American Farmers: Facing a Cutoff at the Start

Pushing open the glass door of the shop, the wind chimes hanging on the door frame rang out crisply.

The store was empty, with only the buzzing of fluorescent lights.

The walls on both sides were covered with all kinds of hunting knives, bow knives and folding knives, which gleamed with a cold, hard metallic luster under the white light.

Fett walked up to the display wall, moved closer, and scanned the rows of cold weapons and the yellowed paper labels hanging below.

The outermost layer contains factory-direct goods sold in large quantities.

There are classic Buck 110 folding knives and Ka-Bar knives, as well as some others, most of which come with intact plastic packaging and tags on the hooks indicating prices ranging from $45 to $80.

In the middle of the wall are some practical hunting knives with obvious signs of hand forging.

The blade is approximately 12 inches long, with black forging oxide skin remaining on the back of the blade. The handle is made of polished white-tailed deer antler, and it comes with a dark brown cowhide scabbard.

The label indicates that the price ranges from $185 to $450.

The more expensive ones all have labels indicating they were made by JS knife makers.

Hanging on the inside of the wall is a large Bowie knife, about 25 inches long.

The blade is thick and features a classic planing tip. The guard is made of brass, which, although slightly oxidized and darkened, still has a good texture. The handle is made of deep red desert ironwood.

The label on this knife is a size larger than the others, and it says: $750.

Nearby, there were Ontario machetes of different sizes, including several Ka-Bar series, all around 20 inches in diameter.

After a quick glance at the knives hanging on the wall, Fett had a general idea of ​​what they were.

With his skill, although he doesn't yet know any forging techniques like the Three-in-One or Damascus steel, he could easily forge the knife on the wall!

It turns out that the basic forging skill rewarded by the system is already at the level of a JS swordsmith.

He turned around, placed his hands on the low glass counter, and looked down through the scratched glass into the room.

Lying in the very center of the black velvet lining was a feather-patterned Damascus Bowie knife.

The pattern on the blade resembles a feather split in half, with layers spreading out to both sides.

The handguards are made of stainless steel, and the handles are made of mammoth ivory fossils with blue patterns.

The price tag is standing to the side: $1,500.

Next to it, there is a Japanese-style three-piece kitchen knife.

The blade has a wavy, grayish-white steel wire, and the handle is made of octagonal rosewood.

The label says: $850.

Several small Damascus steel folding knives of various kinds were scattered in a corner.

The gray and white raindrop patterns flow under the light, and the handle is inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

These delicate little gadgets aren't cheap either: $550.

It seems the owner of this knife shop is quite capable. If we can trigger the system from him, we'll definitely get a higher-level forging skill!

He was about to call out to see if anyone was there when he noticed a yellowed piece of cardboard on the counter, pressed down by a metal blank. On it, a line of words was scrawled in bold marker:

"They're in the backyard, please go directly there."

Fett tilted his head to the side.

His enhanced hearing had already picked up the vibrations in the air.

As you walk through the quiet storefront, the rhythmic clanging of metal is as clear as a heartbeat.

He walked around the counter and pushed open the heavy wooden door leading to the backyard.

A wave of heat, mixed with the smell of burning iron, hit me.

In the backyard there was a semi-open shed, its black beams and pillars gleaming from the smoke.

There were some odds and ends piled up at the entrance of the shed, covered haphazardly with a plastic sheet, and many leaves had fallen on it.

It was an old-fashioned cast iron coal stove, with unburned coke still remaining in the furnace, which had long since hardened into lumps by the rain.

Scattered around were several rusty hand-cranked blowers, a few old iron hammers with rotten wooden handles, and a pile of old-fashioned fire tongs that had been carelessly discarded.

Unlike the bleakness outside, the inside of the shed was sweltering.

A brand-new three-burner propane furnace was emitting a jet-like roar, with blue flames licking wildly inside the furnace.

A huge anvil stood firmly on the wooden stake, next to a blue-green power hammer.

Two brand-new 2x72-inch belt sanders were neatly arranged in the corner, and all sorts of pliers and hammers covered an entire wall.

Although the shop is called Old Miller Knives Shop, the person standing in front of the anvil is not the old man you would expect, but a young man who looks to be in his late twenties.

He was wearing protective goggles and industrial noise-canceling earmuffs, with a fireproof glove on his left hand, and was holding a red-hot knife blank with pliers.

He gripped the hammer handle in his right hand, performing the final shaping.

Fett remained silent, simply watching quietly with his arms crossed.

