Studying at Western University starts with a knife-forging competition

For the next week, Lin Yuan spent almost all his spare time in the workshop.

The audition videos needed to be reshot, something Robert had repeatedly emphasized. The camera angles and lighting in the previous version were unacceptable to the professors—the hammer's trajectory in the forging section was mostly obscured by shadows, and the person was out of frame during the quenching section, leaving a three-second empty shot. The judges weren't watching a movie; they didn't need atmosphere, they needed crystal-clear technical details.

On Wednesday afternoon, Matt appeared at the workshop entrance as promised.

He was wearing a clean gray T-shirt, his hair was unusually combed, and the dark circles under his eyes had faded somewhat, suggesting he had slept for at least four hours last night. He was holding a cup of coffee in one hand and had the other hand in his pocket, his expression somewhere between "I'm ready" and "I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do."

"Alright, where's the camera?" He put the coffee on the worktable.

Lin Yuan pointed to the Sony A6400 mounted on the tripod. "It's all set up. You just need to do one thing—for the quenching part, when I turn around and walk towards the quenching tank, you move with me with the camera. Keep the image stable and don't let the blank go out of the frame."

Matt leaned closer and glanced at the viewfinder. The screen showed the diagonal line formed by the curved surface of the anvil and the wooden handle of the forging hammer, with light streaming in from the high window on the side, casting a soft, diffuse reflection on the metal surface.

"You spent ages adjusting this?"

"Forty minutes."

"Alright." Matt straightened up, patted the camera body, and said, "If you move, I'll move. Sounds easy."

Lin Yuan glanced at him. Matt, who usually sprawled on the sofa like a jellyfish washed ashore, never broke his promises. Last time he said he'd buy scallions and ginger, he actually did; this time he said it wouldn't be difficult, and it probably really won't be.

"They're here."

Lin Yuan walked to the materials rack and took down a piece of patterned steel billet—this was specially prepared last week for filming, made by alternating layers of 1084 and 15N20 steel, repeatedly folded and forged and welded, and finally pressed into a rectangular billet. He put the billet into the furnace, the blower hummed, and flames emerged from the gaps in the coke.

Matt stood behind the tripod, arms crossed, looking at the scene in the viewfinder. He didn't ask "how much longer," nor did he touch his phone. He just stood there, quietly watching.

The steel billet was heated to a bright orange color. Lin Yuan took it out and placed it on the anvil, then the hammer fell.

"Dong—Ding—"

The sound of hammering echoed through the red-brick house, faithfully captured by the camera's microphone. Lin Yuan neither deliberately slowed down nor sped up. Each strike landed precisely on the pre-planned spot, breaking down the arc from the blade's root to its tip into a dozen or so consecutive points of impact. This wasn't something his father had taught him—his father forged swords based on decades of experience, needing no thought before the hammer fell. But he had his own method, seamlessly blending ancestral experience with precise planning.

Twenty minutes later, the forging segment was filmed. Lin Yuan reheated the blade blank, took it out, and headed towards the quenching tank.

Matt detached the camera from the tripod and held it in his hand. The moment Lin Yuan turned around, Matt moved as well. His steps were neither fast nor slow, always maintaining an arm's length distance from Lin Yuan. In the viewfinder, the bright orange-hot blade blank was steadily positioned in the center of the frame, the outline of the blade clearly visible, and the flames of the furnace danced on the surface of the water in the quenching tank.

The blade blank plunged into the water. Steam hissed and burst forth, billowing white mist that obscured the entire scene. Matt didn't even blink; his arm remained as steady as if welded to the rails.

The steam dissipated. The blade blank cooled in the water, its surface turning from bright orange to dark gray. Matt stopped recording and shoved the camera into Lin Yuan's hand.

"See if this works for you."

Lin Yuan took the camera and played the footage once. The image was stable, the focus remained consistent from beginning to end, and the entire process of the cutting tool entering the water and cooling was captured perfectly. There was no out-of-focus, no blurring. He looked up at Matt.

"You told me before that you had never touched a camera."

"I've never played that before," Matt said, taking a sip of his coffee from the worktable. "But you've played FPS games before, right? Recoil control is the same principle as tracking shots."

