Chương 57: 56. Is It Wrong to Woo a Middle-Aged Blacksmith with Gardening Tools?

The next morning, I leave her at the inn.

"You'll cultivate," I say.

"A better use of your time than following me through shops and asking questions to people who won't answer them with you there." She doesn't argue. She's already cross-legged on the bed, eyes closed, the heat of her cultivation warming the room around her. I leave. The eastern district is the same as yesterday; crowded, busy, full of mortals and Qi Condensation cultivators going about their lives. I walk slowly, my pack half-empty, ready to fill. I buy. I haggle. A sack of grain from the grain merchant.

I let him win on the price, then come back an hour later and buy another sack from his wife. Tomorrow, they'll remember my face. A length of rope from the stall near the corner. The seller is an old man with arthritis. He talks for ten minutes about his daughter, who moved to the northern district, who never visits. I stop at the blacksmith's forge; where they make horseshoes and nails and the occasional kitchen knife. The smith is a large woman with shoulders like a mine support.

She complains about the price of charcoal. I agree that charcoal is too expensive. We bond over shared resentment of fuel costs. I buy a dozen horseshoes. With how minimal the purchases were, they don't even amount to three low-grade stones. The sect will need them eventually, maybe. Or I'll melt them down. I don't know. Either way, the horseshoes have already done their real job: they gave me ten minutes with a smith who now remembers my face. By midday, I have bought enough to fill half my pack.

Useful supplies, mostly. Things the sect would need eventually. Things cheap enough to be forgettable. A cultivator carrying rare jade slips drew attention. A cultivator carrying rice and rope became part of the street noise. But there is one thing I am doing that matters more than the purchases. I am building relationships with the merchants, smiths, waitresses and laborers. The ones who see everything because no one thinks they're worth hiding from. The ones who talk to each other about the things they see.

I sell some of the preserved spirit beast meat during our travels to a restaurant near the edge of the district. The owner is a young woman with quick eyes and a sharper tongue. She tests the meat; smells it, touches it, tastes a small piece raw.

"This is good," she says.

"Where did you get it?"

"Hunted it myself. Preserved with cultivation techniques." She looks at me, then at the meat.

"You're a cultivator."

"Yes."

"And you're selling meat to a restaurant."

"Times are tough." She names a price. I nod. She pays. The profit is minimal; about one low-grade stone worth of coins. But by the time I leave, she knows three things about me: I sell good meat, I don't cheat weights, and I don't talk to mortals like furniture. A few hours later, I find a small restaurant near Wei Zheng's shop. A narrow room with six tables and a kitchen in the back. A waitress is wiping down the counter.

She is young, maybe twenty, with tired eyes and the particular wariness of someone who has learned not to expect kindness from strangers. I order noodles and she brings them. The noodles are ordinary. The broth is thin. I eat slowly. Then I ask.

"I'm looking for information about a craftsman in the district. Wei Zheng. The craftsman near the tannery."

"The one who makes the candle hats?"

"... No. The other one who runs the tool repair." She stops wiping the counter.

"Why?"

"I have a weapon that needs repair. He won't take it. I'm trying to understand why." She looks at me. At my robes, my bearing, the way I hold myself. A cultivator. Asking about Wei Zheng.

"There was an incident," she says.

"Years ago. I don't know much." I slide a few coins across the counter. She looks at them. Then at me. Then at the coins.

"I'm not asking for trouble," I say.

"I'm asking for understanding." She takes the coins.

"... His son. Maybe ten, twelve years ago. Had some talent. Enough for martial arts. Joined a sect. He was excited. Wei Zheng was proud." She pauses.

"Something happened. The boy died. Cultivator business, they said. An accident during training, I think. They sent his things back in a box. Wei Zheng never talked about it again." She looks at the coins in her hand.

"He used to make weapons. Before. Good ones. People from the cultivation district would come to him sometimes. He had a reputation." She shrugs.

"After his son died, he stopped. Said he wouldn't make weapons anymore. Only tools." I sit with this.

"The sect," I say.

"Do you remember which one?" She thinks, her brow furrowed.

"Something... Iron? No. Stone? Ironstone? No." She taps her fingers on the counter.

"Iron Heart. Iron Heart Valley Sect." I nod.

"Thank you." She tucks the coins into her apron and walks back to the kitchen. I leave the restaurant and walk. I let my feet carry me while my mind works. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Iron Heart Valley Sect. I've never heard of it. Not one of the major powers. A minor sect, probably. Wei Zheng's son had some talent. Then he died. And Wei Zheng stopped making weapons. I think about the angle I need to take. At first, I considered money.

Frostbite is a Nascent Soul-grade sword. Even damaged, restoring it partially would be worth several high-grade stones. Enough to make a man like Wei Zheng wealthy many times over. But this man is clearly not moved by money. He repairs axes for farmers and shovels for gardeners. He lives in a narrow shop with a cold furnace and a faded sign. He could have had wealth but he chose not to, despite his talents. The other alternative is intimidation. Threaten him. Coerce him.

Use the power gap between a Foundation Establishment cultivator and a mortal to force compliance. I dismiss that immediately. Not because it wouldn't work, it might, fear is a powerful motivator, but because it's terrible. It's the kind of thing the worst cultivators do. The kind of thing that made Wei Zheng stop trusting cultivators in the first place. Money would not move him. Fear would only prove him right. Which left the worst possible strategy.' Sincerity.' I had to do the thing I was worst at. Being honest.

