The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

Huang Daniu knelt down with a thud, tears streaming down his face: "Father, you've been a blacksmith your whole life, and you've never seen such steel!"

The young apprentices jumped and danced with excitement, one of them rushing out and shouting, "Sister Tiehua has forged a divine sword!"

Qin Tiehua seemed not to hear, staring blankly at the blade. Tears rolled down her cheeks, splashing against the blade and condensing into frost from the cold air at the edge. Suddenly, her legs went weak, and Wang Zhonghua swiftly caught her.

"We..." she choked up, unable to continue, "We really did it..."

Wang Zhonghua's eyes also welled up with tears. He took the long sword, lightly flicked the blade with his fingertips, and burst into song:

The water is cold, the fire is warm,

The iron painting is now covered in blood blisters and frosty marks.

It's not that Ou Ye lacked supernatural abilities,

But there are foolish hearts in this world.

The knife cuts through the night, the moon shines like silver.

I cut my hair to test the sound of falling snow.

From this day forward, no birds will fly over the mountains.

Only here on this cold river can one hear the roar of a dragon.

The singing was hoarse and rough, yet it struck everyone's heart like a hammer blow. Huang Daniu knelt on the ground, forgetting to cry; Shen Kuo's pen tip hung in mid-air, the ink spreading into large black spots.

Qin Tiehua was the first to move.

She broke free from Wang Zhonghua, staggered two steps, snatched "Yinxue" from him, and held the knife tip to her neck: "Brother Zhonghua, say the last two sentences one more time."

Wang Zhonghua looked into those blood-red yet terrifyingly bright eyes and said, word by word, "From now on, birds will vanish from a thousand mountains, and only this cold river will echo with the roar of dragons."

Qin Tiehua closed her eyes, the blade trembling slightly, emitting a very faint hum. She suddenly laughed, and as she laughed, her body went limp, and she fell straight forward. Wang Zhonghua rushed forward to catch her, only to feel a lightness in his arms—she had used the knife as a staff to support herself.

"I won't fall." Her voice was as soft as a whisper, yet each word was as firm as a nail. "This knife... hasn't been named yet."

Shen Kuo suddenly knelt down, not to the knife, but to the earthen wall. He took out a charcoal pencil, his hand trembling so much he could barely hold it, yet he still copied the poem down stroke by stroke. When he wrote "blood blisters replaced by frost marks," the charcoal pencil broke, so he simply dipped his finger in the ink and continued writing.

"Young master, this poem must be engraved on the wall, carved on a knife..."

"It's only true love if it's etched in your heart." Old Qin walked shakily to his daughter's side and took out a polished iron ring from his pocket—a token of love he had given to his deceased wife when he was young. "The year your mother passed away, she said that our Qin family would one day produce someone who could 'listen to fire.' She was talking about you."

Qin Tiehua looked down at the ring and suddenly burst into tears. It wasn't a silent cry; it was a wail that had been building up for seven days and seven nights, perhaps even a lifetime. She trembled all over as she cried, but she held onto "Yinxue" tightly and wouldn't let go.

Wang Zhonghua took a half step back, letting Lao Qin support his daughter. He looked at Shen Kuo—the young man had finished writing the poem and was frantically wiping his glasses, but the more he wiped, the blurrier they became. He looked at Huang Daniu—the old man was still kneeling, kneeling against the earthen wall, on which were crooked verses. He looked at the apprentices—some were hugging each other, some were laughing foolishly, and some were copying poems onto their arms with charcoal pencils.

"Listen up, everyone!"

Wang Zhonghua suddenly spoke, and everyone fell silent.

He took the "Snow Chant" sword, raised it high, and moonlight poured in from the window, making the blade appear as smooth as water.

"This sword is called 'Snow Chant.' Not the snow that blankets the land in silver, but the snow where 'a thousand mountains are devoid of birds.' From this day forward, this sword will protect the smoke and fire of Sanyi Village, protect the people of Shangshui County, protect—"

He paused, then suddenly laughed. The laugh held a mixture of weariness, arrogance, and the trembling of a time traveler touching the pulse of history.

"Protect our Sanyi Village, so that from now on, no bird will ever be left behind!"

"good!"

Qin Tiedan was the first to shout, and then a thunderous response erupted from the workshop. Some people banged on anvils, some smashed wooden barrels, and some tapped the walls with their knuckles, producing a booming sound like drums.

Shen Kuo suddenly jumped up, pointed out the window and shouted, "Young Master! Sister Tiehua! Look!"

Outside the window, the area had become crowded with people.

Lu Sanjun, draped in a brocade robe, stood barefoot in the snow, behind him a dense mass of laborers from Lujia Village. Further away, torches flickered on the banks of Laomentan Pool, where villagers from Huluwan Village had rushed to the scene upon hearing the commotion.

They didn't know what had happened; they just stared silently at the window that let in the firelight and moonlight, as if they were witnessing some kind of miracle.

