Studying at Western University starts with a knife-forging competition

At 8:20 a.m. the next morning, Lin Yuan boarded a flight from Atlanta to Greenville-Spartanburg. The film crew consisted of three people—Mark, the cameraman, and a sound engineer—who sat behind him. The cameraman held his camera in his arms and dozed off the entire way.

The flight took less than an hour. After the plane landed, Lin Yuan spotted Matt Wayne immediately from the arrivals level.

Matt stood outside the arrival gate, wearing a wrinkled dark green hoodie, his hair still messy, and two dark circles under his eyes that were heavier than usual. Seeing Lin Yuan come out, he immediately raised an arm and waved vigorously.

"Bro!" Matt rushed over and reached for Lin Yuan's backpack. "You're finally back. How did the competition go?"

"We won the regular season. We made it to the finals."

"I knew it." Matt grinned, then his expression quickly shifted from joy to accusation. "You've been gone for four days, and do you know how I've survived? Takeout. Absolutely takeout. I ate three meals from that burger joint, two from the pizza place, and one each of fried rice and fried noodles from the Chinese restaurant. By the third day, my stomach was already protesting." He patted his stomach, his tone filled with genuine pain. "This isn't just a stomach; it's a battlefield ravaged by takeout. Are you cooking tonight?"

Lin Yuan glanced at him.

"Do."

Matt's face broke into an almost pious smile. He helped Lin Yuan put his backpack in the back seat, then opened the passenger door himself. The car drove out of the airport parking lot and turned onto the highway leading to Clemson. Classical rock music was still playing from the car stereo, the volume turned up low. The film crew had prepared their own black minivan, which followed behind Matt's car.

The car stopped in front of the dormitory building. Lin Yuan opened the car door and stood under the oak tree in front of the building. Matt parked the car and walked over, reporting on the food reserves in the refrigerator as he went, in as much detail as a supplies list: six eggs left, two packs of bacon, milk bought yesterday, one onion left, potatoes that had sprouted a little but could still be eaten after cutting them off, no beef shank, no pork belly, and a pack of chicken legs in the freezer.

Lin Yuan pushed open the dormitory door. The living room was a little messier than when he left—several takeout bags and empty Coke cans were piled on the coffee table, and two jackets and a game controller were tossed on the sofa. But overall, for Matt Wayne, who had survived alone for four days, this level of tidiness was commendable.

He went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and checked it over. The situation was roughly as Matt had reported. He took out the bag of chicken legs and put them in the sink to defrost, then took out the potatoes, peeled off the sprouts, and rummaged through the cupboard for a bag of dried shiitake mushrooms and a packet of dried chili peppers. Matt moved a chair and sat in the kitchen doorway, not to help, but to watch. This habit had started from the first day he moved in and had never changed.

Lin Yuan chopped the thawed chicken legs into pieces, blanched them in cold water, and then rinsed them with warm water to remove any scum. He heated the pan, added oil, and sautéed ginger slices, garlic cloves, dried chili peppers, and Sichuan peppercorns until fragrant. As the aroma wafted out of the kitchen, he heard a suppressed swallow behind him.

He continued what he was doing. He poured the chicken pieces into the pot and stir-fried them over high heat. He added light soy sauce, dark soy sauce, and a small piece of rock sugar, stir-fried them evenly, then poured in beer to cover the chicken pieces. He brought it to a boil over high heat, then reduced it to medium heat. He cut the potatoes into chunks and halved the soaked shiitake mushrooms, then added them to the pot. He covered the pot and let it simmer slowly.

He boiled water in another pot, and once it boiled, he put a packet of dried noodles in. He cooked the noodles until they were about 80% done, then took them out, rinsed them with cold water, drained them, and tossed them with a little oil to prevent them from sticking. Then he took out the last onion and two green peppers from the refrigerator, sliced ​​them, and beat two eggs.

Twenty minutes later, a pot of stewed chicken with beer, potatoes, and onions was placed on the table, next to a plate of stir-fried noodles with green peppers.

Matt quickly retrieved two plates and two pairs of chopsticks from the cupboard, his movements belying someone who had been working four consecutive nights of sleepless nights. He first ladled out a bowl of fried noodles, picked up a mouthful with his chopsticks, and stuffed it into his mouth. He closed his eyes, his chewing noticeably slowing. Then he opened his eyes and announced in an almost solemn tone, "I'm alive. I feel my stomach is being repaired."

