Chapter 8: The Space Stirred

The workers at the coal yard had quite a spectacle to watch today.

Ignoring the biting cold, they huddled in a circle, lunchboxes in hand, observing Duan Chengliang as he busied himself in the clearing. He had dug a pit and built a makeshift stove out of scrap bricks, and was now stoking a coal fire to repair Old Feng’s shovel head.

The crowd chatted away while they ate.

"Look at that; Duan Chengliang actually seems to know what he’s doing. Maybe he really has the knack for it."

"If you ask me, all this effort is a waste. Why not just take it to the welding workshop and let them hit it with a few sparks from the arc welder?"

"You think your face is too clean and want to get it blackened? Why would they do you a favor like that? You got connections in the welding shop?"

"Welding a shovel head doesn't make it sturdy; it’ll just snap again. Back in my day, we always took them to a blacksmith to be re-forged in the furnace. That’s how you make it strong—it’s basically like new when they’re done."

"I know that, but don't you need a master blacksmith for that kind of skill? Duan Chengliang is barely out of diapers. Besides, can he really forge a shovel properly just by stacking up this pile of dirt and bricks?"

Duan Chengliang ignored the chaotic chatter. Even if he had heard it, he wouldn't have cared. His only goal was to patch the shovel. Whether the technique was masterful or the result durable wasn't his concern. If it turned out flimsy, that might actually be a good thing; if it broke again, he’d have another excuse to practice. If his "blacksmith shop" space really was linked to these forging acts, wouldn't that just be a win?

The coal finally caught fire. Once the heat stabilized, he could place the shovel inside to soften it. It seemed the muscle memory from his predecessor’s childhood hadn't faded; he was perfectly capable of handling the odd jobs of a blacksmith’s apprentice.

Repairing a shovel in a professional shop required much more precision, but Duan Chengliang didn't have time for that today. He just wanted to heat the metal until it was malleable, hammer the broken piece back together, and fuse the cracks. That would be mission accomplished.

As for the most critical part of blacksmithing—quenching—he had no intention of attempting it. This wasn't about whether the repaired shovel was durable, but whether it looked whole when he was finished.

If he tried to show off and botched the quenching process, the shovel would likely shatter the moment it hit the cold water. That would be the real joke. In his memories, he recalled his father quenching metal with a grace and ease that looked effortless. But that kind of skill couldn't be learned just by watching; it required years of practice. His father had only ever let him do menial labor, never teaching him the trade, so Duan Chengliang was truly clueless.

Blacksmithing seemed simple, but it was incredibly difficult, requiring both technique and raw strength. Anyone could walk into a shop and watch, but you couldn't just steal the skill. To an outsider, it was just heating and hammering, over and over until it took shape. But to an experienced blacksmith, the malleability of the material, the temperature of the fire, and the precise point of impact were all vital. The most crucial element was controlling the quench; if done poorly, the edge would either chip or roll. Without a perfect balance of hardness and toughness, it wasn't a good tool.

There was no anvil here, so Duan Chengliang found a sturdy, smooth stone and placed it beside his stove. He gripped his hammer; regardless of his actual skill, he certainly looked the part. After all, he had spent years on film sets; he knew the importance of performance. In his pursuit of an acting career, he had read books like *An Actor Prepares* more than once. Though he never got to use those skills in movies, they were proving quite effective in real life—he was pretty good at bluffing people.

He overlapped the broken piece with the rest of the shovel and waited for it to glow red. Using iron tongs, he pulled them out, laid them on the stone, and began to hammer away. It was just an amateur fooling other amateurs, but everyone was enjoying the show, and Duan Chengliang was happy to play along.

Surprisingly, it seemed this body had a natural aptitude for smithing. With a series of rhythmic strikes, he actually managed to fuse the pieces together.

Duan Chengliang exhaled, his expression growing more composed. He put the shovel back into the fire to heat it again for some fine-tuning, and with that, the repair was complete.

By now, the group of onlookers, who had been ready to jeer and trade barbs, were staring in stunned silence.

"Wait, didn't you hear? Duan Chengliang’s uncle was a master in our forging workshop back in the day."

"Right, right! I remember that. I was working at the coal yard in '56 when I heard about the accident at the forging shop. He was the best craftsman we had."

"If that’s the case, shouldn't Duan Chengliang have taken his place in the forging shop? Why is he here shoveling coal dust?"

"Who knows? Probably some complication."

Duan Chengliang’s skill was a classic case of "never having eaten pork, but having seen a pig run." Years of listening to the rhythm of the trade had ingrained itself into his subconscious. The secret of the forge was often in the rhythm—the constant *clang-clang* of the master and the apprentice, the small hammer and the large hammer—which formed an instinctive memory of the work.

Once the shovel glowed red again, he pulled it out, placed it on the stone, and tapped it lightly with his small hammer in a steady, rhythmic cadence. Before long, the shovel head looked smooth, flat, and seamless. It looked like one solid piece; no one could tell it had ever been broken.

Duan Chengliang let out a long breath. *Finally done,* he thought. *This should pass inspection.*

Just then, the space in his mind shifted, exactly as he had hoped. There were no flashy lights or sparks, just four small, glowing rectangular boxes that appeared in his consciousness. He glanced around; his coworkers were still deep in their discussion, their eyes fixed on the shovel in his hand. No one noticed the glowing boxes before his eyes.

"So, others can't see it. Only I can perceive it."

Reassured, he turned his focus to the four glowing boxes.

What were these?