Chapter 7: How to Fix a Broken Shovel?

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Today, Duan Chengliang spent the entire morning loading coal. Half the morning shoveling coal, the other half weighing it, leaving him with a sore back and aching legs—his condition was noticeably worse than in previous days. It was clear that while Sister Qin was kind, one must never overreach.

Finally, it was time for lunch. The group of laborers collectively exhaled in relief. They all looked at each other, their eyes white against their soot-blackened faces, and burst into laughter.

At this moment, the scene was at its most charming—a group of blackened faces, grinning widely to reveal white teeth. It was an undeniably festive sight.

Duan Chengliang jumped down from the truck, twisted his aching waist, removed the mask that had long turned as black as his face, and let out a deep breath.

Old Feng, one of the workers, glanced at Duan Chengliang twisting his waist and teased, “Kid, you haven’t even grown all your hair yet, and your back’s already giving out. Did you overheat yourself on the stove last night, got all fired up and couldn’t handle it?”

The surrounding group burst into laughter. When doing heavy manual labor, sometimes a little dirty joke lightens the mood, injecting some joy that helps sustain their energy.

But Duan Chengliang didn’t want to be the butt of the joke. He gave Old Feng a sidelong glance and said, “No matter how hot your stove is, it won’t make you overheat like that. Your two kidneys are probably as cold as an ice cave, and they won’t warm up again. My wife’s been frowning every day, never smiling. But whenever she sees me, she’s overly enthusiastic, grabs me and won’t let go, pulling me straight into the house. I don’t know why.”

This sent everyone around into even louder laughter, making Old Feng’s face flush with embarrassment. Luckily, his face was covered in coal dust, or else he might not have been able to raise his head.

Old Feng was quietly puzzled. Duan Chengliang’s personality had changed drastically in recent days. He used to be listless, barely reacting when teased, just humming awkwardly. Now, he was like a cat with its fur on end, snapping right back whenever someone got close.

He was like a little firecracker, making everyone hesitant to joke with him, which took a lot of the joy out of their otherwise lively work life.

Moreover, the kid had a sharp tongue, exposing everyone’s embarrassing moments. It was all the fault of that she-tiger at home—unsatisfied and always complaining. Especially when she saw young men like Duan Chengliang, her face would light up like spring had come, which was really annoying.

Old Feng, feeling down, thrust his shovel hard into the nearby coal pile. With a sharp clang, the shovel jolted violently—bad news—it had struck a rock mixed in with the coal.

He hurriedly pulled the shovel out, no longer caring about sparring with Duan Chengliang.

“Ouch!” Old Feng cried out in pain.

The shovel, which had been fine moments ago, now had a large chunk broken off, leaving a palm-sized gap.

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Wear and tear on a laborer's shovel was expected, but only within limits. If Old Feng remembered correctly, this particular shovel had only been issued a few days ago. If he went to get a replacement now, if he was lucky, he’d get scolded; if unlucky, he’d face a salary deduction.

Old Feng clenched his teeth in frustration. Upon closer inspection, he realized not only was there a large chunk missing, but also cracks running through the metal. This shovel was effectively ruined.

He was miserable, almost wanting to slap himself. Everyone who worked loading coal knew you had to be careful with the shovel because you never knew what was hidden inside the coal pile. It was a messy mix. Stones and chunks of rock mixed with coal all looked black to the naked eye, impossible to distinguish.

“Give it to me. I’ll try to fix it at noon,” Duan Chengliang said, breaking the silence.

Old Feng, who had been crouching and scratching his head, looked up, surprised. “How do you fix a broken shovel?”

Duan Chengliang replied, “My family runs a blacksmith shop. I’ve played around there since I was a kid, watching repairs of farming tools, knives, hoes—I’ve seen it all. Though I’ve never done it properly, I know the basics. Besides, this is just a simple repair, nothing difficult. Leave it to me.”

Old Feng’s face showed doubt, but more so surprise and hope. He stood up, thought it over, and handed the shovel to Duan Chengliang.

Duan Chengliang took the shovel and immediately dug through the coal pile where the shovel had broken, pulling out the missing chunk and holding it in his hand.

The other workers, seeing no more excitement, drifted off in small groups to eat their lunch.

Old Feng watched as Duan Chengliang casually lifted a basket and began picking through the coal pile, occasionally tossing pieces of coal into the basket.

After a while, he asked curiously, “Duan Chengliang, when we burn coal in the duty room stove, don’t we just shovel it directly into coal balls? Why are you picking through it bit by bit? Why not just shovel half a basket and weigh it?”

There were huge piles of coal in the yard. Of course, you couldn’t take it home, but coal used in the factory’s duty room stove was considered normal consumption.

Duan Chengliang, holding several walnut-sized lumps of coal, turned to Old Feng and smiled. “Not all coal is good for blacksmithing. You have to pick carefully. The bright, solid iron coal is rare—usually, out of a hundred pounds of coal, you’d be lucky to get twenty pounds of good iron coal.”

Old Feng really didn’t know such distinctions existed, but hearing Duan Chengliang speak so confidently, he began to trust him more.

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In Duan Chengliang’s memory, since he was four or five years old, his days had begun with sorting and breaking coal, year after year, day after day.

So while he might only have a passing knowledge of blacksmithing, he was already an expert at selecting coal.

Of course, coke was better for blacksmithing, but that stuff was valuable. The coke yard was strictly controlled, kept in locked warehouses with careful inventory logs for entry and exit.

Old Feng saw Duan Chengliang continuing to pick through the coal and, not knowing how long this would take, said, “Why don’t you carry on here? I don’t know much about this, so I can’t help. I’ll bring your lunch back and warm it by the stove so you won’t miss out when you get back.”

Without stopping his work, Duan Chengliang replied, “Alright, thank you.”

“Thank what? You’re the one fixing my shovel! Honestly, I should be thanking you. Hey, what’s gotten into us today? When did you start acting all refined like a scholar?” Old Feng shook his head as he walked away, clearly still not quite used to Duan Chengliang’s transformation.

Duan Chengliang paid no mind to Old Feng’s mood. He was fully focused on selecting the iron-rich coal.

Actually, just for fixing the shovel, he’d already picked enough coal. But taking advantage of this time, he wanted to gather more iron coal to store in his space.

His blacksmith shop space was equipped with tools, a forge, and a workspace—but lacked raw materials and fuel.

He figured he would have to collect and accumulate these things himself over time. Alas, the space was stingy, always demanding self-reliance.

Now was the perfect opportunity to gather some iron coal. When he had enough iron ore, he could experiment in the forge within his space and see what results he might achieve.