Studying at Western University starts with a knife-forging competition

Lin Yuan placed the cooled blade blank on the worktable, wiped away the remaining water stains on the surface with a clean cotton cloth, then stepped back and examined his work.

After acid washing, the cloud-like patterns quietly unfolded under the photographic light, with flowing lines extending from the tip of the knife all the way to the root of the blade, symmetrical on both sides, without a single flaw.

He untied his apron, folded it neatly, and placed it next to the tool rack.

Following the habits he developed in Professor Robert's workshop, the first thing he did after finishing a piece was not to admire it, but to tidy up his workstation. He unloaded the used sanding belt from the machine, sorted it by grit, rolled it up neatly, and put it back on the consumables rack. The pliers, steel brush, and angle ruler were all put away. The oxide scale on the anvil was swept off. The water stains next to the quenching tank were wiped dry.

After doing all that, he glanced at the timer on the wall.

There are about forty minutes left until the end of the first round.

There was still enough time. He even had time to make himself a coffee. He remembered there was a capsule coffee machine in the lounge area, and he'd seen Mark press a button there before entering. Now he'd go over, press a button, lean against the wall and slowly drink it, then come back just in time for the judges' inspection.

He was about to walk to the rest area when a muffled thud suddenly came from the workshop behind him.

"Fuck!"

It was the sound of metal hitting a concrete floor, mixed with a man's low, barely suppressed, angry curses.

Lin Yuan turned his head.

The middle-aged white man at the workstation next to him—Lin Yuan remembered the host mentioning his name as Greg—was standing in front of the power hammer, his hands braced against the edge of the anvil, his shoulders heaving violently. His blade blank had fallen to the ground; the weld connecting the blank to the handle had broken, and the blank itself had been bent by the deviation of the power hammer's final strike, lying crookedly on the concrete floor like a piece of deformed clay.

Greg looked down at the ruined knife blank, his rough fingers clenched white on the edge of the cutting board.

Without a word, he bent down and picked up the deformed tool blank, examining it for a couple of seconds, as if to confirm if it could still be salvaged. Then he tossed the scrap into the waste bin next to the tool rack, the sound of metal striking the bin's side crisp and clear. He stood there, staring at the waste bin for about five seconds, then slowly raised his hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

His eyes were a little red. Not the kind of red from crying, but the kind that comes from someone who has stood in front of the forge for over a decade, watching helplessly as what he was to hand in forty minutes turned into a piece of scrap metal. The exhaustion and resentment that welled up from within him forced his eyes to redden.

Lin Yuan stopped walking towards the rest area.

He didn't walk over, nor did he speak. In the forging workshop, it was a sensitive move for one contestant to approach another's workstation, especially after the other had just made a mistake. He simply stood there, observing Greg's next move from his own workstation's perspective.

Greg took about ten seconds to compose himself.

Then he took a deep breath, took a few more steel plates from the material rack, and began to rebuild the stacked structure.

Lin Yuan frowned slightly as he watched his movements.

Greg was holding three pieces of 15N20 and two pieces of 1084 steel. He sandwiched the three pieces of mild steel between the two pieces of hard steel, then picked up the spot welding gun to prepare for welding.

Lin Yuan recognized the structure. Five steel plates, three soft and two hard, with the soft steel in the middle, and the total number of layers was odd. This meant that no matter how it was sharpened, the blade would most likely land on the soft steel layer in the middle.

He glanced at the timer on the wall. Thirty-eight minutes remained.

In that short time, a highly skilled bladesmith could easily remake a simple stacked Damascus steel blade blank from scratch. But Greg was clearly not the type to be fast—his actions in selecting the new material were visibly flustered, and he had to adjust the angle of the spot welding torch twice before he could aim it at the welding point.

If he welds the three soft and two hard steel together and then forges it, the resulting blade will be made of soft steel. During the testing phase, it will chip when he tries to split bone. The judges won't be lenient, and neither will the show's entertainment value.

Lin Yuan hesitated for a second.

It wasn't a matter of technical judgment—he could spot the flawed combination at a glance—but rather that he wasn't sure if his opponent would be willing to accept a competitor's advice in a competition. At the forging table, craftsmanship is respectable, and sometimes respectability is more important than victory or defeat.

But he still spoke up.

"Greg."

