American Farmers: Facing a Cutoff at the Start

Fett handed over the knife blank he was holding in the pliers.

The young man instinctively reached out and took the pliers.

He took off the other noise-canceling earmuff, casually hung it around his neck, and then brought his face close to the steel bar that still emitted a dark red residual warmth.

He squinted, his gaze following the back of the blade from the hilt to the tip, then turned it over to check the thickness of the blade.

The snake-like twisting lines disappeared, replaced by a standard straight line.

He looked up, swallowed, and gave a thumbs-up:

"Hey buddy, are you Hephaestus? That's some amazing skill. You fixed the blade blank with just two hammer blows."

He placed the pliers and steel bar on the anvil, rubbed his hands vigorously on his apron to wipe the sweat from his palms, and warmly extended his hand:

"I'm George Miller, the current owner of this store. It's a pleasure to meet someone in the know like you."

Fett looked at the outstretched hand and reached out to grasp it.

"Fate Carter."

Fett announced his name:

"Nice to meet you."

George used pliers to pick up the now-cooled blade again and shoved it back into the roaring propane furnace.

Blue flames instantly enveloped the steel. He turned the tongs at the furnace opening to ensure even heating, preparing for the pre-quenching process.

"Since you have this skill, you're definitely not here to buy a knife."

George stared at the steel bars in the furnace, which were gradually turning red, and said without turning his head:

"Are you here to sell knives?"

Seeing that the other party had guessed, Fett didn't hide anything and nodded:

"That's right. I have a batch of knives to sell. I was running some errands nearby today and stopped by to check out the market."

"Did you bring the sample knife?"

George glanced back briefly, a hint of anticipation in his eyes.

"I came in a hurry and didn't bring it with me."

"But I can guarantee that it's of the same quality as, or even slightly better than, the stock you have hanging on the wall in your shop."

George took the red-hot knife strip out of the oven, looked at it, and then put it back in, while giving Fett a suspicious look.

"Better than the knives hanging on the wall in the shop? Those were forged by my old man."

"Are you Journeyman Smith?"

"Judging from your age, you're far too young to be a JS-level swordsmith."

There are no ranks.

Fett shook his head: "I haven't even registered with the American Blacksmiths Association."

"Not registered?"

George bent down and picked up the quenching oil drum from the ground, casually saying, "Although I'm still a trainee, I've seen many JS-level bladesmiths."

"Based on your skills just now, especially your control over metal shaping, you've definitely reached the level of a JS (Master Technician).

"Why don't you register? With the name JS Knife Maker, you can sell your knives for more money."

"I've been in school for the past few years and haven't had time to do it," Fett replied casually.

"Just graduated from college?" George walked out of the workshop carrying an oil drum. "You look quite young, unlike me, whose hair is already thinning."

"No."

Fett surveyed the various tools in the forge:

"I graduated from high school not long ago, and I'm a freshman in college now."

"Bang!"

George lost his grip on the oil drum, and the drum slammed heavily to the ground, splashing a few drops of black engine oil.

He stared at Fett with his mouth agape, as if he were looking at a monster.

"What? Nineteen years old?!"

"My God, at what age did you start blacksmithing?"

"Was it in the womb? This talent is terrifying."

Of course, Fett couldn't tell the other person that it was the first time he had ever touched a hammer in both his lives combined.

He mumbled, "My grandfather and father both knew this craft, and I learned a little bit from them since I was a child."

No wonder.

Unaware of the situation, George clearly believed this explanation.

"That makes sense. Such solid fundamentals can't be developed without thousands upon thousands of hours of practice."

"I wish I had learned blacksmithing from my dad when I was a kid."

George picked up the quenching barrel, placed it outside the shed, turned around and walked to the furnace, drawing an instrument from his waist.

"Hey, look at this, my new helper."

He gestured to Fetford with a yellow device in his hand, "A Fluke industrial infrared thermometer, capable of measuring 1500°C. With it, quenching will no longer be a guessing game."

Fett glanced at the thermometer and remarked, "You've got some serious equipment."

"That's right! Nowadays, the emphasis is on scientific knife forging."

George pulled the red-hot blade out of the gas stove and immediately used a thermometer to press the trigger on the blade.

The red laser dot landed on the dark red blade, and the numbers on the screen fluctuated violently a few times before finally stabilizing at 813℃.

