Chief Armaments Master of the Ming Dynasty

The couriers breathed a sigh of relief, but were immediately overwhelmed by the "half-month" deadline, and dispersed while muttering curses.

Li Zicheng stood there, looking at the pile of collapsed debris and the exposed sulfur and saltpeter jars, and remained silent for a moment.

"Put all of this away," he instructed the few couriers beside him. "Move the sulfur and saltpeter...to the old warehouse over there. Don't leave them in the way."

He paused, then added, "It's gotten damp and hardened. Be careful not to spread it everywhere."

His tone was casual, as if he were dealing with a pile of real garbage.

Lin Fan lowered his head and continued cleaning the straw scraps from the manger.

My palms were slightly sweaty.

The timing of that collapse was too perfect.

Was it caused by years of neglect, or...? He dared not think too deeply about it.

But he saw that before Li Zicheng turned to leave, his gaze seemed to sweep over the pile of sulfur saltpeter that had been labeled "junk" once more, and something flashed quickly in the depths of his eyes, clearer than ever before—

That wasn't curiosity or doubt, but a calm, evaluative consideration.

Night had fallen, and a cold wind was howling.

The couriers huddled together in the relatively warmer communal room, sighing and calculating the misfortune that might befall them in half a month.

Lin Fan returned to his cold little shed.

He lay on the dilapidated bed, the thin blanket offering no protection against the bitter cold.

My body is very tired, but my mind is unusually clear.

Low-quality coal... sulfur... saltpeter...

Broken earthenware jars... damp and hardened raw materials...

A rudimentary, almost primitive purification method...

Grinding, dissolving, filtering, recrystallizing...

A suitable container is needed, water is needed, heating is needed... and it must not attract attention...

And then there's Li Zicheng's gaze.

He knew that peaceful days might not last much longer.

……

Half a month. Fifteen days.

This deadline was like a cold noose around the neck of everyone at Yinchuan Station, tightening more and more as the days went by.

The year-end had just passed by in a blur of hunger and cold, without a trace of joy, only adding to the heavy weariness and fear of the future.

The atmosphere in the post station grew increasingly stagnant, like a stagnant pool about to freeze over, yet beneath which unseen undercurrents surged.

The couriers no longer gathered together to complain loudly; instead, they huddled in small groups of two or three in sheltered corners, exchanging whispers of news they had heard, each one carrying an ominous chill.

"Over in Mizhi... I heard that a courier killed an official and looted the warehouse..."

"Fugu is in chaos too; several post stations have collapsed..."

"The grain stores in the county have raised prices again; we can't even afford brown rice anymore. Life is so tough..."

"The documents for abolishing the postal service are probably already on their way..."

Li Zicheng went out more frequently, and each time he returned, his face became even more gloomy.

He brought back more than just hearsay; sometimes it was a few bags of stale grain mixed with sand, and sometimes it was a few skinny mules that were clearly of dubious origin.

The supplies were few, but they were enough to keep people's hearts at ease for a while.

No one asked him where the things came from; everyone just silently accepted them, their eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude, dependence, and a deeper unease.

Lin Fan continued his work as a groom and handyman, but his eyes, belonging to a master of materials science and engineering, had already "scanned" the inn inside and out countless times.

He noticed that the sulfur and crude saltpeter exposed by the collapse that day had been moved into an abandoned old warehouse in the backyard.

A rusty lock was added to the warehouse door, and the key was hanging on Li Zicheng's belt.

He also noticed that Li Zicheng would sometimes go in alone and stay for a while. When he came out, his hands or the corner of his clothes would occasionally have some inconspicuous yellowish-white or grayish-white powder on them.

He knew it was more than just "storage".

Li Zicheng was examining, and may even be trying to identify, those things.

It is not surprising that a literate courier in Shaanxi during the late Ming Dynasty would have some knowledge of sulfur and saltpeter.

But understanding and applying are two different things.

The pressure of survival, like an invisible file, is also grinding and refining Lin Fan.

He had to do something; he couldn't just sit and wait to die.

Public, drastic changes are suicidal, but some subtle, seemingly unintentional "improvements" may play a crucial role at critical moments.

He aimed at the tool.

The inn had several knives and axes used for chopping firewood and repairing heavy objects, all of which were rusty and chipped.

He took advantage of the brief time after work in the evening when everyone was huddled together in the big house warming themselves by the fire, and used the excuse of "sharpening the knife so it will be useful tomorrow" to light a small pile of charcoal in the corner.

There was no proper forge, no blower, only some scavenged charcoal and a broken iron hammer.

He was like the most stingy craftsman, calculating every single ounce of heat.

Carefully heat the part of the ironware that needs to be processed over charcoal, observe the color of the flame, and judge the temperature by feeling and experience.

The quenching process uses collected, relatively clean snow water.

Tempering utilizes the embers of charcoal fire.

The process is slow and covert.

He often works on only a small section of the cutting edge at a time, or only anneals a part of the tool to facilitate repair.

The repaired tool has limited performance improvement, but at least it no longer chips easily and its durability has improved considerably.

Uncle Wang, who was in charge of the kitchen, was the first to notice that his old wood-chopping knife was becoming more and more useful. He muttered a couple of times, "This young man has some skill," but then stopped there and no one investigated further.

In these uncertain times, a good tool is a real benefit.

However, this meager "improvement" is woefully inadequate in the face of an increasingly dire situation.

Halfway through the deadline, people from the county came again.

This time it wasn't an official, but two bailiffs in black robes, whose attitude was even more arrogant and domineering.

They didn't even bother to enter the post station; they simply announced loudly at the entrance:

If no money is paid by the deadline, it will be treated as "tax resistance," and the postmaster (although he had already fled) and the head postman will be arrested. All the items in the post station will be confiscated.

Panic erupted like a plague.

Some suggested that they should just disperse and flee for their lives.

Some people, with tears in their eyes, said they might as well fight it out.

Several usually lazy and slick couriers began to secretly hide small, portable items of any value from the post station, or to flirt with idle men wandering outside.

Li Zicheng summoned everyone to the courtyard.

The sky was overcast, with leaden-gray clouds hanging low, as if it were about to snow.

He stood beside the dry well, his gaze sweeping over the faces that were filled with fear, numbness, or flickering uncertainty.

"Those who want to leave can leave now." He spoke, his voice low but enough to drown out the wind and whispers. "No money, but if you can spare some dry rations, take some with you."

Nobody moved.

Where can we go?

In those chaotic years of war, once you left the post station—a place that could barely provide shelter from the wind and rain and a bite to eat—you faced even deeper hunger and cold and unknown dangers outside.

"Those who don't want to leave," Li Zicheng continued, his tone still calm but revealing a ruthless edge, "then guard this place. Horses, carts, not a single one can be missing. If any is missing, it means cutting off everyone's path to survival."

He paused, his gaze lingering on the faces of several couriers whose eyes were darting around. Those men instinctively lowered their heads.

"As for the money," his voice turned cold, "I'll find a way. But before that, anyone who dares to have any wicked thoughts, or colludes with others," he patted the hilt of the old but gleaming knife at his waist, "don't blame me, Li Zicheng, for being ruthless."

No one questioned it.

Li Zicheng's usual character, coupled with these resolute words at this critical moment, acted like a rough but sturdy rope, temporarily binding the hearts of those on the verge of collapse.