I look up at the sky. The sun is behind a cloud, the light diffuse, the shadows soft.

'I should have played more story-sims.' In my past life, I analyzed the meta and guides on game-breaking builds. I calculated efficiency and economy. I did not romance characters or memorize dialogue options or learn how to say the right thing at the right time to make someone feel understood. It just... wasn't my cup of tea. I imagine Wei Zheng as a heroine in one of those games.

A stoic craftsman with a tragic backstory, whose heart I must win over through a series of increasingly personal conversations and convoluted scenarios. My intrusive thoughts expand beyond what I want it to.

"A new whetstone? Hmph. It's the wrong grit for my usual work... but I suppose it's perfect for the trinket I'm making for you." I shake my head and dispel the intrusive thought.

'No. Not that.' I am not good at charming people. I am not good at manipulating emotions. But I can be earnest. Frostbite is not an invitation to Wei Zheng. It is a locked door. Weapons. Cultivators. Trouble. If I bring that blade back first, he will turn me away before the cloth comes off. So I need to knock with something else. The next morning, I leave Ling'er at the inn again. She doesn't ask where I'm going.

She just nods, closes her eyes, and returns to the slow work of compressing her qi into something denser than liquid. I spend the morning buying ordinary tools from cheap stalls. Pickaxes and hammers for Old Zhao's miners. A cleaver for Old Chen. Gardening implements for Mei Lin. A trowel with a curved handle, better for the frozen morning soil. A hoe with a narrower blade for the softer ground by noon. Scythes and hand axes for foraging missions. Small cutting tools for the laborers and builders.

A set of repair tools for general sect maintenance. Nothing that would impress a cultivator. Nothing that costs more than a few coins. All together, less than five low-grade stones. I pay without haggling. The merchants look surprised. A cultivator, paying asking price for mundane tools? They don't know what to do with me. I store everything in my ring and walk to Wei Zheng's shop. He looks up from his workbench. His eyes land on me. His expression does not change, but something in his posture hardens.

"No."

"I haven't said anything yet."

"You're back. That's enough for me." He picks up a file and turns back to whatever he was working on.

"I told you. I don't deal in weapons."

"Good," I say.

"Neither do these." He pauses. The file stops moving. I reach into my storage ring and begin placing tools on his counter. Wei Zheng stares at them.

"This is for Old Chen. He's our cook. Been in the kitchen for longer than I've been sect leader. He favors his left side now from decades of chopping, I think. His balance has shifted. The cleaver he uses is still weighted for a younger man. This one—" I turn the blade in my hands, feeling the edge.

"I looked for something that would fit him. But I don't know how to adjust it properly." I set the cleaver down. Pick up a pickaxe.

"These are for the miners. Most of them are young. Strong. I got them new ones recently, but they swing too hard, and they don't think about leverage. I've heard a few get hurt. Nothing serious, but it happens." Wei Zheng's hands are still. He is watching me. I pick up the gardening implements.

"My disciple Mei Lin tends the herb garden. She's good at it, patient, careful. But the soil there is frozen in the morning and soft by noon. She manages. But she shouldn't have to manage." I go on and on. Telling him what I knew from countless mornings of observation. Things I couldn't fully act on when there were more pressing matters. But here? When we had weeks before the tournament? I had nothing but time. I set the last tool on the counter.

"I've seen your work," I say.

"You make them better. You made them fit the people using them. I don't know how you do that. I don't know what it costs. But I thought if I brought you the tools, and told you about the people who would use them, maybe you'd be willing to help." He looks at the pile. At the cleaver. The pickaxes. The trowel. The hand axes. The awls and chisels. He is silent for a long moment. Then he names a price.

"Thirty low-grade stones." It's outrageous. A fortune for refining mundane tools. A mortal family could live well on thirty low-grade stones. It's more than what we made in a month before I woke up in this world. On paper, it's absurd. The tools themselves didn't cost a tenth of that. He knows it, and so do I. Despite knowing that, I pay immediately. I reach into my robe and place thirty low-grade stones on the counter in a neat stack. Wei Zheng's eyes narrow.

"You're not even bothering to haggle?"

"I haggle when the price is wrong."

"It is wrong."

"Not if you do what I think you can do." His jaw tightens. He is not grateful. He is not pleased. He is suspicious.

"I don't know what you think I can do." I gesture at the pile.

"You can fix those things. I can't. That's why I'm here." He looks at the stones again. Then at the tools.

"A week," he says. His voice is curt. Almost angry.

"Come back in a week." I nod. I don't thank him, fearing it may trigger him even more. I just turn and walk to the door. The bell chimes. The street outside is bright. I let myself feel it then: the small, quiet satisfaction of a first victory. The victory of being allowed to try again. He took the tools. He set a price. He will do the work. A week and thirty low-grade stones is worth it. The sun is warm on my face. The crowds flow past. I walk toward the inn, already thinking about what comes next.

The tournament is weeks away. Wei Zheng is working on the tools. The information broker's lead on Golden Vein is still unresolved, but there is time. There is always time, as long as you don't waste it. And I won't.