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
