Chief Armaments Master of the Ming Dynasty

This is a delicate task that requires a certain level of judgment.

Lin Fan responded and squatted down to begin rummaging through the items.

He examined things very carefully, not only looking at the extent of the damage, but also tapping on them to listen to the sound, bending them to test their strength, and judging the material and internal damage of the metal parts.

Li Zicheng stood to the side with his arms crossed, watching silently.

A cold wind swept across the barren slope, stirring up dust and withered grass.

His gaze occasionally swept over Lin Fan's focused profile, and over his hands, which, though rough, were unusually steady and his rummaging movements were methodical.

After a while, Lin Fan finished sorting the items and pointed to one of the piles:

"These axles and shafts are so badly rotten they can't be joined together; they'll break on the road if you try to use them. These spearheads are rusted through; even forging can't save them. But these bit irons and some belt buckles..."

He pointed to another small pile, "Although it's wrought iron and badly rusted, the core is still okay. If it can be reforged and properly quenched, it should last for a while. And these pieces of outer layer, although they're hardened and torn, can be thinned and repaired..."

As he spoke, he subconsciously used some slightly more "professional" terms, such as "forging" and "quenching," but the overall tone still revolved around the core concepts of "repair" and "usable."

Li Zicheng listened without interrupting, and waited until he finished speaking before walking over, bending down to pick up a rusted bit from the pile of things Lin Fan had mentioned that "could still be saved." He wiped away some of the rust with his fingers, revealing the relatively dense metal underneath.

"Forging, quenching..." Li Zicheng repeated these two words in a calm voice.

"You said last time that those stirrups would be much stronger if they were quenched and tempered, what was it again?"

Lin Fan's heart skipped a beat, and he nodded:

"Yes...theoretically, yes. The timing also needs to be right."

He cautiously added, emphasizing the conditions and difficulties.

Li Zicheng grunted in response and did not continue the topic.

He weighed the rusty bit in his hand, then casually tossed it back into the pile of junk with a clang.

"Good sorting," he said, his tone neither praising nor criticizing. "Those that can be repaired, pile them up in that corner over there. Later... we'll see if we have time."

He didn't promise anything, he just gave a vague instruction.

But Lin Fan noticed that when Li Zicheng left, he seemed to pause for a moment, his gaze lingering on the pile of rubble that Lin Fan had determined to be "repairable".

……

A few days later, things started to get tense.

It's not the wind of nature, it's the wind of people's hearts, the wind of rumors.

The messengers coming and going at the post stations, the low-ranking officials taking short breaks, and even the few soldiers who had fled there brought more news from the outside world.

Most of the news was fragmented, filled with panic and uncertainty, but pieced together, it painted an increasingly clear and suffocating picture.

"...It's terrible! I heard that in Chengcheng, farmers can't make a living and have even beaten up the county magistrate..."

"What's that compared to what I saw when I delivered a message to Mizhi last time? I saw entire villages fleeing on the way, the tree bark stripped bare..."

"More taxes! More taxes! The Liaodong tax isn't over yet, and now this is some kind of training tax! We can't even dig food out of the fields, are we going to risk our lives to pay it?"

"I heard the imperial court...is planning to cut back on post stations?"

That last word, like a piece of ice, pierced the hearts of everyone at the post station who were already filled with fear and anxiety.

The post station will be shut down? These post station workers barely make ends meet with their meager and often delayed wages. If they lose even this job...

The atmosphere grew more and more oppressive each day.

The couriers' faces showed even deeper sorrow, and arguments and complaints increased.

Li Zicheng's brows furrowed even more. He seemed to be going out more often, sometimes disappearing for half a day. When he returned, he carried an even heavier chill and his eyes were even more somber.

Lin Fan silently went about his work, but his ears were gathering every bit of information.

Chengcheng...Mizhi...Additional levies...Cut off post stations...These place names and vocabulary gradually overlapped with the fragments of late Ming Dynasty history in his memory.

He knew this was just the beginning; a bigger storm was yet to come.

He, this wandering soul who accidentally entered time and space, was at this moment just a post station stable boy barely escaping starvation.

He repaired a wood-chopping knife and sorted through a pile of junk.

This meager "skill" is laughably insignificant in the face of the impending monstrous wave.

However, when the night was still and quiet, lying in the cold, icy shed, listening to the howling wind outside and the faint cries of what could be either hungry wolves or refugees in the distance, Lin Fan couldn't help but think of the pile of sulfur and saltpeter in the corner.

It's rough and has many impurities, but it's a ready-made raw material after all.

The optimal ratio of gunpowder, the rudimentary method of purifying saltpeter, the idea of ​​simple granulation to increase power... these ideas churned in his mind like a silent flame burning in the darkness.

Li Zicheng's deep, unfathomable gaze resurfaced.

Was he really just asking casually?

On this day, Lin Fan was assigned to clean a corner in the backyard of the post station where miscellaneous items were piled up.

He was moving a heavy, broken wooden box, the bottom of which scraped against the ground with a dull thud.

Lin Fan stopped what he was doing, listened for a moment, then put down what he was doing, straightened up, dusted off his hands, took a few steps toward the fence in the direction of the front yard, and tiptoed to look out through the gap in the pile of miscellaneous items.

He saw Li Zicheng drawing water from the well, his tall figure casting a long shadow in the bleak winter sunlight.

Several couriers surrounded him, seemingly talking excitedly. Their voices drifted on the wind, still about "closing down the courier service" and "owing wages."

He withdrew his gaze, a chill running through him.

The commotion in the front yard, along with Li Zicheng's emotionless voice, pierced the oppressive silence of the past few days like a fine needle.

He knew all too well what the term "reduction of post stations" meant in history.

That was not just about cutting off their pay; it was the beginning of uprooting the last vestiges of order and restraint from this group of people...

The snow started falling again, fine and cold.

The distant, gray-yellow mountain plateaus stood silent, bearing the weight of the increasingly oppressive sky.

The post station was like an isolated island, floating on an increasingly turbulent undercurrent called despair.

……

The rumors are like the winter wind, penetrating everywhere and growing stronger with each passing moment.

What began as whispered conversations in a corner gradually escalated into open complaints at the dinner table, and finally became an inescapable dark cloud hanging over the entire Yinchuan Post Station.

The two characters "裁驿" (caishi, meaning "to cut off the post station") are like two rusty files, repeatedly scraping the already taut nerves of every post station worker.

The postal service, which was already frequently delayed and often discounted upon receipt, is now facing an even more precarious hope.

An atmosphere of anxiety and despair permeated the post station; work was done more and more carelessly, and arguments increased.

For a spoonful of thicker paste, or for someone to shovel less horse manure, they could argue for half a day with red eyes and choking.

Li Zicheng traveled out even more frequently.

Sometimes we go to nearby market towns, and sometimes we head towards the county seat.

When they returned, they often had deep furrowed brows, their bodies radiating a chill that concealed a deeper weariness, and occasionally a hint of barely perceptible gloom.

He no longer just listened silently to the couriers' complaints; sometimes he would ask a few questions, such as how many more refugees had arrived, what news the passing caravans had brought, or how much the price of grain in the county had increased.

His questions were very specific, and his gaze was focused, as if he were piecing together a broken picture.