In the thin morning mist, the gates of Qingyang City cast thick shadows.

Dragging his weary body, Qin Wanchuan, shirtless and with his coarse outer garment soaked in sweat draped carelessly over his shoulder, silently merged into the sparse flow of people entering the city.

From a distance, the guard captain spotted that signature, powerfully built figure. He immediately straightened his back and waved his men to let him pass. As Qin Wanchuan approached, the captain piled a respectful smile on his face and gave a slight bow:

“Second Young Master, you’ve returned.”

Qin Wanchuan merely nodded slightly, his steps never pausing.

The scene inside the city was utterly different from the tranquility of the riverbank outside, yet it was also filled with a kind of oppressive gloom. The once bustling morning market was now desolate. On the sparse stalls, wilted, yellowing vegetables went ignored; the meat stall had more flies than customers, its owner waving a palm-leaf fan with vacant eyes. Pedestrians hurried past with worried faces, their lowered murmurs like undercurrents in a gutter, pouring constantly into Qin Wanchuan’s ears:

“…I heard several counties upstream have already had total crop failure…”

“…The water in the river outside town visibly lessens each day. If it doesn’t rain again, even well water will become insufficient to drink…”

“…Fuyuan Grain Shop raised prices another thirty percent this morning! These bloodsucking parasites!”

“…The refugees gathered outside the city are increasing by the day. Yesterday they almost overturned Li’s cart…”

Qin Wanchuan’s brow furrowed slightly.

This drought seemed far more severe than he had imagined.

He turned into a relatively quiet back alley, heading purposefully toward an unremarkable blacksmith’s shop at its far end. The shop door was half open, and the rhythmic clang of hammering came from within. Inside, the air was thick with heat and the light was dim. A bare-chested old blacksmith, his skin dark as iron, was swinging a hammer, forging a red-hot iron bar amid flying sparks. Qin Wanchuan stopped at the doorway without making a sound, simply watching quietly.

The old blacksmith seemed to sense something. He straightened up and turned toward the door. When he saw it was Qin Wanchuan, a smile appeared on his deeply wrinkled face.

“Second Young Master, you’ve come at just the right time,” the old blacksmith said in a rough voice. “The thing you wanted—it’s done!”

He turned and walked to a brightly polished wooden rack at the inner side of the shop, taking down a long object wrapped in a thick, dark-blue canvas.

Qin Wanchuan stepped forward. The old blacksmith untied the canvas and revealed what lay inside—a podao.

The blade was a little over three feet long and about three fingers wide, its lines clean and smooth, with a heavy, unsharpened edge. The whole blade had no fancy decoration, only a pure sense of practicality, emanating a weighty, killing aura. This was exactly what Qin Wanchuan had requested from his heart. At great expense, he had commissioned Qingyang City’s finest blacksmith to make it from high-grade wrought iron mixed with a small amount of refined black iron. He wanted no flashy longsword, only this ferocious podao that most closely matched the image of the jianghu hero in his mind!

The old blacksmith handed the podao to Qin Wanchuan. “Done to your requirements—the spine thickened, the weight increased. All top-grade materials. Try it, see if it suits your heart.”

Qin Wanchuan took the hilt. It sank into his hand with a substantial weight, many times heavier than the large blade he used for daily practice. The cold, metallic touch transmitted through his palm, invigorating his spirit.

He flicked his wrist and instinctively spun a flourish.

Woom—!

The blade tore through the air, emitting a deep, resonant howl. Though his movement was still somewhat raw, the sense of power was fully revealed. The podao in his hand seemed to come alive, faintly resonating with his own explosive strength.

A trace of surprise flickered in the old blacksmith’s cloudy eyes. He had spent decades forging metal and had seen many martial artists test weapons, but he had never seen someone as young as Qin Wanchuan pick up such a heavy real weapon for the first time and swing it with such steady power.

“What strength!”

The old blacksmith praised him, then shook his head. “But a blade is a weapon of violence. Strength is the foundation, but strength alone without knowing how to use it is useless. You can easily hurt yourself, and easily cause trouble.”

Qin Wanchuan sheathed the blade and stood still. He looked at Master Liu, his lips moving slightly before he simply gave a deep nod. From his waist, he untied a heavy brocade pouch, filled with the full amount of silver, and silently proffered it. Though this was a lot of money, for the Second Young Master of the Qin family it was merely pocket change.

The old blacksmith did not decline. He took the pouch and knew from its weight that it was sufficient. Without even looking inside, he tucked it into his chest.

“Thank you for your patronage, Second Young Master. The world is not at peace—refugees outside the city are like locusts, and hearts within the city are restless. This blade... its edge is too sharp; do not show it lightly. If you wish to train with it, be sure to seek out remote, deserted places so as not to disturb others, and to avoid creating trouble.”

He gave this warning again, his tone sincere.

Qin Wanchuan nodded once more. He carefully wrapped the podao back up in the canvas and held it in his arms.

Holding the bundle, he turned and left the blacksmith’s shop. He walked out of the alley and merged back into the somber, downcast crowds on the main street.

“Make way! Move aside quickly! Qin Residence disaster relief grain carts!”

At that moment, a clamor and disturbance came from the street ahead. The crowd quickly parted to both sides, fearful and evasive. A squad of fierce Qin Residence guards escorted seven or eight wide carts laden with bulging sacks slowly through the street, heading out of the city.

On the sacks, the characters for “refined rice” were clearly visible. As people parted along the sides of the street, the gazes they cast upon the grain carts were exceptionally complex—there was gratitude, anticipation, and even more so a nearly greedy hunger. Some emaciated, sallow-faced individuals stared fixedly at those sacks, their Adam’s apples bobbing involuntarily.

Holding his blade, Qin Wanchuan stood at the edge of the crowd, silently watching the convoy pass. He noticed a petite figure following at the rear—his younger sister, Qin Yuxuan. She was wearing a plain, neat dress, her small face taut, her black hair drifting in the wind. Clutching an account book to her chest, her eyes ceaselessly scanned the surrounding crowd, appearing somewhat nervous. She had been dispatched by their father to manage the porridge stations outside the city. Qin Wanchuan knew that his sister enjoyed being in charge of various matters, bustling about all day with abundant energy. Father’s arrangement was exactly what she wished.

The convoy moved into the distance, the crowd closed back together, and the murmuring grew louder.

“The Qin family is righteous! That’s genuine refined rice!”

“Refined rice? Who knows if it’s just a top layer of good rice and all chaff and bran underneath…”

“Shh! Watch your words! That the Qin family is willing to release grain is a life-saving grace! If such words get out…”

“Ah, a drop in the bucket... so many people outside the city…”

“Over on the west side of town... yesterday they fought over grain and several died... how tragic…”

Hearing these murmurs, Qin Wanchuan’s arm holding the podao tightened slightly. He looked up at the sky. The blazing sun shone high in a cloudless expanse, showing no sign of rain. The water on the riverbank truly would not hold out much longer. And the water in Qingyang City—whether the water flowing in the river or the pool of calm in the depths of people’s hearts—seemed to be rapidly evaporating under the scorching sun.