Fire must be alive, the wind must be even, the temperament of the metal must be visible. The apprentice grips the tongs, and as the steel ingot leaves the furnace, he wants to strike it down, but is restrained by the master's gaze. Good steel is not afraid of a thousand strikes, but fears disorder. First, stress relief, then centering, and only then shaping. Recently, the workshop has taken on a job to forge a knife that can move between two types of ore, one side heavy like old mountains, the other side agile like new springs. It must not be stiff when sheathed, nor wobbly when drawn; it must inherit the protective power of the past, while also adapting to new techniques.
The blank is not difficult; the challenge lies in the connection between the handle and the spine. The handle must be stable for different hands, and the spine must withstand different styles. The master hands a piece of alloy to the apprentice, saying that this seemingly ordinary thing actually holds the temperament of the knife. It ensures that the edge's sharpness does not exert effort, that the spine's resilience does not become lazy, and it can convert external impacts into tremors that can be internally absorbed. The apprentice asks, aren't there already many famous blades in the world? Why bother with this process? The master laughs and says that every knife has its own path, and every path has its own sky. The business of this knife is not to steal the light from others, but to enable more hands to dare to hang the knife at their waist.
When polishing, the master does not allow the apprentice to only observe the mirror-like surface. He instructs the apprentice to listen closely, to judge the metal's fatigue from the faint sounds coming from the blade's root. The true essence of a knife is not found in the moment of testing a cut, but in whether it can return smoothly to its sheath after each strike. Outside the workshop, the wind carries a complex sound; in the distance, there is the roar of deep mines, and nearby, the hustle and bustle of the market. The master says that a knife must be able to enter both the mine and the market, neither burdened by heaviness nor deceived by lightness. The patterns on the blade are carved last, a circle gathers various techniques, telling those who come that this knife recognizes rules, not legends.
When the fire goes out, only the residual warmth remains in the room. The apprentice returns the knife, and the master inserts it into the wooden sheath, then slowly draws it out; the light and shadow do not flicker, and the sound does not drift. The standard of a good knife has always been simple: it should feel secure in the grip, remain organized when sheathed, and be used with purpose. The locals have given this knife a name, embedded in the end of the handle, unobtrusive, yet capable of guiding passersby back home.
