Chapter 3: Who Will Fight the Tartars with Me?

The blacksmith Zhao shook his head and turned to walk into the inner room. Lin Chuan and Sergeant Hu had reached an agreement so quickly that he knew any further words would be unnecessary.

Lifting the curtain to the inner room, under the dim light, the camphor wood chest lay quietly in the corner by the wall.

He opened the chest, the lid creaking softly.

At the bottom lay a long blade, its scabbard wrapped in a red cord now faded to a dark brown.

Zhao’s fingers gently traced the scabbard; the wood grain was still clearly visible.

Last spring, he and Old Brother Lin had sat beneath the elm tree drinking, and in their drunken gamble, vowed to forge a fine blade worthy of being passed down through generations.

“Fate, that’s all it is,” he muttered, swallowing hard.

For over two months he tended the forge, hammering repeatedly. Old Brother Lin would come by from time to time, bringing homemade rice wine.

Old Brother Lin even joked that by the time Lin Chuan married, the blade still wouldn’t be ready.

Who could have imagined that before the autumn harvest, a sudden illness would take him away...

“This blade is yours now,” he said, taking out the long knife. “Made of refined iron, worth five taels of silver.”

Lin Chuan took the blade; it felt heavy in his hand.

The scabbard was made of ordinary cypress wood.

His thumb pushed the guard slightly, revealing a glint of cold steel.

Lin Chuan’s eyes widened in surprise.

It was a proper horizontal sword!

He couldn’t help but exclaim, “What a fine blade!”

Zhao’s lips moved but he refrained from telling the story behind the blade.

“Uncle Zhao, I don’t have that much silver...” Lin Chuan began.

Zhao waved his hand, “No rush. Pay me after you receive your wages.”

“All right!” Lin Chuan nodded, then suddenly asked, “Uncle Zhao, do you have a bow?”

“A bow?” Zhao was momentarily taken aback. “Only the kind hunters use; not much good against the Tatars...”

He shook his head and fetched an elm wood bow from the corner. The bowstring was already faded to white.

Lin Chuan tested its tension, frowning slightly.

It was indeed weak—thirty meters was generous for its range.

His gaze swept the smithy and landed on a few arrowheads in the corner.

“Uncle Zhao, are these the arrowheads used in the garrison?”

Zhao nodded, picking up a discarded arrowhead and handing it to Lin Chuan.

“Just like this—triangular iron heads, with shafts made of birch.”

Lin Chuan examined it carefully.

The workmanship was crude, simply forged into a triangular pyramid shape, with edges not even sharpened.

It might do against unarmored targets, but the Tatars wore leather armor, and these arrowheads would hardly pierce through.

“Too ordinary,” Lin Chuan murmured.

Zhao snorted, “Uniform issue from the Armory Department. How good do you think they can be? Each fortress gets only two hundred arrows. After shooting, you have to retrieve and reuse them.”

Lin Chuan said nothing. He pulled a thin twig from the charcoal pile and began drawing on the ground.

The lines were simple yet sharp, quickly sketching a peculiar triangular shape with tiny barbs at the tail.

“What’s this...” Zhao squinted.

“An improved arrowhead,” Lin Chuan whispered. “A triangular groove holds blood; once it pierces flesh, it twists to tear the wound. The barbs pull out sinew and muscle. It’s more effective against armored Tatars than ordinary arrowheads.”

Zhao stared at the drawing, swallowing hard.

He had once been a hunter in his youth and understood the ruthless design.

After a moment, his hoarse voice said, “What kind of books have you been reading, boy?”

Lin Chuan said nothing, only pointed at the drawing.

“Uncle Zhao, can you make these?”

“They can be made...” Zhao rubbed the calluses on his hands, “but it’s laborious. At most fifteen a day.”

“Then make me thirty,” Lin Chuan said, pulling a small cloth pouch from his pocket and spilling some copper coins.

It was his last savings. “A deposit.”

Zhao pushed his hand away. “I said no rush.” He turned toward the anvil, his silhouette bent in the firelight. “Come back in two days to collect. If... if you don’t return, consider the debt on your mother’s head.”

“Thank you, Uncle Zhao!” Lin Chuan said.

Zhao waved him off without a word.

...

Lin Chuan gripped the long knife as he stepped out of the smithy.

Suddenly, urgent gong beats resounded from afar.

“The Tatars are coming! The Tatars are coming!”

Under the old locust tree at the village entrance, the village chief pounded a battered gong, his voice hoarse from shouting.

Several villagers fled into the village in panic.

Lin Chuan narrowed his eyes toward the north.

At the end of the official road, a cloud of dust rose, revealing five or six dark riders rapidly approaching.

“They’re Wolf Rong scouts!” someone screamed.

The crowd erupted into chaos, scattering in all directions.

“Don’t panic!”

Lin Chuan strode to the locust tree and stepped onto the stool the chief used for the gong.

“Listen to me!”

His voice was low but it silenced the noisy crowd.

The villagers stared in surprise at the scholar who rarely left his home.

At this moment, his straight posture and sharp gaze seemed almost unfamiliar.

“Just a few scouts,” Lin Chuan looked around. “Our village has at least twenty able-bodied men. What’s there to fear?”

“A scholar knows nothing!” Old Zhang cowered in the corner, trembling. “Those are Wolf Rong scouts! Last year, over thirty people in Wang Family Village were killed by them.”

“So you’re just waiting to be beheaded one by one?”

Lin Chuan sneered, suddenly drawing the long knife with a swift “swish.”

The blade traced a silver arc in the sunlight.

With a snap, a thick branch broke and crashed to the ground.

Several young men gasped, their breaths quickening.

No one is born a coward; they just lack a leader.

“Scholar, I’ll go with you!” A freckled youth stepped forward—Zhang Xiaonian, Old Zhang’s son.

“Xiaonian, what are you doing?!” Old Zhang shouted. “Are you going to die?”

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