"Perfect, right near the quenching critical point of 1075 steel."

"The cutting tool blank should have completely transformed into austenite!"

George nodded in satisfaction, then flicked his wrist, preparing to move the blade toward the quenching oil barrel at his feet.

"etc!"

Fett quickly interrupted.

George paused, noticing the steam rising from the blade hanging above the oil drum. He turned his head in confusion: "What's wrong?"

"The temperature is wrong. It's at least 60 or 70 degrees lower."

Fett took two steps closer, his gaze fixed on the steel bar:

"Its current color is a dark cherry red, which is a bit dull. The temperature corresponding to this color is definitely no more than 750℃."

"Although I don't know what the problem is, the data measured by your instrument is probably inaccurate."

"Impossible! This device cost me several hundred dollars!"

George retorted, but seeing the certainty in Fett's eyes, a hint of wavering appeared in his voice, "How can numbers lie?"

Fett pointed to an old magnet on the tool wall that was used to attract iron filings:

"Touch the back of the knife with that."

"Steel loses its magnetism when the temperature rises above the Curie point, and the quenching temperature is tens of degrees higher than the Curie point."

"Whether it can be quenched or not will be known once it's tested."

George removed the powerful magnet with some skepticism.

Fett continued, "If the magnet can still hold it, it means it hasn't even reached the Curie point, so the steel structure is even less likely to reach the austenitic point."

George carefully brought the magnet close to the back of the knife.

"Smack."

A soft sound.

Although the magnet wasn't very strong, it still stuck firmly to the knife.

George's eyes widened.

It's stuck!

This means that Fett was absolutely right; if the knife were quenched now, it wouldn't harden at all.

"You saw it?"

Fett pointed to the stove:

"Put it back and heat it for a while longer, until it turns a bright cherry red color and the magnet can no longer attract it. Maintain this temperature."

"To completely dissolve the carbon atoms, the structure becomes uniform austenite."

"Only in this way can a good knife be forged!"

After listening to Fett's advice, George no longer hesitated.

He shoved the darkened blade back into the depths of the furnace, turned his head, and his tone became solemn:

"Listen, Fett. Whether you're registered or not, your skills don't lie."

"Once you bring your batch of knives, as long as the quality is as good as you said, I will buy them at a price slightly lower than the market price of JS knifemakers."

"We'll take as many as you have."

Fett extended his right hand: "Deal. I wish us a pleasant cooperation."

They gripped each other firmly.

A few minutes later.

George used pliers to pull the blade out again.

This time, the blade emitted a translucent, bright cherry red light in the dimly lit shed, its radiance steady yet dazzling.

You don't need to use a magnet to test it; just by looking at the semi-transparent color, you know it's cooked to perfection.

Fett stood to the side and nodded slightly.

George took a deep breath, his wrist pointing vertically downwards, and with a "sizzle," he completely immersed the blade into the bucket of dark black quenching oil at his feet.

"boom!"

A bright yellow flame, accompanied by thick white smoke, rose from the oil drum.

George held the pliers firmly, moving the blade back and forth in the oil to prevent the surrounding air bubbles from hindering heat dissipation.

Ten seconds, twenty seconds.

After the flames died down and the white smoke dissipated.

George pulled out the still-dripping knife blade and casually wiped it with a cloth.

He picked up an old file from the workbench, pressed it diagonally against the edge of the blade, and gently pushed it.

"Sizzle—"

A sharp and crisp scraping sound rang out.

This means that the steel's hardness has exceeded that of a file, and the quenching was a perfect success.

"It's done!"

George looked at the grayish-white hardened layer on the blade, laughed, and patted Fett's shoulder forcefully:

"Bro, thank you for your help!"

Fett smiled and casually replied with a mutual compliment:

"It's alright. When I first started learning sword forging, I wasted far more material than you have. You'll develop a feel for it after a few more practices."

"You're right..."

George tossed the cooled blade onto the workbench and was about to take off his gloves when he suddenly stopped.

He seemed to suddenly remember something, his eyes lit up, and he turned to stare at Fett:

"Wait! Fett, I know an opportunity that's practically made for you!"

He said excitedly:

The History Channel is currently developing a brand new forging competition reality show.

"I just saw their casting director on the forum a couple of days ago; they're currently recruiting bladesmiths across the US."

"I think with your skills, age... well, and that face, you're definitely a shoo-in!"