Chapter 065: Passion Forged in Valor

At the Qin Family Blacksmith in Ximen Wulong Spring, Luo Shixin stripped off his clothes, his bare shoulders exposed, as he worked the bellows to their breaking point. Sweat poured down his face like rain, yet his hands moved with undiminished frenzy, pulling and pushing the bellows in wild rhythm.

Tongues of crimson flame leapt more than a foot above the furnace, writhing like a great serpent flicking its tongue. All impurities had been drawn from the ore within, the molten metal glowed red-hot, so fused with the fire they seemed one and the same.

Both Qin Qiong and his father had also shed their shirts, their bare arms bulging as they swung their massive hammers high. Sweat streamed from their faces, and the muscles on their arms rolled and surged like coiled dragons. They poured every ounce of strength into each blow, as if their power might burst from their very skin at any moment.

Every so often, Qin’s father would lean close to the furnace, peering in to judge the readiness of the metal, his brows knotted in perpetual worry, never once relaxing.

Li Dong knew well that after endless effort, the sword he so desperately desired was now at its critical moment. Success or failure hinged on what happened next.

Just then, the military constable arrived, leading a squad of men to the blacksmith’s door. Mounted on horseback, he shouted with exaggerated bravado, “Qin Ai, courtesy name Jiyang! The Prefect requests your presence—come with us at once!” The Qin Ai he called for was Qin Qiong’s father.

Hearing his name so brazenly shouted, Qin Ai was taken aback. He glanced at Li Dong, torn and uncertain. Of all times, why now? Was this not courting disaster?

If they stopped now, all their previous work would be wasted, and who could say if they would ever again bring the materials to such purity? But if they didn’t stop, offending the constable was a small matter—angering the Prefect would mean the Qin family would never again know peace in Qi Prefecture.

Li Dong, too, heard the constable’s bellowing and, seeing Qin’s father’s troubled face, understood that the inevitable had arrived—and at the worst possible moment.

Li Dong nodded to Qin’s father, signaling him to continue his work; he would handle the intruders outside. Qin Qiong was clearly anxious, but with Li Dong stepping forward, he had no choice but to let him.

Snatching a foot-long iron hairpin from the shop, Li Dong slipped outside, blocking the constable’s way, barring them from entering.

“What is all this howling? Are you mourning the dead?” Li Dong brandished the iron pin, his handsome face stern as he rebuked the constables without courtesy.

The leader, still atop his horse, glanced at his men in disbelief. What nonsense was this? Was this man mad? Usually, they were the ones bullying others—when had the tables turned?

Clashing his weapon for emphasis, the leader barked, “Where did this peasant come from, this wretch beneath even swine and dogs? We are here on orders! Are you so eager to die?”

Li Dong stepped back half a pace, one foot forward, the other anchoring him, extending the iron pin before his chest in a classic archer’s stance—ready to attack or defend in an instant. He looked every inch a soaring bird, imposing and graceful.

Outnumbered and pressed, with the sword-forging at a crucial juncture, he would allow no interference. Prefect’s orders or even the Emperor himself—Li Dong would stand in their way.

If a man is willing to risk everything, he can drag even the Emperor from his horse.

“Have you heard of Zhang Xuduo, the Assistant Prefect?” Li Dong countered. “I can have him vouch for me. The Qin Family Blacksmith has nothing to do with you.”

The leader was momentarily stunned, then burst into arrogant laughter, his men following suit as if Li Dong had just told the greatest lie.

“Of course we know Assistant Prefect Zhang, but how could a peasant like you know him? And even if you did, the Assistant Prefect is subordinate to the Prefect—why would he risk opposing his superior for your sake? What a joke! Arrest him!”

At his command, the constables surged forward, surrounding Li Dong in a ring of weapons, their blades leveled within three feet of his chest—the situation had turned perilous.

Li Dong swung his iron pin, unfazed. He thought, I’ve survived countless firefights—these clumsy soldiers are nothing. They think to capture me?

Still, their numbers posed a risk; a single lapse and they could break into the forge, ruining all of Qin Qiong’s work. Take the horse before the rider, the leader before the gang—the constable chief was the key, and he was right in front of him, mounted.

With that thought, Li Dong attacked first, launching a flurry of blows to drive back his immediate foes. He then planted his feet and leapt straight for the constable chief.

He thrust the iron pin hard into the horse’s belly; blood spattered over his hand. The wounded beast shrieked, rearing up and urinating, flinging the constable into the mess before bolting madly away.

The fallen constable rolled on the ground, now soaked in filth, yet he rose not with anger but delight, mincing toward Li Dong with a coquettish cry, “Oh, my dear, do it again, that felt wonderful!”

At first, Li Dong was baffled by this sudden change, then realized—the man was a masochist, relishing the abuse and wanting more.

Reeking of urine and dung, the constable was shunned even by his own men. Li Dong, in no mood for his antics, snatched a stone from the ground and hurled it.

The stone struck the man’s chin, blood streaming down his face, his hands clutching his mouth, eyes squinting in agony—he could carry on no more.

Seeing their leader battered and bloodied, the remaining constables closed in, weapons gleaming, encircling Li Dong once again.

This time, Li Dong was unarmed, forced to fight with his bare fists. One constable crept up behind, intent on felling him with a single blow.

Sensing the attack, Li Dong swung back without turning, his fist landing squarely on the man’s arm—his weapon dropped to the ground. Li Dong whirled, ghostlike, and dealt a fierce slap to the man’s face.

The man’s face swelled like risen dough, blood from his lips trickling down his shirt. Clutching his face, he turned and fled—who would risk another beating?

The other constables, seeing the tide turn, retreated and readied their bows, preparing to shoot Li Dong.

At that desperate moment, inside the forge, the swordsmiths too had reached the final, decisive stage. Flames roared three feet high from the furnace, yet Qin’s father saw the heat was still lacking.

With no other choice, he gritted his teeth, sliced his own arm, and let his blood drip into the blaze.

The furnace was at its hottest; as the blood fell, the flames erupted with a thunderous roar, soaring a full ten feet and igniting the blacksmith’s roof.