Chapter 114: Quenching Steel in the Blacksmith’s Shop, Peach Trees in the Abandoned Yard

The old blacksmith lifted his head briefly, then lowered it again to continue hammering the glowing red iron. Blow after blow fell, and before long, the ground was scattered with charred iron shavings.

The iron fragments seemed to ignite the soil beneath, turning patches of the earth pitch black.

In his hand, the old blacksmith wielded a small hammer known as the "small chisel hammer." The young blacksmith, meanwhile, ceased pumping the bellows and picked up a hammer himself.

His hammer was much larger—a heavy iron hammer.

With one hand, the old blacksmith gripped the red-hot iron with tongs, while his other hand wielded the small hammer, striking the glowing metal with deliberate rhythm. The young blacksmith followed suit with his heavy hammer.

The pair, old and young, worked in seamless harmony, as though anticipating each other’s movements. Just as the small hammer lifted, the heavy hammer would crash down.

Song Mo remained silent, standing to the side, tapping gently.

In less than the time it takes for an incense stick to burn halfway, the glowing iron had taken shape—it was a hoe meant for turning the soil on a farm.

After the incense burned out completely, the hoe had fully formed.

The old blacksmith, still holding the hoe with his tongs, expertly placed the still-red tool into a large vat at the back of the forge.

Immediately, white smoke billowed from the vat, carrying a pungent odor that caused Song Mo to cover his nose tightly.

Yet the old and young blacksmiths showed no sign of discomfort—not even a furrowed brow—clearly accustomed to the routine.

When the old blacksmith withdrew the tongs, the hoe had turned a deep, matte black—thick, sturdy, and well-made—a fine farming implement.

"Master, what’s in that vat? Is it water?" Song Mo asked, glancing toward the murky liquid inside, unable to discern its nature.

The old blacksmith ignored him, instead pulling out a smooth, polished poplar wood handle from the forge. He shaved off a few layers of bark and swiftly attached the hoe head to it.

“It’s not water—it’s oil,” the young blacksmith answered with a chuckle as Song Mo felt awkward.

The young man was around fifteen or sixteen, his face smudged with soot like a tabby cat’s, but his build was solid, with muscles on his arms far more developed than many grown men.

He smiled earnestly, first pointing to his own ears, then to the old blacksmith, before explaining, “My master’s been hammering iron so long, his hearing’s not what it used to be.”

The old blacksmith set the finished hoe aside and finally turned to smile at Song Mo.

Only then did Song Mo realize the master hadn’t been ignoring him on purpose—he simply hadn’t heard his question.

It was understandable; spending so much time in a forge, the constant clanging of both small and heavy hammers exceeded normal hearing tolerance.

“Sorry, I didn’t know,” Song Mo apologized.

The young blacksmith laughed good-naturedly. “No worries. My master wouldn’t mind.”

Song Mo nodded and then pointed at the large vat. “By the way, young master, you said that vat is filled with oil?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, oil.”

Song Mo leaned in to smell. Beyond the heavy scent of iron and a faint burnt odor, he indeed caught the unmistakable smell of oil.

“Why use oil? Wouldn’t water be more economical for quenching?” Song Mo asked, puzzled.

The young blacksmith grinned. “Ah, you’re clearly an outsider. Long ago, our forge used water for quenching, but now the Great Zhou Dynasty forbids it. We must use oil instead. Quenching with oil makes the ironware stronger. Also,” he lowered his voice confidentially, “our oil quenching technique is unique to the Great Zhou. No one else knows it. That’s why the weapons and armor forged for the Northern Garrison are tougher—they’re all oil-quenched.”

Song Mo’s heart skipped a beat. A bold thought took root in his mind and refused to fade.

After hesitating, he asked quietly, “Young master, do you know who first suggested using oil for quenching?”

The boy thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I really don’t know. Maybe you should ask my master?”

Song Mo turned to the old blacksmith, who was now resting on a wooden stool.

He repeated the question in a low voice. The old man only smiled foolishly and said nothing.

The young blacksmith quickly reminded him, pointing to his ear. Realizing, Song Mo raised his voice and asked again.

Unexpectedly, when the old blacksmith heard the question clearly, his expression changed dramatically. His eyes filled with unease, and he waved his hands dismissively, saying, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Seeing this, Song Mo gave up.

Embarrassed, the young blacksmith asked, “Hey, young sir, what did you say you wanted to have made again?”

Song Mo remembered his original purpose and said, “A carving knife. I want a carving knife made.”

The boy considered for a moment. “A carving knife? What kind?”

Song Mo gestured. “Something like this, a typical carving knife used for seal engraving.”

The young blacksmith laughed. “Should that be made from pig iron or wrought iron?”

Song Mo was stumped. “What’s the difference between pig iron and wrought iron?”

The boy replied, “Not much. Wrought iron is pig iron that’s already been partially forged. It’s pricier, but you can get what you want faster.”

Song Mo nodded, enlightened. So wrought iron was essentially a semi-finished product.

“Let’s use wrought iron,” Song Mo decided.

“One silver coin. No need for my master’s help, I can make it myself,” the young blacksmith said cheerfully.

Without hesitation, Song Mo pulled out a silver coin and handed it over. The boy accepted it, passing it to the old blacksmith.

The young blacksmith swiftly grabbed an iron ingot about the size of a sheep’s hoof and tossed it into the furnace. He pumped the bellows, and the fire roared fiercely.

The intense heat raised the surrounding temperature noticeably. Song Mo loosened a button on his clothing, while the blacksmiths remained unfazed.

After a short while, the boy grabbed the glowing ingot with tongs and began hammering it with the small hammer. His technique was practiced but lacked the old master’s calm mastery.

He quickly shaped the ingot into a four-sided piece with a beveled edge.

“Quench it?” the boy asked.

Song Mo nodded. The boy plunged the blade into the oil vat.

With a sudden roar, flames burst upward.

After quenching, the boy pulled out a rag and wiped the blade clean—it gleamed sharply.

“Just wait a bit more,” the boy said, squatting down to hone the blade’s edge on a whetstone.

“Here you go,” he said with a grin.

Song Mo took the knife. It was indeed sharp and well-made.

……

Leaving the forge, Song Mo tucked the carving knife behind his waist.

As he walked through the street, his eyes wandered aimlessly.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up. In a neglected courtyard, he spotted an old peach tree.

“This is it,” Song Mo smiled faintly and stepped into the courtyard.