Chief Armaments Master of the Ming Dynasty

He tried to use the simplest words that might exist in this era to describe it.

But I was on edge.

Has it been exposed? Will it cause trouble?

In this era, how could a vagrant beggar possibly understand the intricacies of iron smelting and forging?

Li Zicheng did not respond immediately.

He took a few steps forward, took the stirrup from Lin Fan's hand, pinched the stirrup ring with his rough fingers, carefully examined the fine cracks, and then bent his knuckles and tapped the iron surface hard.

His voice was muffled and hoarse, carrying an ominous sense of slackness.

"Hmm," Li Zicheng handed the stirrups back to him, his tone unchanged, "Your eye isn't bad. The equipment at the post station gets worse every year. At least it used to be from a proper blacksmith's shop, but now..."

He paused, and the corner of his mouth seemed to turn down slightly, a subtle line formed from long-standing dissatisfaction with certain things yet feeling helpless. "It's all just a bunch of shoddy stuff."

He leaned the pitchfork against the pillar, patted the dust off his hands, and glanced at Lin Fan's oversized courier uniform with frayed cuffs.

"Have you ever handled iron before? Have you ever worked with a craftsman?"

The problem is coming.

Lin Fan's mind raced.

The original owner's memory fragments contained only hunger, fleeing famine, and death, with no information related to skills.

"No... I've never really followed along." He lowered his head, looking at the tips of his shoes, which were covered in mud and horse manure, and his voice became even softer.

"On the way to escape famine... I stayed in all sorts of places, saw blacksmiths working, and listened to... I heard people chatting a few times."

This is the safest explanation: refugees are knowledgeable but not particularly skilled.

Li Zicheng nodded, seemingly accepting the explanation, or perhaps he never intended to delve into it further.

Migrants are like weeds; they can survive anywhere and get some scraps from everywhere.

He picked up the pitchfork again, ready to leave.

Lin Fan didn't know where the impulse came from. Perhaps it was the small gratitude accumulated from the daily spoonful of vegetable soup, perhaps it was the instinctive restlessness of the knowledge belonging to "Lin Fan" deep in his heart in the face of this rough and backward era, or perhaps it was simply wanting to seize a tiny opportunity in this cold environment that might change the status quo.

Just as Li Zicheng turned around, he almost whispered a sentence, his words so fast they were somewhat indistinct:

"Actually... it's not just iron. Some other things can be used too. For example, those sulfur blocks and saltpeter piled up in the corner... if the proportions are right, it can make a lot more noise."

As soon as he said it, he broke out in a cold sweat.

Sulfur? Saltpeter? Gunpowder? What is he doing?

To say this to a future rebel leader at a post station in the late Ming Dynasty? Are you out of your mind?

Li Zicheng stopped in his tracks.

He didn't turn around immediately.

With his back to Lin Fan, the lines of his shoulders seemed to tense slightly.

In the courtyard, another courier was shouting loudly to drive a horse that refused to enter the stable, the noise making this corner of the stable seem exceptionally quiet.

A few cold, wet things fell onto Lin Fan's face.

Snowing.

The wind swirled snowflakes as they seeped in through the cracks in the broken roof.

Li Zicheng slowly turned around.

Snowflakes landed on his coarse hair and broad shoulders, quickly melting and leaving dark, damp stains.

His face remained expressionless, but his eyes, set against the shadows of the dim stable and the falling snowflakes, appeared exceptionally deep.

He looked at Lin Fan, his gaze no longer calm and scrutinizing as before, but carrying something more complex and difficult to decipher—

Surprise, doubt, scrutiny, and a glimmer of sharp light that was being suppressed.

He didn't ask, "How do you know it's sulfur saltpeter?" nor did he ask, "What's the ratio?"

He simply stared at Lin Fan for several breaths.

Then he spoke, his voice lower and deeper than before, blending into the increasingly dense sound of snow, yet every word was clear:

"What's your name?"

"Lin Fan." This time, he didn't hesitate and uttered the name that represented two intertwined lives.

Li Zicheng nodded, offering no comment on the name.

His gaze swept over the broken stirrups in Lin Fan's hand again, then seemed to pass over him, glancing at the inconspicuous pile of carelessly discarded junk in the shadows of the corner, before finally settling back on Lin Fan's face.

"The snow's getting heavier," he said, his tone returning to its usual calm, ordering tone. "Finish checking the rest of the saddlery, and write down any repairs that need fixing. Add more feed to the manger; it'll be cold at night."

After saying that, he picked up the pitchfork, turned around, and strode towards the earthen house of the post station, stepping on the ground where a thin layer of snow had begun to accumulate. His figure quickly disappeared behind the increasingly dense snow curtain.

Lin Fan stood still, his hand tightly gripping the cold iron stirrup.

The snow fell on his eyelashes and quickly turned into cold water droplets.

My heart was beating heavily and slowly in my chest.

That brief conversation was like a drop of ink falling into a silent, deep pool; it is sinking, spreading, and staining everything around it with uncertain hues.

What did Li Zicheng's last look mean?

Did he understand? Did he care? Or did he simply think the new little beggar was talking nonsense?

Lin Fan didn't know.

All he knew was that in the winter of the first year of the Chongzhen reign, in the desolate and dilapidated Yinchuan Post Station, amidst the heavy snow falling from the sky, seemingly trying to cover up all life, some things had already changed.

He slowly loosened his fingers and put the stirrup back into the pile of saddles awaiting repair.

The cold metal objects clashed, producing a slight, dull thud.

He continued to inspect the remaining horse tack, his movements appearing more steady than before.

Snowflakes fell silently on his thin shoulders, on this soul from the future that was just beginning to awaken, and on this long-parched land that was about to be ignited.

……

It snowed all night, and by dawn, the courtyard was covered with a thick layer of snow, like a dirty old cotton quilt covering the dilapidated post station.

The sun was stingy with its rays, appearing only as a blurry patch of light in the gray sky, offering little warmth.

The coldness only intensified, seeping into the very bones.

Lin Fan got up at the crack of dawn, or rather, he barely slept a wink all night.

The shed was drafty, and snowflakes could drift in through the cracks.

The thin blanket was as stiff as a board; wrapping myself in it didn't help at all.

Cold and hunger were the constant backdrop, but the brief conversation with Li Zicheng last night kept echoing in my mind, bringing another kind of anxiety.

Did he say too much?

Sulfur, saltpeter... Did Li Zicheng understand?

What lies hidden beneath that calm gaze?

No one gave him an answer.

Only the impatient snorting and pawing of the horses in the early morning, and the sleepy, grumbling shouts of the postmen in the distance, reminded him that it was time to get to work.

Life went on as usual.

Chop hay, fetch water, sweep away horse manure that is filthy and frozen more than usual, and inspect saddles and bridles.

Li Zicheng seemed to have forgotten what happened last night. When he saw Lin Fan, his eyes were no different from usual, and his tone was as indifferent as ever when giving him instructions.

The other post station workers continued to order him around, giving him the dirtiest and most tiring jobs.

But in Lin Fan's heart, an even larger, more silent tide had begun to rise.

His gaze began to linger unconsciously on the broken objects, his mental knowledge base automatically activated, analyzed, and then gave rise to an almost instinctive unease and an indescribable impulse.

In the afternoon, he was assigned to help in the kitchen—the post station was short-staffed, and the servants had to do all sorts of odd jobs.