A craftsman hates being disturbed when he is concentrating.

This feeling is as terrible as the door suddenly opening during takeoff.

I'll be selling him the knife later, so it's best to be cautious.

In the firelight, the young man's movements appeared awkward and flustered.

His wrist was stiff as he gripped the hammer, and the point of force with each strike was erratic, often hitting the already cooled edge.

He's clearly a newbie who hasn't been in the industry for very long.

Even so, he would stop from time to time, take out a steel ruler, and measure it against the red-hot knife blank.

Then he nodded in satisfaction at the lines that were actually somewhat distorted.

It was a simple straight-bladed short hunting knife with no complicated sharpening lines and no need for a handguard.

The blade had already warped slightly to the side, though not very noticeably, but in Fett's eyes, it was not much different from a fishing rod used to catch fish.

Gradually, the young man seemed to realize that something was wrong.

He frowned, flipped the knife blank over, and tried to smash it in the opposite direction with a hammer a few times, trying to flatten the bulge.

But this hammer blow not only failed to straighten the blade, but instead created a noticeable dent in the originally uniformly thick blade, making the entire blade uneven in thickness and even more twisted.

Seeing him raise the hammer, ready to correct the mistake again, Fett finally couldn't stand it anymore and shouted:

"Stop! If you keep hitting it, the blade will be ruined."

Although the roaring sounds from the forge still echoed, the young man clearly heard someone calling him.

He stopped what he was doing, took off one of his noise-canceling earmuffs, and shouted:

"Are you here to buy a knife? Wait a moment! I'll refine the shape and quench it, then it'll be finished. As compensation, I'll give you a discount!"

Fett shook his head and raised his voice:

"I know how to adjust the warping of that knife."

The young man was taken aback upon hearing this.

He looked Fett up and down, his gaze lingering on Fett's arm hanging by his side for two seconds.

Although the arms were strong and thick, and the wrists were powerful, the palms were relatively smooth, without the thick calluses from years of holding a hammer, and there were no mottled scars left by burns from sparks on the back of the hands.

The young man pursed his lips and, before fastening his earmuffs again, tossed out a remark:

"Cowboy, you may be good at farm work, but this is forging knives."

"Don't criticize industries you don't understand."

Ignoring his disdain, Fett walked straight into the workshop, pointed to the hardwood block covered in hammer marks next to the anvil, and spoke in a steady and clear voice:

"If you want to straighten a knife, don't hammer it on an anvil. That head-on collision will only make the blade uneven in thickness."

"Place it on that wooden block. When you tap it, the block will deform slightly, giving the blade some space. Just tap it lightly a couple of times with a flat hammer."

After hearing this, the young man's hand holding the hammer froze in mid-air.

He was also a quick-witted person. After frowning and thinking for two seconds, he immediately understood the principle behind it.

He did as instructed, picked up the knife blank with pliers, placed it on the wooden block, and tentatively tapped it twice.

But obviously, theory is one thing, and practical skills are another.

He lacked control over the force, and the hammer always fell with a slight deviation.

The steel bar, which had cooled somewhat, writhed like a dead snake under his blows, its curves becoming even more bizarre.

"Would you mind if I gave it a try?"

Fett walked into the forge.

The young man sighed, tossed the pliers onto the anvil, and handed over his thick, fire-resistant gloves.

"Fine! You give it a try! Anyway, if you keep messing with it like this, this piece of material will be ruined."

As he spoke, he casually picked up a pair of protective goggles from the side and handed them over.

Fett waved his hand: "We don't need that."

He stepped forward, picked up the two-pound flathead hammer, and with a slight flick of his wrist, spun the hammer halfway around in his palm.

He casually tapped the wooden block lightly, feeling the vibration transmitted back from the hammer handle and the degree of the wood's rebound.

Then, he picked up the pliers with his left hand, firmly clamped the steel bar, and laid it flat on the wooden block.

Fett stood with his feet apart, knees slightly bent, and assumed a horse stance.

Inhale, twist your waist, and exert force.

A force rose from the soles of his feet, passed through his waist and abdomen, and instantly reached his right arm.

"Clang! Clang!"

Two crisp sounds.

The hammerhead landed with perfect precision on the bending point of the blade.

The movements were swift and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.

After striking the hammer twice, Fett casually tossed it onto the workbench next to him.

He raised the pliers and squinted at the dark red steel bar under the overhead incandescent light.

The originally twisted blade now stretched out a straight, sharp black line under the light, perfectly accurate.