Chapter 27: I Am a Skilled Craftsman, a Veteran Blacksmith

The most satisfying part of this forging session for Duan Chengliang was that he had managed to secure twenty selection opportunities from ten sets of materials. Upon reflection, he realized this was likely because he had employed entirely new forging techniques during his second round, even incorporating a quenching process toward the end. Had he simply repeated the same process as the first time, the space likely would not have acknowledged it.

He had bathed his kidneys twice and his eyes twice using the ten hammer heads, after which he made another selection. To his delight, he was rewarded with five catties of white flour. By his estimation, the space valued each claw hammer he forged at over a yuan—and more importantly, it required no grain coupons. Repairing a shovel, by contrast, only earned him half a catty. This, he realized, was the advantage of technical expertise.

In Duan Chengliang’s view, the small icon representing the blacksmith shop was no longer a pressing priority. Based on his current understanding, the workshop in the space was more than sufficient for his needs; there was no immediate necessity for an upgrade.

Finally, he pooled his remaining selection opportunities and chose "books" once again. The refreshing sensation of cool energy washing over his cerebral cortex was far more intense than the physical cleansing—it felt as if it reached into the very depths of his soul. This was precisely why he never hesitated to save up his opportunities for books.

Another stream of technical information flashed into his mind. This time, he felt a bit bewildered, experiencing a mix of joy and concern. He had been granted "Entry-Level Indigenous Steelmaking." As the knowledge became clear in his mind, he gained a profound understanding of the entire process, suddenly making sense of the inexplicable operations he had witnessed his father perform during his childhood.

He carefully compared the information, ultimately concluding that his predecessor’s father’s mastery of indigenous steelmaking was, at best, at this very level. Now, having mastered both "Entry-Level Steel-Cladding Pipe Techniques" and "Entry-Level Indigenous Steelmaking," Duan Chengliang finally felt confident enough to call himself a skilled worker and a veteran blacksmith. Moreover, he couldn't help but wonder: was this knowledge provided in preparation for the "Great Steelmaking Campaign" that would arrive in a few months?

Indigenous steelmaking felt somewhat redundant to him at the moment, offering no real practical benefit. The technique was too rudimentary, and with scrap metal so readily available, there was little need for such primitive methods. However, the insight into this craft would fundamentally help him build a solid foundation as a competent blacksmith.

Duan Chengliang chuckled at his own pickiness, realizing he was getting carried away. He should be satisfied with the skills he already possessed. Only a short while ago, he had known absolutely nothing about blacksmithing, and now he was nearly on par with the expertise of his predecessor’s father. Yes, he reminded himself, he must maintain a spirit of contentment and seek happiness in this era.

***

There is joy in achievement. He happily picked up the ten finished pieces, admiring and turning them over in his hands, feeling a deep sense of accomplishment. He compared them one by one, seemingly unable to get enough of them. If it weren't for the sudden, loud rumbling of his stomach, he might have stayed there for much longer. "Why am I hungry again?" he wondered, his joy fading into a slight sense of annoyance.

Duan Chengliang exited the space and returned to his room in the east wing. Everything outside remained exactly as it was when he had left. The coal fire in the stove before the kang had not changed in the slightest. While only an instant had passed here, he had forged twenty hammer heads in the space. It was truly miraculous.

Outside, it was still just as dark as when he had entered, roughly past seven o'clock by his estimation. Duan Chengliang did not own a watch, and in his current life, the need for one was not particularly urgent. Neither he nor his predecessor had the habit of wearing one. He might have been eager for a smartphone, but he realized that without a network, it would be useless.

As he pondered this, a thought struck him: in terms of time outside the space, he had essentially become hungry in the blink of an eye. Since the time outside remained static while he worked inside, the energy he expended meant the fish and steamed buns he had eaten earlier were long digested. He was now ravenous. It seemed that when calculating his food supplies, he would have to account for the physical toll of working within the space.

It was getting late, and making buns or rolling noodles would be too time-consuming. Duan Chengliang decided to simply stir up some cornmeal porridge and stew a piece of hairtail fish; that should be enough to fill him up.

Across the courtyard, the Yan Bugui family always went to bed early. By now, their lights were out, and the west wing was silent. Lying in bed, Yan Bugui smelled the scent of fish, but he was no longer as agitated as before. He didn't even get up, nor did he discuss it with his wife, Yang Ruihua, who lay beside him.

The rest of the family reacted similarly; they seemed too weary to move. Perhaps this was what they meant by "habit makes nature." Once accustomed to it, they were too tired to even discuss it, merely swallowing their saliva in the dark. Talk was cheap, and since they couldn't force their way in to share the meal, there was no point in getting worked up. It was better to save their energy, though they might harbor a few silent, resentful curses in their hearts.

Qin Huairu walked softly from the middle courtyard to the front. As soon as she passed through the foyer, she smelled the fish. It was clearly coming from Duan Chengliang’s room. She couldn't help but wonder, "How is he still eating fish? Surely that pot isn't finished yet?"

Suspicious and noting that the west wing remained dark and silent, she cautiously approached Duan Chengliang's door and knocked lightly. "Chengliang, open the door. It’s me," she whispered.

Duan Chengliang, who had been simmering the fish until it was tender, was sitting on his warm kang, enjoying his meal at a small table. Hearing the knock and Qin Huairu's voice, he smiled. "Just in time. The fish is ready, and company has arrived."

Qin Huairu followed the scent of the fish right into the room. Duan Chengliang closed the door behind her. Hearing the click of the latch, she blushed.

"I can't stay long," she told him. "I told Bangeng’s grandmother I was going to the restroom. I just wanted to explain—I wanted to come last night, but the old woman had an upset stomach all night, and I couldn't find a chance."

Duan Chengliang looked at her with a knowing smile. "Let me ask you one thing: did you want to come?"

Qin Huairu lowered her head, her face flushing. She twisted the hem of her shirt, bit her lip, and gave a slight nod. "Yes."

Duan Chengliang chuckled softly, stepped forward to gently put his arm around her, and guided her toward the inner room.