Chapter 9: Half a Pound of Flour

On the four bright boxes flashing in his mind, each appeared like a picture. The first was obviously money. The second seemed to show rice, flour, and steamed buns. The third roughly depicted live animals like chickens, ducks, and fish. The last one represented miscellaneous items. Although he didn’t quite understand the exact meaning, Duan Chengliang could grasp the essence of the images inside the bright boxes.

What does this mean? Whatever, it’s better to try than to overthink. Duan Chengliang was hungry at the moment, so he casually focused his mind on the rice, flour, and buns.

Instantly, the four bright boxes vanished. Then, about half a pound of white flour appeared in his consciousness.

What is this? Duan blinked. At this moment, the half-pound of white flour existed only in his mind and hadn’t even materialized in the smithy’s space. So, with a thought, he placed the half-pound of flour into the empty storage room within the space, right inside his double-door wooden cabinet, where there was a small basin.

Looking at the roughly half-pound of white flour in the basin, Duan felt a mix of excitement and confusion.

What is this exactly? Fixing a shovel head earned him half a pound of flour.

Oh, this must be his wage. That’s probably how it works.

If he had chosen the live animals like chickens, ducks, or fish, would a live fish jump out? Or perhaps a sheep?

Duan quickly realized that was impossible. Since the half-pound of flour corresponded roughly to the current market value, it was clear that the payment matched the labor cost of repairing the shovel head.

Hey, that works. Nowadays, grain is rationed and supplied with coupons. Once your quota is finished, you have to rack your brain for other solutions. Even with money, it’s hard to buy more.

Either you rely on neighbors like Qin Huairu to lend you some in emergencies—sometimes at the cost of getting yourself entangled—or you dare to take risks and try to buy some from the ghost market or pigeon market. But if patrols get wind of it, you’re caught immediately.

Like other daily necessities such as chickens, ducks, and fish, everything is supplied monthly in fixed amounts and at fixed times. Especially fresh produce: the quantity is small, and the lines are always long. Every time is a hassle.

Moreover, workers like Duan Chengliang do heavy manual labor, and none of their rations is sufficient to fill them.

If there were a way now to easily get these things just by hammering and tinkering, it would be a blessing beyond measure.

And no matter what, this could be considered earning one’s keep by skill.

Recalling those four little bright boxes just now: as long as you do your hammering and tinkering well, you have options—you can choose food, daily necessities, live animals, or even cash.

Not bad, not bad. In the year 1958, this is quite fitting and powerful.

However, Duan soon felt troubled again, mainly because he knew his own situation. His blacksmith skills were truly not up to standard.

Smashing a furnace hook or fixing a shovel head was easy for the laymen among his coworkers.

But real blacksmithing requires genuine skill and quality materials. You can’t just bluff your way through; if you want to make a living from this, you need real ability.

It seemed he still had to learn the craft seriously. The space operates on equivalent exchange: the better the quality of the item repaired or forged, the higher the return. Presumably, the wages would increase accordingly, allowing access to better goods; otherwise, the best he could get would be a few walnuts and dates.

Today was already lucky enough—probably a reward for a newcomer, randomly fixing a shovel head and getting half a pound of flour.

Maybe there’s even a beginner’s protection period, so he mustn’t be complacent. To make a living at blacksmithing, he needed solid skills. He had to find a way to master the craft quickly.

Duan had no mind to chat with his coworkers or respond to their flattery. He casually handed the cooled shovel head to Old Feng: “You install the handle. Be careful when using it—it’s been reforged and won’t be as sturdy as before.”

He wanted to be upfront, so that if it failed soon after, Old Feng wouldn’t come back to complain.

Old Feng was delighted and quickly waved his hand. “No, no, it’s fine now. The shovel’s complete again. If it breaks, I’ll have a reason. I can just get a new one from the warehouse. Then I’ll go yell at them about what kind of shoddy shovels they’re stocking. Ha ha ha!”

The surrounding workers all laughed happily along.

Though it was just repairing a small shovel head, for people who relied on shovels for their livelihood, it was crucial. If someone’s shovel chipped or bent, having a skilled hand nearby to help out was a blessing. At the very least, it meant you didn’t have to face the warehouse staff’s scowls all the time.

Duan sat by the stove, holding his still-warm meal, pondering his blacksmith space.

He was thinking: since he could casually build a stove outside and earn flour or other goods by fixing shovel heads, what if he used the smithy inside the space for forging? What effect would that have?

He considered that he needed to find some iron or steel to place in the space. Once he saved enough coal, he could try it out.

Ideally, he should also collect some coke. It was tricky to get but if he kept an eye out, he’d find opportunities.

As for where to find iron or steel, the rolling mill had plenty, but he had to be cautious and vigilant.

If he wanted to be safer and avoid risks, he could look for iron sand or iron ore in the mountains. But even if he got iron ore or sand, he couldn’t smelt steel with primitive methods. His own father could—he was famous for his steelmaking skills—but he hadn’t taught Duan, who had only seen it done.

Recalling his father’s primitive steelmaking and forging of kitchen knives, it was truly exceptional craftsmanship.

Unfortunately, Duan never learned any of it because his father never intended to teach him.

His older brother, however, was quite skilled, having received his father’s full teachings and secret techniques. Perhaps the two younger brothers had learned some as well.

Of course, they wouldn’t have learned as much as the eldest brother, because tradition dictated that the family’s blacksmith skills were passed only to the heir who inherited the forge.

The others, once grown and living apart, couldn’t open a blacksmith shop nearby.

So, when his father passed on the craft, he chose only one to teach fully; the others were treated like apprentices, helping to carry hammers, pull bellows, and stoke the fire.

By the time they grew up, it was time to set out on their own, becoming a different family.

For Duan Chengliang, it was the harshest fate—he was adopted out early and practically abandoned from childhood.