Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Startling Realization

“This is a divine weapon crafted by a renowned Silla master!” Li Wuyi seemed to cherish his sword deeply, and even his tone brimmed with pride as he spoke.

A divine weapon!

Pei Min regarded Li Wuyi with great caution, long since deciding to mask his expressions, considering every word and gesture carefully to avoid revealing any weakness that Li Wuyi might exploit. His greatest advantage at this moment was that Li Wuyi had not yet discovered his collaboration with Xue Ne in the investigation of the traitor among the Khitans. Precisely because he was unaware, Li Wuyi would not be on guard, making it easier for Pei Min to probe.

Still young, Pei Min admitted to himself that he lacked the composure to remain impassive in the face of calamity. All he could do was focus intently, deliberately controlling his emotions. Yet, when Li Wuyi referred to his sword as a “divine weapon,” though Pei Min’s face betrayed nothing, inwardly he sneered, “You call this a divine weapon?”

Li Wuyi noticed Pei Min staring intently at the Autumn Water Sword and chuckled, “Brother Pei, do you also know the art of sword appraisal?”

Pei Min nodded. “There was once a miscellaneous volume on metallurgy and sword appraisal in the Pei family’s library. I’ve skimmed through it before. I can’t claim mastery, but I know a little.” The Pei family, a clan of a thousand years’ standing, possessed an immense and varied collection of books. The particular treatise he mentioned he had found tucked in a corner during a book airing in the academy last year, and its contents were still fresh in his mind.

Li Wuyi praised him, “You scholars truly know a great deal. Then why don’t you tell me about this sword? Open my eyes, will you?”

Pei Min scrutinized the sword for a while before answering, “I can, but if I speak my mind, Brother Li, you mustn’t take offense.”

Li Wuyi paused, puzzled. “What’s there to be offended about?”

Pei Min began, “This Autumn Water Sword, aside from its attractive appearance, is useless in every other regard—a fine piece of iron gone to waste.”

Li Wuyi looked slightly embarrassed. “How so?”

Pei Min recalled, “As I remember from that book, a good sword is forged by refining raw iron into heavy, supple steel; after several nights, it becomes steel. The blade should be steel, the spine of softer iron, quenched in the urine and fat of five animals. In essence, the blade must combine hardness and flexibility. If only the surface is hammered into steel, the edge is sharp, but excessive hardness leads to breakage. Without inner flexibility, even the toughest steel is prone to snap. Thus, smiths would forge soft iron into the core, hammering it together with fine steel—‘eight cycles, one thousand and twenty-four strikes each.’ Only through such repetition do iron and steel truly merge, expelling impurities in the process, giving the sword both the strength of steel and the resilience of soft iron. That is how a fine sword is made. As for edge sharpening and quenching, those are also arts in themselves, which need not be detailed here. To cast a sword is simple; to forge a legendary blade requires years of a master’s toil and extraordinary metallurgical skill.”

His gaze never left the Autumn Water Sword as he continued, “This sword’s blade exudes a chill, suggesting it was forged from rare cold iron, which is found only in the most frigid polar wastes, absorbing the essence of ice. It is at least twice as hard as regular iron and requires double the heat to smelt. At present, only our Great Tang possesses such smelting techniques. How could the Silla barbarians possibly have the skill to fully refine cold iron? Lacking the technique, they could only settle for less, using high temperatures to hammer and shape it, forging this sword, which truly disgraces the fine iron. What I find most unacceptable is that, lacking the ability, they still pretend at greatness. Silla’s craftsmen tried to mask their shortcomings with superficial beauty. In my eyes, this Autumn Water Sword may look fine, but it is an empty show…”

As he spoke, Pei Min glanced apologetically at Li Wuyi. After all, the man had gifted him the sword in good faith, and he was diminishing it without reservation. But the standards of Silla’s so-called masters were just that—he simply could not bring himself to praise them.

He noticed Li Wuyi’s expression turn slightly stiff, his fists unconsciously clenched tight, though outwardly he managed a smile. “You’re right, Brother Pei. Silla is but a small country compared to our Tang. I thought I’d found a treasure, but it turns out to be nothing but scrap. I can’t possibly gift you such a thing. I’ll have someone deliver one of my own prized swords to you instead.”

“No need, no need!” Pei Min felt a strange amusement but kept it to himself, hurriedly shaking his head. “It’s the thought that counts. I’ll gladly accept this Autumn Water Sword and thank you for your generosity.”

No matter how flashy and hollow the Autumn Water Sword was, it was still forged of fine cold iron, while his own sword was a cheap piece cobbled together by the county blacksmith, iron mixed with bronze—far inferior by comparison.

Pei Min was not well-versed in the affairs of the martial world, so he could only discuss swordsmanship with Li Wuyi. From what he had learned, Li Wuyi was a master swordsman, especially skilled in two-handed sword techniques, with which he had made a great name for himself in Youzhou. The reputation of “Fifth Brother Lai” was earned through his sword.

Two-handed swordsmanship did not mean wielding a sword in each hand, but rather holding a single sword with both hands, akin to Japanese kendo. In fact, Japanese kendo originated from the Tang dynasty’s two-handed sword techniques, which were rare and unconventional at the time. Pei Min had never seen them and was intensely curious, asking many questions.

Li Wuyi was forthcoming, detailing the merits and drawbacks of single-handed versus two-handed swordplay.

Their discussion left Li Yide at a loss, unable to interject, sitting woodenly until the topic turned to contemporary masters of two-handed swordsmanship. He suddenly blurted out, “I know someone! In my home county of Zhu, there’s a man named Lü Yue, undefeated in his twenties. I remember he even took a disciple from Silla, who became quite famous—his name was Kim something, I forget. He even crossed swords with our own great General Xue Rengui.”

“That’s Kim Yu-shin, the Silla War God!” Li Wuyi interjected.

“Yes, that’s the one!” Li Yide exclaimed, then spat, “War God of Silla, indeed. He’s just a tall fellow from a backwater. Compared to our General Xue Rengui, he’s nothing, not even worth a hair.”

Li Wuyi’s fists unconsciously clenched again.

Pei Min took all this in, and suddenly, a realization flashed through his mind—something they had all overlooked.