Greg paused, then turned his head. His expression was complex, a mixture of shame, anxiety, and a defensive tension.

A middle-aged man was stopped by a foreign boy who was at least twenty years younger than him, and after he had just ruined a blade blank, he was not sure what he was about to hear.

"The materials you just piled up are mismatched," Lin Yuan's voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. "Three pieces of soft steel sandwiching two pieces of hard steel. The resulting blade will be positioned on the soft steel, and it won't be hard enough."

Greg looked down at the steel billet he had just welded, then looked up at Lin Yuan. His lips moved, but he didn't speak. To have a bystander point out a flaw in the core material composition of a welded steel billet was more embarrassing than ruining a knife.

But he didn't hear any sarcasm or condescension in Lin Yuan's tone; he was simply stating a fact, as if to say that the furnace temperature was a little too high.

"I can start over," Greg said. His voice was hoarse, as if his throat had been baked by the dry, hot air of a forge all day.

"Time is running out, only thirty-six minutes left." Lin Yuan tilted his head towards the timer. "But what you're welding now doesn't need to be scrapped. Add two more pieces of hard steel—one 1084 on each of the outer layers. Wrap the soft steel in the middle."

Greg's hand was still on the welding torch, and his expression changed from defensive to thoughtful.

"Add two pieces, weld them together, and then use the folding and forging method," Lin Yuan continued. "Fold it once, and the soft steel in the middle will be encased inside, with the cutting edge landing on the hard steel layer."

It doesn't have many layers, around a dozen or so, and the pattern isn't particularly fine. But it has a pattern and is sturdy, making it a decent finished product.

Greg turned the already welded steel billet over to examine it. The welds were very solid; if it were to be disassembled and redone, it would take several minutes just to clean the weld spatter.

His fingers rubbed the side of the steel billet twice, as if weighing the significance of the suggestion. Then he looked up, his gaze sweeping from his workstation to the cloud-patterned dagger on Lin Yuan's workbench.

Lin Yuan caught that gaze. He was very familiar with that look—back in Longquan, some young apprentices had the same look in their eyes when they first saw their master craftsman finish a sword blank. It wasn't jealousy, it was a look of utter disorientation.

It is a sudden realization of how far apart one is from a certain standard, so far that the gap itself is not even fully visible.

"You do yours. Don't look at mine." Lin Yuan wiped his fingers with his apron. "My knives are the result of eleven years of practice. What you need now is not to make a finished product like mine, but to deliver a blank knife that can pass the first round within thirty-six minutes."

Greg looked at Lin Yuan. His eyes were still red, but the redness that had welled up from the depths of his eyes had faded, replaced by something else—the clarity of someone who had stood in front of the forging table for more than a decade, after being professionally pulled back, and finding a new foothold.

"Why are you helping me?" Greg's voice was still hoarse, but it was a little more steady than before.

"Your solder joints are pretty good. Your hand is steady, but you chose the wrong materials," Lin Yuan said. "Besides, I also want to get myself a coffee while waiting for the competition to end. If you mess up, the staff will keep filming you, it'll be quite noisy."

Greg stared at him for about two seconds. Then he reached under the welding machine, took the already welded steel billet, turned around and took two 1084 steel plates from the material rack, sandwiched them between the two sides of the original billet, and put them back into the welding machine.

When the welding sparks flew, his movements were much more steady than before.

Lin Yuan didn't return to his own workstation. He stood in the aisle between the two workstations, maintaining a distance that didn't cross the line. He didn't help the other person touch any tools or materials.

"Make the solder joints closer together so that the folding is more stable. Too few solder joints will make it easier for the folding to break apart," Lin Yuan said.

Greg adjusted the position of the welding torch and added two more weld points.

After welding, he sent the steel billet into the forging furnace. Lin Yuan stood in the aisle watching the color of the flames in the furnace, and opened the billet when it turned cherry red.

"Okay, take it out."

Greg picked up the steel billet and walked to the power hammer. His hand gripped the control lever, his fingers slightly clenched—it was right here that he had bent the previous billet while distracted. The anvil of the power hammer still bore the slag from the broken weld of the previous billet, which he hadn't had time to clean.

"Don't rush to strike." Lin Yuan's voice was even steadyer than before. "Clean the cutting board thoroughly. Look at where you're going to strike, and before you strike, think carefully about how hard you want to hit. Don't rush."

