My name is Ou Yezi. Yes — that Ou Yezi, descendant of the man who cast swords for the King of Yue in the Spring and Autumn era. Zhanlu, Chunjun, Shengye, Yuchang, Juque — five blades, all from my ancestor's furnace. It's in the Yue Jue Shu, plain as print. Look it up.
Which generation am I? The genealogy burned once; we've lost count.
You'll ask: how does the heir of the great sword-smith end up hammering hoes in a seaside town? Fair question. I've asked it myself. My father said on his deathbed: a furnace isn't measured by size but by not going out. Hoes are iron; swords are iron. Hammering hoes feeds people — no shame in that. A cold furnace is the shame.
Since the yao plague, my furnace hasn't rested. Captain Tie Chong's spearhead, re-tempered every three months. Hunters' arrowheads, batch after batch. But I know in my heart: this isn't the iron the Ou family was born to work.
I'm waiting for a piece of iron.
My grandfather's grandfather left a saying: three hundred years ago, this town of Aolai had a great customer. He came and emptied a whole kingdom's armory in one go — and later returned one thing. What he returned weighed more than everything he took. It's in Journey to the West, chapter 3. Generation after generation of our old men have asked: what did that customer return?
My father guessed: a word of thanks. I guess: a furnace's fire.
So my fire stays lit. Xiaochui, my apprentice, pumps the bellows till he's drenched, and asks: Master, what iron are you waiting for? I say: the day you can swing the big hammer, I'll tell you.
Good iron doesn't argue. You want goods — they're on the wall. You want something made — bring the drawing. You want a story —
While the fire is high, I tell no stories. When it burns low, the stories come.