Qin Tiehua pushed her father and Wang Zhonghua aside, and walked alone to the window, leaning on "Yinxue". The blade reflected her face covered in blood blisters and tear stains, and the clothes she hadn't changed for seven days and seven nights.

But she straightened her back.

"Did you see it clearly?" she shouted hoarsely towards the window. "This knife, it was made by me, Qin Tiehua!"

No one answered.

"Seven days later, I will use this knife to carve the names of all of us on the walls of Sanyi Village!"

"Carve! Carve! Carve!"

Thousands of voices converged into a torrent, surging across the sky above Hulu Bay, startling countless crows into flight, yet unable to drown out the soft hum of the blade.

Wang Zhonghua walked to her side, and they looked out the window side by side. Shen Kuo leaned closer and asked in a very low voice, "Young master, would you like me to engrave the words 'Snow Chant' onto the blade?"

"chisel."

"In what form?"

Wang Zhonghua looked at the profile of Qin Tiehua's face, at her rough yet radiant face sculpted by the fire and tears, and whispered:

"The way she held the hammer—lighter on the left, heavier on the right, tilted upwards, and bent downwards—was just like her."

"A fine knife," he said softly. "Let's call it 'Snow Chant'."

"Yinxue?" Qin Tiehua looked up.

"Yes." Wang Zhonghua solemnly placed the knife back in her hand. "May it be as pure as snow, and as cold as snow. And even more so..." He paused, looking into Qin Tiehua's bloodshot eyes, "may it protect those we want to protect."

Qin Tiehua gripped the hilt of the knife tightly, looked down at the faint blue light on the blade, and remained silent for a long time.

After a while, she suddenly looked up at the last piece of material remaining in the pile of new steel—it wasn't big, just enough to make a short knife.

"Brother Zhonghua," she said, "I want to keep this one for myself."

Wang Zhonghua paused for a moment, then laughed: "It was originally meant for you to call."

Qin Tiehua shook his head: "I want to do it myself. From beginning to end, I'll do it myself, hammer by hammer."

She walked to the fire and placed the piece of steel into the furnace. The firelight shone on her face, making her soot-covered features glow.

Old Qin looked at his daughter, his lips moved, and he suddenly said in a deep voice, "Girl, you really do look like your mother."

Qin Tiehua paused, didn't turn around, and only gave a soft "hmm".

That night, everyone left. Only Qin Tiehua remained, standing alone by the fire, hammering her knife. Wang Zhonghua stayed, sitting in the corner, watching her.

The hammers clattered all night long.

At daybreak, the knife was finished.

Shorter and narrower than "Snowy Chant," yet heavier. Qin Tiehua held it up to the window; the snowlight shone on the blade, reflecting a cold, clear light. In that light lay the lingering warmth of the furnace, her unwavering dedication through seven days and seven nights of sleepless nights, and all the unspoken thoughts in her heart.

"What's your name?" Wang Zhonghua asked.

Qin Tiehua thought for a long time, then suddenly remembered the song Wang Zhonghua had sung on the mountain path that day—"A hundred years of cultivation brings us to share a pillow." Her face flushed slightly, and she lowered her head, saying:

"A stunning sight."

Wang Zhonghua was taken aback, then he understood. Looking at the girl in front of him, covered in black ash, with blisters on her hands and eyes as red as a rabbit's, he suddenly felt that she was truly like a fleeting glimpse of beauty—in this dusty world, a fleeting glance that could never be forgotten.

"A good name," he said softly.

That night, the first batch of twelve "Snowy Serenade" grade steel knives and twenty spears, along with the "Surprising Swan" sword, were secretly stored in the cellar.

The news spread like wildfire, but only within the Lü family compound. Everyone who had seen "Yinxue" changed their expressions. The old blacksmiths who had previously been unconvinced by Qin Tiehua now silently stepped back and made way for her. The young men looked at her as if she were a deity.

Qin Tiehua still lives in the workshop, polishing and hammering tirelessly every day.

As night deepened, she sat alone by the fire, wiping "Jinghong" with a fine cloth. The firelight reflected off the blade, illuminating her serene face.

Qin Tiehua suddenly said to Wang Zhonghua beside him:

"Bandits have gathered at Black Wind Village in Qinxiang Lake. Lü Maoyi said there are at least three or four hundred of them. They are strong and well-equipped, and they may attack our Sanyi Village at any time."

"Hmm." Wang Zhonghua looked out the window at the heavy snow. "They're probably eyeing our grain depot and wine cellar."

"Should we..." Qin Tiehua gripped the hilt of his knife, "...expand the patrol to thirty men?"

Wang Zhonghua laughed, a cold laugh in the firelight: "Expanding to fifty men won't help. If the bandits dare to come, they won't be afraid of your numbers." He turned his head, his gaze deep and unfathomable, "However, they think they are wolves, but they don't know..." He pointed to the "Snowy Chant" hanging on the wall, "...the hunting knife is already sharpened."

Qin Tiehua looked in the direction of his finger and saw the blade gleaming faintly in the darkness, like a lurking dragon.

"Who will hunt whom," she repeated softly, "is still unknown."