Chapter 97: The Blacksmith

Though her words were spoken with calm indifference, the threat embedded within them was unmistakable. Autumn Thirteen’s face quickly returned to its previous expression. She was no longer the woman she once was, and anyone could see that plainly. The subtle upward curve of her lips betrayed a smile, and her gaze brimmed with quiet confidence. “Rest assured. The person you seek will soon be found.”

“Is that so?” The other’s face showed a hint of delight, mingled with confusion, and even her figure quivered slightly, as if hoping to glean some answer from this inquiry. Thirteen rose abruptly, striding swiftly toward the window. Outside, darkness pressed in, for night had grown deep. The faint lamplight could not dispel the gloom, nor restore the clarity of day. At that moment, the drunken madman’s silhouette vanished around the corner. Although his fondness for wine was well known, he was clearly more sober than most; otherwise, he would not have departed so hurriedly. This seemed to confirm her suspicions. With this assurance, she turned and slowly drew a small brocade box from her bosom. As she opened it, she revealed a creature resembling a bee. Only then did she speak: “I would never gamble my own freedom. This is a Red-Eyed Bee. Its greatest talent is tracking the scent of wine. Within ten miles, wherever it has tasted, it can always find the source.”

“So that’s why you reserved the Four Seasons Wine for the madman. But how can you be sure he’ll know where the person I seek is?” By now, the visitor was no fool; she could discern the situation, though confusion lingered in her mind. She had overheard their conversation from her hiding place, but found nothing useful—certainly not enough to justify such confidence. Autumn Thirteen observed her bewilderment, and laughter threatened to burst forth within her mind. A quiet voice murmured: “Once a figure of such renown, now reduced to this for a mere person. Water Lotus or Water Linglong, it matters little; you were always destined to fall at love’s feet. The mission Blue Lotus Sect bears seems to have faded from your memory. Well, I have no right to mock you. Even now, I cannot let go myself.”

Of course, such thoughts could only be kept to herself; she dared not voice them. Bringing the brocade box closer to the wine cup, she released the Red-Eyed Bee, which crawled out and circled the cup twice. Seizing the moment, she waved her hand sharply, a gust of wind sending the bee toward the window, and after a brief pause, it flew in the direction where the madman had disappeared. Only then did she turn to Water Linglong and say, “Just follow me. As for my certainty, I’ll explain in due time.”

With matters thus settled, neither woman lingered. Their bodies sprang toward the window in a single bound, swift as lightning—far beyond the capabilities of ordinary folk. Even the Red-Eyed Bee could not escape their pursuit. In an instant, two women and one bee vanished around the corner.

The lamplight was dim, as is often the case at night. Many places lay in utter darkness, a backdrop perhaps hinting at hidden presences. The madman stood before the railing, and though the sounds from within were faint, one could still hear the clanging of metal. He hesitated, his mood deepening, as if pondering something. After a while, he mocked himself, murmuring, “What nonsense am I thinking? Though he hails from the central plains like me, the world is vast and martial wanderers abound. How could it be him? Even if it is, what does it matter, so long as he isn’t seeking revenge? That wouldn’t betray the trust between friends. At worst, I’ll ask him plainly. If he’s hiding from enemies, I’ll keep silent.”

Resolving thus, the madman’s gaze fell on the wine jar in his hand. It was indeed fine wine; after years of obsession, only this jar could bring him true satisfaction. Having received this gift, he felt compelled to reciprocate, lest he be thought ungrateful. Even a token gesture must be made. The gate was not fully closed, merely ajar, and without opening it further, one could glimpse the figure inside by lamplight—apparently hammering away at something. He felt a sudden release from worry. “Why fret needlessly? A person whom Thirteen personally inquires after cannot be ordinary. And if not ordinary, why would he be forging swords in this borderland? My concerns were excessive. Well, there’s plenty of wine left—let’s drink together as an apology. No one can say I’m an unworthy friend!”

Drawing closer, the sounds became clearer. The smith’s hammering was natural, and the madman stood before the door, preparing to knock. Yet before his hand could even touch the wood, a rough voice rang out from inside: “If you want to come in, just do so. Why hesitate? That’s not your style, madman. We’ve known each other for years—why so shy tonight?”

Clearly, only someone deeply familiar could speak so frankly. Thus summoned, the madman could hardly remain outside. He pushed open the door and entered, dispensing with any preamble. The outdoors in the far north was bitterly cold, but inside, the atmosphere was entirely different. Perhaps it was the large furnace—this spacious room was not only brighter, but the chill vanished, replaced by waves of heat. The smith inside matched the madman’s expectations: absorbed in forging his iron, raising the hammer high and bringing it down with force, again and again. His concentration was such that even as the madman entered, he did not look up, and the glowing iron gradually took the shape of a sword. Bare-chested, perhaps due to the heat and exertion, his bronze skin was beaded with sweat, exuding masculine vigor. His hair was tousled, his face solemn, the task clearly demanding utmost care.

“I saw you were busy—didn’t want to disturb, lest I ruin your work. Say, is your Clear Swan Sword finished?” So questioned, the madman sought an excuse; perhaps his words didn’t quite match his thoughts, and his expression was a bit uneasy. He needed a quick topic change, but fortunately, the smith didn’t look up and thus missed his embarrassment. After a few more heavy strikes, the smith flung the sword embryo into the water, wiped sweat from his body with a nearby cloth, and said, “These things are just for Master Zhou’s household, to guard the gates. Those novices don’t need fine weapons—anything they can swing will do. As for disturbing me, nonsense. You seek me for wine, nothing else. The ‘madman’ nickname fits you best for that reason. You wouldn’t come so late if you didn’t bring some peerless brew to tempt me. Bring it here and let me have a sniff. Once we’ve drunk our fill, I’ll show you the new Clear Swan Sword—it’s guaranteed to rival your wine.”

The madman knew little of swords, but that hardly mattered; so long as his friend enjoyed wine, their friendship was carefree. Of course, after years of camaraderie with a swordsmith, he’d inevitably acquired some taste for swords as well. He might not know what made a weapon legendary, but he could judge good from bad. The swordsmith seemed impatient, striding over and deftly snatching the wine jar from the madman. Bringing it close, he inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma. His expression shifted subtly, and he drew another long breath, as if confirming something. “Madman, you never cared for bland wine. Why bring this tonight? Are you here to reward me, Brother Lao? Besides, this wine isn’t local—it has the distinct fragrance of the central plains!”