"...You're comparing following someone to recoil control?"

"Isn't it all about chasing a moving object and making sure it doesn't slip out of your sights?" Matt shrugged. "One uses a mouse, the other uses their arm."

Lin Yuan was silent for a moment, then laughed: "Okay, you're good."

"Duh." Matt took another sip, then looked down at the glass, frowned, and said, "Damn, it's cold."

-----------------

On Thursday night, Lin Yuan roughly edited the video. He was the only one in the dorm—Matt had gone to a group discussion and left looking reluctant, muttering, "How can they let me go if there are only six of us?" But he still changed into clean clothes and went out.

Lin Yuan put on his headphones and watched the video from beginning to end.

The forging rhythm, the timing of quenching, the details of polishing—the visuals are clean, and the sound is clear.

He corrected each of the problems Robert pointed out last time—the hammer's impact point in the forging section was clearly visible, the medium shot captured the contact surface between the hammer and the billet clearly, and the quenching process was filmed continuously from beginning to end. Every problem was solved.

He spent another two hours refining it. The narration's pace followed the rhythm of the visuals, with close-up shots used to emphasize technical points. No fancy special effects were added; just the most basic fade-in and fade-out.

The forging process itself is enough—the color of the flames, the patina of the metal, the tiny sparks flying as the hammer falls. These things don't need filters.

At 1 a.m., the final product was exported. It was four minutes and fifty-two seconds long, eight seconds shorter than the required five minutes. He watched it once, then again. Then he sent Robert a message, attaching the video file.

"Professor, the reshoot is finished. Could you please take a look at it for me?"

The reply came faster than he expected.

"Come over tomorrow. Let's talk in person."

-----------------

On Friday afternoon, Lin Yuan pushed open the workshop door.

Robert sat in the old chair against the wall, his laptop on his lap, a video of Lin Yuan playing on the screen. A cup of coffee sat on the table, its age unknown, next to a torn pack of chewing gum; he pulled out two pieces and placed them on a tissue.

"Sit down." He didn't look up.

Lin Yuan sat down on the stool next to him. Robert played the video from beginning to end, without fast-forwarding or stopping. After it finished, he dragged the progress bar back to the quenching section and watched it again. Then he took off his glasses, wiped the lenses with the hem of his shirt, and put them back on.

"Is that your roommate filming you?"

"Yes, Matt."

"Has he ever touched machinery before?"

"No. He said he practiced by playing shooting games, and it's the same principle as using a gun."

Robert turned to look at him. His eyes behind his glasses held a rare kind of bewilderment—not criticism, but simply the inability of someone who had spent thirty years in the field of materials science to connect "shooting games" with "video tracking."

"...Never mind." He decided not to press the matter further. "The video is fine. The forging scene is clear, the quenching follow-up is steady, and the transitions are all on point. It's much better than the previous version."

Lin Yuan waited. Having dealt with Robert for a long time, he knew that such statements usually ended with a "however." After a moment, Robert closed his laptop.

"Hand it over."

"But what about it?"

"No, not at all." Robert handed the computer back to him. "That's exactly what they wanted in the audition video—to clearly explain the forging techniques and processes to me, without any fluff. You did that. What the judges saw was a video without any unnecessary words or fancy tricks, showcasing technical details every second. That's what they wanted."

Lin Yuan took the computer and ran his fingers along the edge of the keyboard.

"Professor," he said, "thank you."

"Why thank me? I provided the venue, I lent the equipment. You filmed the video yourself, you fought with the knife yourself, you read the narration yourself. I just sat here and watched it a few times."

He stood up, walked to the tool wall, took down the 1095 hunting knife hanging there, and examined it in his hand.

When will it be handed in?

"Tonight."

"Okay." Robert nodded, hung up his hunting knife, and walked to the door, opening it. The March sun of South Carolina streamed in, casting a bright, square patch of light on the floor. "Let me know when you're done."

He stepped out, then paused.

"My wife asked me to ask about braised pork."

"I'll remember. Make it tomorrow, and bring two portions."

The door closed. The square disappeared.