Chương 3: "If you’re not a cultivator then what, exactly, are you?"

Ch 3: "If you're not a cultivator then what, exactly, are you?"

The ingot glowed in the forge as it heated up. To Zhen, the flaw within was clear, even though most smiths wouldn't be aware of it. Even those, like his father, who might notice something would hammer it out through sheer bloody-mindedness. But Zhen had something different planned. He pulled the metal from the fire with his tongs, settling it carefully on the anvil. Instead of immediately striking with his hammer, he placed his free hand inches above the glowing material.

The heat seared his palm, but he was a blacksmith. If he couldn't handle a little warmth, he didn't deserve the title. He closed his eyes. Ridiculous. That's what his father would say if he caught him. Standing over perfectly good iron, not hammering, just feeling. This wasn't what blacksmiths did. This was cultivator nonsense. And yet. Zhen took a deep breath, and as it had done before, energy entered him, and he reached out with it.

The flow went from inside him to the extremities of his body and then beyond his fingertips. He was almost certain that essence was what cultivators would call qi, the energy of life, but it's not as if there were any cultivators in the village who he could talk to about it. He had discovered the trick of this a few months back when he had been particularly frustrated with a stubborn scythe. Sometimes it worked. Often it didn't. But when it did... His awareness sank into the metal.

The carbon sat wrong inside the iron. Zhen's qi, if that's what this was, circled the impurity, pressing against it from all sides. He flexed his fingers as they hovered above the metal and gave the impurity a push with that energy. The carbon resisted at first, but Zhen persisted, coaxing rather than forcing it. He ignored the sweat beading on his forehead as he maintained the connection. Experience had taught him that it was over once the connection broke. Then it worked.

The lump shifted and floated up through the ingot toward the edge. It broke through the surface and fell away as a dark fleck. The moment it happened, Zhen felt the metal relax into its true nature. The iron's structure was now perfect, as though it had been waiting for him to guide it to its proper form. Zhen opened his eyes and grinned. The metal gleamed differently now. It was purer, with a subtle sheen that hammering alone never achieved.

He picked up his hammer anyway and gave the iron several solid strikes, more for the sheer pleasure than of necessity. As was always the case when he successfully pushed that energy into a piece of metal, it responded beautifully, forming exactly as he intended with half the usual effort. Zhen reached for another ingot, allowing himself a little hum of satisfaction. It was a thrill when he managed to get it to work. It worked more often now. Not every time. But more frequently than when he had started.

The new iron was cool against his palm as he hefted it. He could tell where the imperfections were. Time to see if he could use that energy twice in a row, but this time without heating it. Closing his eyes, Zhen reached out with that internal energy, seeking the stubborn air bubble he knew was trapped within the metal. This time, however, the energy refused to focus, a frustrating, elusive phantom. After several seconds, he stopped and let out a long, slow breath.

He had no idea why it only worked some of the time, and the inconsistency gnawed at him. A noise from the yard pulled Zhen from his thoughts. He glanced out of the door to see Shuo emerging from the house leaning on one of the wooden staffs his father used for walking. Unsurprisingly, given the state of his sect robes after the fight, Shuo wore one of Zhen's father's old robes.

The honest, homespun fabric hung loosely on his frame, making the old cultivator look simultaneously frailer and yet more dignified than the wounded man he had rescued. Zhen stepped out to greet him.

"Master Shuo, good morning. Can I get you anything? My hammering didn't disturb you, did it?" The old man offered a small smile.

"Not at all, young man. Glad to see you up and working. The early worm chokes the bird and all that." Zhen hesitated as a thought came to him. Shuo was the only cultivator he had ever met, likely the only one he ever would. If what Zhen was doing truly involved qi, then maybe this man would give him some guidance. Saving his life had to count for something. Before he could talk himself out of it, Zhen started to speak.

"I wonder if I might ask your advice, Master Shuo." Shuo's mouth quirked.

"If this old man can share any of the meager nuggets of wisdom he has accumulated, he would be happy to do so."

