“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.”
“And then you stalled,” Director Yong finished.
“And then I stalled,” Cha Ming admitted. “My inheritance can take me no further. All I can do is trudge away like I used to, riding mad moments of inspiration until I’ve accumulated enough knowledge to progress. It’s both invigorating and frustrating.”
“You know what you’re building is unstable,” Director Yong said. “Your base isn’t as solid as people think, and any basis for advancing to late-grade grandmaster will also be unstable.”
Cha Ming shrugged. “What else can I do? I value freedom. Pardon me for being rude, but I rather hate working for others. Wherever I go, I open my own smithy. It might be expensive, but I hate being bound by employment contracts.” Absently, he scratched at his forehead, hinting at what could have been there in the past.
Director Yong nodded understandingly.
“About this blade,” Director Yong said. “The usual market price for such a weapon is five thousand top-grade spirit stones. Of course, those weapons are made from more expensive materials…”
Cha Ming shrugged. “It’s not the material of a weapon that matters but its effect.”
“Spoken like a true innovator,” Director Yong said. “Therefore, I’m willing to offer you twice its price.”
Cha Ming frowned.
“Not for free, of course. I want you to do two things in exchange. I want you to pen your thought process in creating it, write down the exact process you used to smith it, then sell that knowledge to our Blackthorn Conglomerate. I’ll also need a copy of the imaging orb you undoubtedly had recording just in case you had a mad moment of inspiration you wanted to review.”
“Hmm…” Cha Ming said. “Money is good and all, but knowledge is priceless. Could I instead exchange knowledge for other knowledge?”
“I’m afraid not,” Director Yong said. “Our hoarded knowledge is available only to employees, and on a strictly confidential basis. It’s not that I want to be black-hearted, but the family rules are strict for a reason. Knowledge is power.”
Cha Ming sighed. “Such strict terms. I really can’t understand why anyone would want to be bound by them. I don’t believe a lifetime of servitude to one company is a fair price for the knowledge to advance.”
“It’s not like their freedom can’t be bought out,” Director Yong said. “Some even manage it within fifty years. Besides, you might not know this, but our Blackthorn group has a few types of employment contracts. We have standard contracts, where freedom can be bought out. Assuming a person is of average productivity among those we hire, they’ll be free within a hundred years. If they’re above average, they can buy out their contract in the minimum of fifty years.”
“That’s too long,” Cha Ming said, shaking his head. “I’d never consider a contract like this.” Contractual terms aside, he would also be considered a normal worker. His level would never be high enough to accomplish what he wanted in the Wang family’s Southern operations.
“That’s a standard contract,” Director Yong said. “It’s not for creative individuals like you. For one like yourself, who desires knowledge and seeks it at every turn… we have something called a development contract.”
“A development contract?” Cha Ming asked, frowning. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Another lie.
“For premium producers, we typically set production quotas, with normal rewards and bonuses for extra production,” Director Yong said. “The contract is stable, but the information they have access to is limited. We give them a clear path for success, and many continue to work with us even after they’ve bought out their employment contract. Rewards are based on production.
“For innovators, however, we have a different path. You see, innovators hate to be bogged down by production quotas; they like access to premium information. As such, it’s not fitting to have them on a standard production quota; not only would their time be wasted producing normal things and occasionally producing masterworks, they wouldn’t have much time for their research.
“A development contract is therefore more appropriate. We grant full access to knowledge, but normal work doesn’t result in any significant reward. Material costs are footed by the company instead of the employee, but there is no corresponding reward, as we expect these employees to waste more material than others.”
“Then how do they pay off their employment contracts?” Cha Ming asked, frowning. He served another cup of tea, which Director Yong took eagerly.
“By contributing knowledge to the library,” Director Yong said, his eyes twinkling. “Creating something we already know how to make is one thing, but making something new and useful? Much more valuable. Let the other monkeys copy the method. For developing a new method that leads to an increased success rate in production, we offer one hundred times the statistical savings on a piece as a monetary reward. For example, if the failure rate for a piece was thirty percent for the average smith of that grade, and you came up with a method that reduced that to twenty-eight percent, we would offer you two hundred percent of the applicable piece’s face value.”
“Such knowledge can often apply to more than one piece,” Cha Ming pointed out.
“Noted,” Director
