More and more ghosts, countless souls, were being ensnared by the green threads extending from the Soulreaver Blade. Instantly, they were absorbed, and waves of powerful ghost aura surged into my ghost soul. What had been fading away now began to recover.
My consciousness, which was on the verge of disappearing, began to clear. The sensation was strangely familiar. Suddenly, I remembered—Soren Black. Back then, too, he was on the brink of death, but after I injected him with a massive amount of ghost aura, he came back to life.
The current situation was very similar to what happened with Soren Black. The only difference was, when I infused ghost aura into his soul, he started to recover immediately. But I was different—now, the amount of ghost aura pouring in was far greater than before, yet my ghost soul showed no sign of recovery.
"Damn it, if that guy doesn’t help soon, Ethan Zhang is going to die."
The Soulreaver Blade let out a resentful sound, full of helplessness. Yet, countless ghosts kept being absorbed. I felt a pang of guilt—for them to be devoured by the Soulreaver Blade like this.
"Even if they’re absorbed, you can release them later. Ethan Zhang, call on your instincts—hurry!"
The Soulreaver Blade heard my thoughts and kept extending those green threads, catching one suffering ghost after another and absorbing them completely.
I began to call out, deep within, desperately summoning my instincts. It wasn’t over—I couldn’t die here.
Gradually, the ghost aura pouring into me grew in both volume and speed. Yet, my ghost soul kept fading. Cracks appeared on my body’s surface, and glimmering black ash flaked off from the fractures, scattering in the biting cold wind.
Inside, a voice—faint but audible—answered. It was my instinct, responding to my call. I kept calling, my consciousness blurring, slowly sinking into the space of pure instinct.
The roar was incessant. I opened my eyes to see my instinctual space collapsing, like the end of the world. Beneath my feet, raging black waters surged; above, massive black stones kept falling. I stood on a stone above the black water, surveying the chaos around me.
My six ghost souls were still struggling, holding on above my instinctual space. It was their resistance that kept my instinctual space from collapsing completely.
I floated up, searching everywhere. In this collapsing instinctual space, I could feel it—the Soulreaver Blade had entered. Soon, I spotted a glimmer of green light in the distance and rushed toward it.
Sure enough, it was the Soulreaver Blade, its body emitting a ghostly green glow. I slowly reached out and grasped it.
From here on, Ethan Zhang, it’s up to you. If you can truly tame the Soulreaver Blade with your instincts, I can help you repair your damaged ghost soul.
I nodded, and as a powerful green light enveloped me, my consciousness began to blur.
The sound of clanging rang out. Startled, I found myself on a street lined with earthen houses. Nearby, the heat and noise of iron forging filled the air, along with shouts and the banging of metal.
I looked over. Soldiers in leather jackets were loading swords, spears, and halberds from a distant courtyard onto carts.
Move faster! The troops of Chu could attack at any moment. The king has ordered you to finish forging the assigned weapons within three days.
Inside the large courtyard, many furnaces glowed. Bare-chested men in white shorts and numerous women were hard at work—men forging, women wiping sweat, fetching water, and feeding pig iron into the furnaces.
The whole scene was bustling with activity. The moon hung high, yet the blacksmiths kept working, forging weapons. A voice echoed in my mind, telling me that I was witnessing the Eastern Zhou era, when Chu conquered 45 states south of the Yangtze, including Yue. I was now in a small county of Yue.
At that moment, I saw a dark-skinned boy, about fifteen or sixteen years old.
Ye’er, go get some rest. If it’s too noisy here, sleep at your third uncle’s house.
A middle-aged man, not yet forty, sweat streaming down his face, his skin blackened by the smoke from forging.
But the dark-skinned boy seemed fascinated by the forging and metallurgy, his eyes bright with excitement. He helped out, cooling the metal with water.
Ye’er, you won’t learn these things. It’s better to study with Mr. Nan. He praises your cleverness—good material, like a stone. Someday you might work for the King of Yue, serving the nation and its people. Go to sleep, Ye’er.
The middle-aged man was Ou Qin, and the boy was Ou Yezi. I was stunned—I’d heard that name before. He became famous later.
Ou Yezi was a master swordsmith at the end of the Spring and Autumn period, forging many famous swords. The most renowned were six: Zhanlu, Juque, Shengxie, Yuchang, Chunjou, and Longquan. I should have been the sharpest among the seven.
I stared in shock. The Soulreaver Blade’s voice echoed in my mind. I was surprised—though I hadn’t seen Ou Yezi in history textbooks, I’d heard of these swords, especially in games.
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Ou Yezi was also the master of the husband-and-wife swordsmiths Gan Jiang and Mo Ye. You must have heard enough about the Ganjiang-Moye Sword.
I nodded, truly surprised by this fact.
By then, the sky in the distance was turning pale, but the blacksmiths kept working. Soldiers came in, taking newly forged, even misshapen weapons straight out.
It all seemed so urgent. I overheard soldiers saying that Chu had already destroyed many city-states and was marching on Yue. The King of Yue ordered all smiths to work through the night, forging weapons. Every village had to send able-bodied men over 14 for conscription.
For several days, Ou Yezi skipped school and came to his uncle Ou Qin’s workshop, watching iron forging with excitement. When his uncle was away, he’d grab a hammer and help out.
Though Ou Yezi wore a scholar’s coarse clothes, he was strong. His skill at forging impressed the other blacksmiths.
Eventually, the school closed due to the war. Ou Yezi’s uncle and many blacksmiths were conscripted to other counties to supply weapons for the front.
The small county was now deserted, with only children, elders, and women left. Since Ou Yezi was under 14, he wasn’t conscripted.
But Ou Yezi was restless. He spent his days tinkering with scrap iron, secretly forging weapons like the blacksmiths.
All of this was watched by a woman—his aunt, Madam Ou.
Madam Ou looked ordinary, even a bit burly, but she was sensitive inside. After years of forging with her husband, she’d mastered metallurgy and smithing. Seeing Ou Yezi with nothing to do but farm, she began teaching him about metalworking.
With most people gone, only women could farm and forge tools, but their strength couldn’t match the men’s.
Madam Ou noticed Ou Yezi’s talent for smithing. Even when Ou Qin was around, she’d observed that Ou Yezi learned by watching and practiced with skill and rhythm.
After learning a lot, Ou Yezi kept practicing. On a clear morning, he put leftover ore into the furnace and began working—he was already familiar with the process.
Aunt, is there any trick to smithing?
Ou Yezi was excited about making a hoe. Madam Ou sighed and came over.
Ye’er, there’s no trick—just repeated forging. Remember these four words.
Ou Yezi wasn’t happy, but in the afternoon, he shaped the hoe and hammered away. Madam Ou watched patiently, saying nothing, letting him work freely.
After a whole day, Ou Yezi made a good-looking hoe, but realized it was different from the ones he’d seen before.
This won’t work. This kind of hoe will break easily. Ye’er, forge it again.