
“In most cases, the concentration of oxygen in the air isn’t enough to do anything,” the man said, shrugging. “Even at high heat. But if you add in azure nickel… Well, it’s a wind-based metal, and the wind-element qi in it doesn’t exactly agree with pyric iron. Now tell me, what happens when you put oil and a wick together?”
“Nuthin’,” the man said. “Nuthin’, unless you light the wick.”
“Right,” the man continued. “Sparks, friction, and the like. Tell me, how many sparks and how much energy do you think a peak-bone-forging cultivator can deliver into a chuck of metal by smacking it? If it was at room temperature, it might not do anything, but this metal is near its melting point, so it’s especially easy to set off. There’s no telling what would have happened if the grandmaster hadn’t caught his hammer.” He bowed to Cha Ming. “Many thanks, Grandmaster Pai Xiao.”
The smith who’d been about to strike the cast sword paled. “My apologies, Grandmaster. What I’ve done is inexcusable.”
“No harm, no foul,” Cha Ming said. “Next time, read up on the metal you’re working with. A little reading never killed anyone. You’re all free to use my reference library. As for how much damage it could have caused, I know a little about that.” He winced and put his hand to his left arm. “I once did something similar when I was an initial-marrow-refining cultivator. Let’s just say I didn’t recover from the damage until I broke through to early grade.”
The implication was clear. If the man had struck it, anyone below core formation would be dead.
Suddenly, as many of them were leaving to return to their workbench, a gleam appeared in Cha Ming’s eyes. “Interesting,” he thought out loud. “Can I take that from you?” he asked the smith, who wasn’t quite sure what to do with his mold. Should he throw the metal out together with the mold or try to separate them once the blade cooled?
“Please,” the man said, glad to be rid of it.
Cha Ming lifted the mold and blade, and to everyone’s surprise, he took it to the furnace. Then he activated a formation he had engraved in the stone floor. It hummed to life, and a thin shield of force now stood between everyone and Cha Ming’s work area.
“The metal is mildly pyrophoric,” Cha Ming mumbled. “Does that mean the metal would be different if allowed to react?” He tapped the mold lightly with his finger, and the piece of cast metal fell onto a cushion of transcendent force in the bottom of a large cauldron. Then he activated his orange-gold flame and heated it from below.
The metal had already been near its melting point, so it only took a quarter hour to melt. Soon it was nothing more than a soupy mixture with fl
oating red flakes. Nodding, Cha Ming increased the heat. The reason the flakes hadn’t melted was because the smith heating the mixture hadn’t been strong enough. So he increased the intensity of his flames and continued until the red flakes dissolved into the mixture, which hissed and crackled as it did.
“This part might be dangerous, so put up your personal shields,” Cha Ming instructed the growing audience.
The many smiths did as they were told. They activated smaller shields in front of each of their workbenches, then continued observing from a distance. Once each of the shields were up, Cha Ming separated a small portion of the pyric iron and azure nickel alloy. The molten metal seemed to pulse and sizzle. With just a little more energy, something would happen, so Cha Ming closed the cauldron, which then grew transparent so he and everyone could see inside. He then heated the small block to increasingly high temperatures, until finally, it began to pop and spark.
The small explosion, fortunately, was no match for the cauldron. The blob continued to spit and crackle until finally, it stopped. He continued increasing the temperature, and after a few rounds of subsequent crackling, the metal stopped reacting so violently. After reaching a certain point, a component in the metal evaporated, leaving behind only a translucent red blob.
Encouraged by this result, Cha Ming opened the lid, retrieved the purified blob, and threw in another one. He repeated the process from before, adding the purified product into an increasingly large blob of transparent metal.
“Now what to do with the metal?” Cha Ming muttered after he’d purified everything. The transparent blob was completely different than any metal he’d ever worked with. In fact, its melting point had greatly increased, so its other properties probably had as well.
Shrugging, Cha Ming poured the blob of metal back into the cauldron and summoned a few other alloying metals. Instead of rejecting the materials like it usually did, this newly refined metal took them all in like long-lost cousins. Once he finished making up for the metal he’d removed in the purification process, Cha Ming poured the mixture into the mold of a sword. The metal cooled, and when it finally solidified, it glowed a light pink color.
Cha Ming proceeded to hammer away at the blade, forging it into a proper sword blade. When he finished, he began carving intricate flame-based runes. They weren’t weak runes he’d normally use on such a metal, but the type he’d use on a late-core weapon. He’d personally seen what temperatures the metal it was made of could withstand.
Once he finished carving the weapon, he threw it back into the fire and went over to a rack of premade hilts. He hated crafting them, so he made them in batches. After mulling over his choices for a while, he ultimately picked a hilt made of cold iron essence with blue-gold gilding. A cultivator would want the blade to be hot, so keeping the hilt cool was paramount. Just to be sure, he carved some protecting and insulating runes into the hilt. Then he threw the hilt into the flames as well. After it reached a certain temperature, he joined the hilt with the blade using tongs and heated them even further. The metal sweated together, forming a strong seal that aligned with the runes he’d carved.
Having completed the body of the weapon, Cha Ming didn’t summon crystalized elemental essence like he normally did. This time, he took out two blobs of liquified elemental essence from the barrel and dosed one with a high concentration of water evanescence and another with fire evanescence. The essence seeped into the runes of the hilt and blade, and once the last of the potency had disappeared, he shoved the blade into the remaining barrel of liquified elemental essence. The weapon hummed as it drank in heaven and earth energy.