"I've been purifying the metal ingots we use in the forge. I believe I may have been using qi to help it along." As Shuo's eyebrows rose, Zhen realized how ridiculous that must sound, and he hurriedly pushed on.

"I'm not saying I'm a cultivator or anything, but I've been trying some things. It doesn't always work, though, and I just wondered if you had any advice. Shuo's gaze rested on him for a long moment before he spoke.

"Show me." They headed into the forge and Zhen picked up the ingot with the air bubble again. Shuo positioned himself in the doorway, leaning heavily on his staff as he watched, his pale eyes boring into Zhen with an unnerving intensity. Suddenly nervous, Zhen extended his hand over the metal. He took a steadying breath then reached out with that energy. This time the sensation was clearer. He felt the energy reach in and wrap around the bubble.

He frowned in concentration as he meticulously pushed it to the edge until, with the smallest of sounds, it popped out. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. A huge grin split Zhen's face as he turned to Shuo only for it to immediately fade. Shuo glared at him, his expression tightening into what might have been anger. For a moment, Zhen thought the old man might hit him with his staff. Instead, Shuo turned abruptly toward the door.

"Come." The command carried such unexpected authority that Zhen found himself taking off his apron and slinging his hammers into his belt loops before he had even registered the order. Something in the old man's tone suggested he wasn't used to being disobeyed. Zhen trailed out behind Shuo, watching as the old cultivator moved steadily despite his injuries. His father's robe billowed around the old man's thin frame as he led them to a flat patch of ground behind the forge where the morning sun warmed the earth.

Shuo pointed at the ground with his staff.

"Sit." Zhen hesitated for only a moment before complying. He settled cross-legged on the dirt, his hammers clinking against his belt as he adjusted his position. Shuo loomed over him, arms crossed.

"Now, show me how you use your meditation technique." Zhen stared up at him blankly. The silence stretched between them as confusion overtook Zhen's features.

"Well?" Shuo snapped.

"What are you waiting for?" Zhen didn't quite know how to respond, so he chose honesty.

"I don't know any techniques," he said.

"No one here does. We're farmers, not cultivators." Shuo's eyes narrowed to slits, his expression shifting from impatience to disbelief.

"Then how are you drawing in the qi to change the metal?" Zhen shrugged, palms upturned.

"I don't know. I just... do it? I mean is it really qi, I thought it might be, but I wasn't sure. Sometimes I feel an energy inside me that I can push outward. Sometimes it works on the metal, sometimes it doesn't." Shuo tilted his head back and released a long, suffering sigh toward the heavens. His face contorted between frustration and amazement. After a moment, he returned his gaze to Zhen.

"This is an outrage," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Fumbling in the dark like this. Fine. I'll teach you how to meditate myself." Zhen blinked.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Meditation. A proper process of learning to absorb qi from the environment around you. Not whatever half-baked homespun rubbish you've been using. I have no idea what your parents have been playing at."

"But meditation is for cultivators," Zhen protested, confused by the sudden offer. Blacksmiths hammered metal; they didn't sit around just, well, breathing like fancy sect disciples. Shuo's expression hardened as he leaned forward, his grey eyes suddenly sharp.

"And if you're not a cultivator then what, exactly, are you?" Zhen opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again, uncertain of what to say.

"Right. Up," Shuo commanded, tapping his staff against the ground impatiently.

"Follow me." Zhen scrambled to his feet, brushing dirt from his work pants. then stopped at Shuo turned back abruptly.

"Wait. If we are going to do this, I'm not going to waste time on someone who isn't interested. The path of cultivation isn't easy, and I'm not an easy teacher. The most likely outcome is that you will fail. To have any chance at avoiding failure requires dedication and hard work. Do you want to be a real cultivator?" Zhen thought for a moment.

"I want to be blacksmith. I'm no fighter." Shuo waved his hand dismissively.