"That's because you've made a comparison by eating takeout."

Matt shook his head, his tone serious. "It's not a comparison. You've really gotten better. Have you leveled up again in the competition?"

After saying that, he buried his head and continued eating. Little did he know that his casual joke had inadvertently hit the nail on the head.

After finishing his meal, Matt voluntarily put the dishes in the dishwasher. Lin Yuan ladled another portion of beer-braised chicken and potatoes from the pot into a thermal container, then took a box of previously braised beef from the refrigerator, cut it in half, and arranged it in another small box. He closed the thermal container and zipped up his backpack.

"Go find the professor?"

"Um."

Mark was already waiting downstairs, handing over a document—the university had approved the film crew's application to enter the campus for filming, limited to Lin Yuan's dormitory, workshop, and public areas, for a period of five days. The document bore the red seal of Clemson University's Office of External Relations.

"We've already set up cameras at the workshop entrance," Mark said. "You go about your business; we'll just film and won't disturb you."

Lin Yuan walked through the path behind the teaching building. The red brick building stood quietly in the afternoon sun, and the few discarded oxygen cylinders piled up at the door were still in their old positions. He pushed open the door, and a mixture of rust, machine oil, and coal ash wafted out.

Robert sat in the old chair against the wall, a magazine on his lap, a steaming coffee cup beside him. Hearing the door open, he looked up, took off his glasses, and placed them on the magazine.

"You're back."

"Professor." Lin Yuan placed his backpack on the worktable, took out a thermal box and the box of braised beef, "I brought some food. Beer-braised chicken with potatoes, and the braised beef was made earlier."

Robert stood up, walked to the small table, and picked up his chopsticks. He first picked up a piece of chicken, chewed it a couple of times, then picked up a slice of braised beef, nodding as he ate. After tasting both, he put down his chopsticks and put his glasses back on. "It tastes very good. But I guess you came here for more than just food."

Lin Yuan sat down on the high stool next to him.

"We won the regular season."

"I know." Robert nodded. "The production assistant, Mark, emailed me beforehand, saying that the production team was asking about your cloud-patterned steelwork. The judges even asked him about your lineage after the competition."

He spoke in a very calm tone, as if relaying a weather forecast, but there was a subtle hint of pride hidden in his eyes behind his glasses.

Lin Yuan smiled, then took out his phone from his backpack, pulled out the record of the final round questions, and handed it to Robert.

"The final round topic is a half-sword. The reference standard is the work of David Baker. There are five days, with no restrictions on materials or craftsmanship. I have never made this kind of European longsword before, and I would like to ask you for your experience."

Robert took the phone, glanced at the instructions, and put it aside. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms in front of his abdomen, and briefly explained the core principles of the hand-and-a-half sword to Lin Yuan—the geometric structure of the blade, with its evenly tapering arc from the guard to the tip, determines the weight distribution; the length of the hilt must balance the flexibility of wielding the sword with one hand with the space for holding it with both hands; the guard needs to be forged separately rather than cast; and a steel counterweight ball is needed at the end of the hilt to balance the weight of the blade.

"The design logic of the hand-and-a-half sword and the Longquan sword is completely different. The center of gravity is forward, and the core is slashing rather than thrusting. When you are forging, you need to pay attention to the thickness transition of the blade—it is thickest at the base and gradually thins towards the tip. The transition curve determines the inertial torque and wrist load when slashing." After he finished speaking, he stood up, walked to the filing cabinet, opened a drawer, rummaged through it, and took out a bound document and handed it over. "I previously compiled a document on European longsword forging techniques, which contains detailed data on geometric parameters and heat treatment curves. Take it back and look at it. Ask me if you have any questions."

Lin Yuan took the documents and flipped through them. Inside were geometric diagrams of the hand-and-a-half-sword, comparisons of heat treatment parameters for different steels, breakdown diagrams of the forging process of the sword guard, and several articles analyzing the stress deformation of longswords during quenching. Each page had Robert's handwritten annotations, the handwriting neat and meticulous.

"Thank you, Professor."

"You're welcome." Robert put the cup aside, picked up the journal again, and said casually but firmly, "Focus on sword forging these next few days. You don't need to go to class. I'll talk to the department."

Lin Yuan was taken aback. "Professor, this semester—"

"Your attendance rate this semester has been high enough." Robert flipped through the journal without looking up. "The only assignment you need to hand in now is that sword in five days."