Greg took a deep breath, picked up a steel brush and swept the welding slag off the cutting board, then picked up the steel billet again and placed it on the cutting board.

The hammerhead of the power hammer fell down.

First strike. It's a sure thing.

Then came the second hammer blow, and the third. The rhythm wasn't fast, but each blow landed precisely in the designated spot. Lin Yuan's eyes followed the hammerhead, and when the billet had stretched to a sufficient length, he called out to Greg.

"That's enough. Make the cut. Don't go deeper than half the thickness, or it will break when you fold it in half."

Greg picked up the chisel and made a cut in the middle of the steel bar. His hand was steady, and the depth was just right. It was the cleanest cut he had made all day.

Folding. As Greg folded, his hands hesitated for a moment—he wasn't sure how to secure the folded steel billet to the anvil. Lin Yuan's voice arrived in that instant of hesitation.

"Clamp the folded steel billet, heat the cut area first, sprinkle borax on it, and then beat it."

Greg did as he was told.

The furnace flames licked the surface of the steel billet again. Borax melted into a transparent, glassy protective film at high temperatures. Greg clamped the billet onto the anvil, the hammer fell, and the folded sides were forged and welded into a single piece at high temperature.

One forging. The number of layers doubled. Fifteen layers of Damascus steel. The middle layer of soft steel is wrapped inside, and the two cutting edges are all hard steel.

Greg straightened up, looking at the fifteen-layer steel billet in his hand. For a moment, he forgot he was in a competition. He ran his fingers over the hammer marks on the welded surface; the rough texture told him that this was no longer the original five pieces of steel plate with the wrong materials welded together. It was the blank for a knife. A usable knife.

"Fifteen minutes left." Lin Yuan glanced at the timer. "That's enough time for you to shape the blade, do the normalizing, and quenching. Don't rush, fifteen minutes is enough for all three steps."

Greg didn't answer. He sent the billet back to the furnace, took it out, and began shaping it into a knife. His hammering technique was unpretentious, but his fundamentals were solid. The billet gradually took shape on the anvil, and the outline of a standard hunting knife emerged from under his hammer.

Normalizing. Quenching. This time he used oil quenching—he's a product of the American knife-making school, and for him, oil quenching is a safe zone, and also a zone of habit.

During oil quenching, the steel billet entered the oil in a clean and crisp arc, without splashing oil or tilting in the quenching oil. His fundamental skills had never left him; the mistake just now wasn't a matter of technique, but rather his mindset. Lin Yuan noticed the oil-immersion technique and the slight pause during pre-cooling, and mentally gave the middle-aged man a passing grade for his basic skills.

After the quenching was complete, Greg held the blade blank in pliers and let it cool in the air. He stood beside the anvil, his eyes fixed on the peeling of the oxide layer on the blade blank's surface, as if awaiting a verdict.

The timer entered its final three minutes. Greg wiped the cooled blank clean with a cloth, brushed off any remaining oxide scale with a steel brush, and then placed it on the worktable.

The blade is made of fifteen layers of stacked Damascus steel, shaped like a standard hunting knife. There are few patterns on the blade, only a few faint water ripple-like lines, barely visible under the light. Compared to Lin Yuan's cloud-patterned dagger next to it, it looks like a product of two different eras.

But this is a finished product.

A complete blade blank that can stand up to the judges, with patterns, hardness, and clean blade lines.

Greg looked at his worktable, his hands resting on the edge, his back hunched, his shoulders rising and falling with each deep breath. He wasn't panting because of the competition results; he was someone who had been pushed to the edge of a cliff and then pulled back steadily by a hand, finally able to breathe freely with relief.

He turned his head and looked at Lin Yuan, who was standing between the two workstations. Lin Yuan had already turned around and was about to press the coffee button.

"I owe you one." Greg's voice came from behind, hoarse, but with a solid quality that seemed to be held up by something.

Lin Yuan turned around.

"I don't owe you anything," he said. "You forged the knife yourself."

Then he walked toward the rest area. The capsule coffee machine sat quietly in the corner, its green light on, next to a stack of paper cups and a jar of sugar packets.

He inserted the paper cup into the machine and pressed a button. The machine hummed, and dark brown coffee slowly filled the cup. He leaned against the wall and took a sip. It tasted good, just right.