"Plenty of cultivators are craftsmen. In many ways they're more honored in the cultivation realms than warriors. It's just that their stories don't get turned into the sagas."

"Then, yes."

"Good. Right choice. Let's go." The old cultivator was already walking away, his strides surprisingly sure for a man who had been half-dead just yesterday. Zhen hurried after him, his confusion mounting as Shuo headed away from the house and toward the edge of the village.

"Where are we going?" Zhen asked, lengthening his stride to keep pace. Shuo didn't answer, continuing past the last cluster of houses and onto the path that led to the eastern hills. The old man didn't hesitate to choose as he came to a fork in the road, and avoided the boggy patch near the willow grove that even some locals sometimes forgot about.

"Have you been here before?" Zhen ventured, eyeing the cultivator with newfound suspicion. Shuo's only response was a dismissive grunt, but his stride didn't falter, and he didn't look back. After they had walked for a few minutes, the old man stopped so abruptly that Zhen had to catch himself to avoid crashing into him.

"This is far enough," he said, more to himself than to Zhen. He held up his right hand, and for the first time, Zhen noticed a plain silver ring on his middle finger. The work was competent but uninspired. Frankly, Zhen was sure he could knock out something better in an hour or two. Shuo rubbed his thumb over the ring's surface and the air shimmered. A sword appeared beside them, hovering two feet off the ground.

The blade gleamed with an impossible luster, its metal so perfectly formed it seemed to drink in the sunlight and transform it into a soft blue glow. Zhen's mouth fell open.

"What is…" he stammered, backing away a step.

"Transport." Shuo gave the floating sword a frown, then stepped on and balanced on the flat of the blade without any obvious effort.

"Get on."

"On that?" Zhen stared at the hovering weapon.

"It's a sword!"

"Your powers of observation are remarkable," Shuo said dryly.

"Now get on before I change my mind." Heart pounding, Zhen approached the sword. He reached out, half-expecting his hand to pass through it, but his fingers met cool, solid metal. With extreme caution, he placed one foot on the blade, then the other, crouching awkwardly to maintain his balance. The moment both his feet left the ground, the sword shot upward with a sudden acceleration that twisted his gut. He grabbed Shuo's robes with a strangled yelp, certain he would tumble off into empty air.

"Straighten up and hold on," Shuo barked over his shoulder. They climbed, then shot forward. The forge, the center of Zhen's world, shrank into a speck of grey dust. The forest he had spent his life exploring became a carpet of moss. In moments, the sword covered a distance that would have taken Chul a day. The first few minutes were not the most fun that Zhen had ever had. His knuckles whitened as he clutched at Shuo, convinced that each gust of wind would send him plummeting to his death.

But gradually, as the sword maintained its steady course through the clouds, his grip relaxed. And then, without quite realizing when things had changed, he began to enjoy himself. The sensation was like nothing he had ever experienced. He was actually flying. The wind rushed past, and he knew what a bird must feel like as it looked down. Fields and forests blurred beneath them, while streams and rivers glittered like silver ribbons in the sun. A wide grin spread over his face as joy cut through the lingering fear.

Shuo glanced back and gave an approving nod at Zhen's more relaxed posture. Without warning, he accelerated, the sword cutting through the air with doubled speed. Zhen let out an involuntary whoop of excitement that was snatched away by the wind. After perhaps a quarter hour, the sword began to descend toward a range of wooded mountains Zhen had never seen before. He looked around with growing unease, realizing he had completely lost track of their direction and distance.

He had never traveled more than a few days' cart journey from home, and at the speed they had been flying, they must be many times that distance away. The sword slowed, then stopped in a large tree-lined clearing dominated by a crystal-clear lake. A boulder the size of a small island sat in the middle of it while a waterfall thundered down from rocky heights above, its roar filling the air with mist and sound. They dismounted, and the sword vanished back into Shuo's ring. Zhen looked around the clearing.

"Why are we here?" Shuo didn't turn from where he was examining the waterfall with pursed lips as he gave his reply.

"To break you."