Cha Ming took out the blade and grasped it. He poured fire qi into the blade, and it immediately turned light pink. Even without using any special techniques, such a blade would burn through most things.
“Now who to sell it to?” he wondered out loud as he tested the blade’s balance. Like the other three, it was a late-core-grade weapon. Unlike the others, however, he hadn’t forged it with a flaw. Maybe I should keep it and sell it when I head back north, he thought.
“I’ll buy it,” a voice suddenly said from the back of the room. Cha Ming and the other smiths in the room looked back to see a middle-aged man in green robes standing there. Mo Ling, who was usually good at repelling unwanted visitors, stood beside him with her head downcast.
“You can’t just walk into the smithy while the grandmaster is crafting,” one of the smiths said indignantly.
Cha Ming held up his hand to quiet him, however. This newly arrived cultivator wasn’t simple. More importantly, his robes were black and his hair was blond. This man was exactly who he’d been waiting for. Cha Ming held the sword with two hands, point down, and bowed. “I’d be happy to discuss selling this blade to Senior Wang.”
The men in the room began to murmur. There weren’t many people named Wang in Ashes, and none of them were powerful. There was, however, a powerful man with that family name in Bastion, the capital city of the Ji Kingdom. Not only was he rich, but the group he directed owned one of the most profitable forges in the kingdom. Working for them was a dream all Southern smiths aspired to.
“Please, follow me to my office,” Cha Ming said. “This lowly smith would be happy to make you tea.”
The man smiled lightly at the mention of tea.
“I’m not one to refuse a good cup of tea,” the man said. “Lead the way. You may call me Director Wang Yong or Director Yong for short.”
“Please enjoy,” Cha Ming said, handing a cup of tea to the middle-aged man seated before him. Director Yong smelled the tea appreciatively before taking a sip. He raised his eyebrows in surprise as the hot beverage touched his lips.
“This isn’t from the South,” Director Yong said. He continued drinking, humming lightly as he did.
“I used to travel in my youth,” Cha Ming said. “At some point, I took to tea drinking as a hobby. The one who sold me this called it Meadow Field oolong tea. He claimed it was aged ten years.”
Director Yong snorted. “He lied. This is clearly Silver Leaf oolong tea, aged eight. Still, you were right to buy it. It’s good tea no matter what name it was sold under.”
“It was worth every penny,” Cha Ming said. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of this Silver Leaf oolong tea. And you mentioned the North? Have you been there? I heard it’s a very dangerous place to go, especially for Southerners.”
“For some, it’s difficult,” Director Yong said. “But with the right channels, anything is possible. Transporting small expensive things like tea across the border is easiest, though for some reason, tea isn’t very popular in the South.”
“That’s nonsense,” Cha Ming said. “I see people drinking tea everywhere I go.” They called it tea, at least, but it was very different than what Cha Ming was used to. Instead of pouring hot water over tea leaves for a short period of time, Southerners simmered grains. Richer families didn’t stray from this tradition, preferring to simmer spiritually infused grains instead of leaves.
“What they call tea is just a grain’s bathwater,” Director Yong huffed.
“A fair assessment,” Cha Ming said. “I’ve never liked grain-based teas. They lack flavor and boldness.”
“And that, my friend, makes you a man of good taste,” Director Yong said. “Now about that blade. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” The blade was resting on a bench, its translucent pink metal illuminated under the afternoon sun that shone through the open window.
“I got lucky,” Cha Ming said. “One of my smiths happened upon an interesting reaction with familiar metals. He didn’t have the skill to follow through with it, but I did. By refining the pyric iron, I was able to create a blade far finer than one would think possible for such a metal.”
Director Yong nodded in approval. “I’m not a strong smith, as I spend most of my time overlooking finances and managing personnel,” he said, “but I know my way around a forge. I also happen to read a lot. I once read something about pyric iron
and its refinement in our library. What you did was speculated in those books, but no one ever bothered to look into it.”
“Really?” Cha Ming said, feigning surprise. He shook his head. “I should have known. My path isn’t an easy one.”
“Your path?” Director Yong asked, sipping on his freshly topped-up cup. His eyes twinkled when he asked this.
“To be honest with you, Director Yong,” Cha Ming said, “when I was young, I stumbled upon an incomplete spiritual blacksmithing inheritance. Rather than continue as a mercenary or adventurer, I chose to pursue forging. I toiled away for decades until I finally made enough progress to come here.”
“Five years ago,” Director Yong said, nodding.
Cha Ming raised an eyebrow.
“People talk about you on every street corner these days. What I said was common knowledge. You’ve made amazing progress for a rogue smith from Liaoning.”
“Perhaps,” Cha Ming said. “Though it seems my progress has slowed substantially. In a sense, it reminds me of when I started. My smithing knowledge was incomplete, and I didn’t yet have the skill to make use of it. I learned by spying on others as they worked, and by rummaging through libraries. More than anything, however, I relied on trial and error. Occasionally, I’d gain insights, which I’d combine with the knowledge I gained from books to build myself a framework.”
“And that all changed twenty years ago,” Director Yong said.
Cha Ming, feigning surprise once more, nodded. “Twenty years ago, I finally caught up to the minimum requirements for my inheritance. I advanced by leaps and bounds. When I reached the limit of what I could achieve in Liaoning, I left and came here. I improved steadily, year after year, becoming a grandmaster smith in my first year, an early-grade grandmaster in my second, and a mid-grade grandmaster in my fourth.”
Shattered Lands: Book 8 of Painting the Mists Page 16