He even had to say it was thanks to his own son-in-law—if not for him, he would have bought this poor valley land, and that would have been a huge loss.

Mr. Bolton looked at Henry Stone's small house in the distance, where the sound of clanging ironwork could still be heard, and felt even more satisfied. He had already made up his mind: no matter what, as soon as the military service matter was settled, he would immediately marry his daughter off, tying down this son-in-law first.

There was no need to worry about money, but some villagers began to worry about Smith Johnson's skills: "Master, could it be that this Smith Johnson is just all talk? All our hopes are pinned on him—what if..."

Mr. Bolton waved his hand: "He's not boasting. Even in the county, Smith Johnson's skills rank among the top three. Just two years ago, he forged a batch of official knives for the constables at the yamen. If his skills weren't good, would the county have chosen him?"

With that, everyone finally felt at ease. It's just that Smith Johnson truly had a knack for being annoying. The three hunters had finally managed to buy some wine, Uncle Bolton brought out the badger meat he had stored at home, and the best cook among the village wives prepared it and served it. Yet Smith Johnson, emboldened by the wine, pinched one of the wives on the butt, almost getting into a fight with her husband on the spot.

Smith Johnson still wouldn't let it go, relying on the fact that the whole village depended on him, shouting and cursing, while the wronged wife hid in her house, wiping away tears, refusing to come out no matter who tried to comfort her.

Henry Stone hadn't come out from the start—not because he was putting on airs, but because he didn't even know Smith Johnson had arrived. He had been practicing the whole time, completely unaware of what was happening outside. In the end, everyone was afraid of embarrassing him, so since Smith Johnson was here, no one went to inform him.

While Smith Johnson was feasting in the village, Henry Stone ate the scallion pancakes his mother had made, washed down with mountain spring water, let out a satisfied burp, and fell asleep as soon as his tired body hit the bed. Half an hour later, the sound of clanging ironwork once again came from his little house.

By the time the rooster crowed, Henry Stone was already able to forge a ring-pommel saber that left a finger-and-a-half-deep mark on the anvil.

……

When the sun was high, Smith Johnson finally got up after repeated invitations from Mr. Bolton, ate six egg pancakes, and the virtuous wives of the village watched with aching hearts—everyone was struggling, and except for Mr. Bolton's family, who else could afford such extravagance? When under someone else's roof, you have to bow your head.

After breakfast, Smith Johnson reminded them again about the lunch dishes, specifically requesting stir-fried wild boar with chives. Mr. Bolton patted his chest and guaranteed it, so only then did Smith Johnson lazily start work.

Meanwhile, Mr. Bolton was busy urging Uncle Bolton and the others to hurry up the mountain to hunt wild boar.

The long-awaited sound of ironwork finally came from Smith Johnson's house. Hearing the crisp, rhythmic clanging, everyone finally felt relieved.

The hammering was even and clear, very rhythmic, obviously very skilled. Old blacksmiths all knew how to use the rebound force of the hammer to lift it again, saving a lot of effort, unlike Henry Stone's uncoordinated, forceful pounding.

After two hours, under the expectant gazes of the villagers, Smith Johnson emerged with a gleaming ring-pommel saber. The villagers waiting outside cheered—after more than a day of swallowing their pride, hope had finally returned.

Mr. Bolton was the first to step forward with a cupped-fist salute: "Good blade, good blade! Master Johnson, you truly deserve to be the best blacksmith in our county!"

"Hahaha!" Smith Johnson stroked his beard and laughed. "Time is tight, so I won't show off any fancy skills. This blade will definitely pass the official inspection, but don't expect it to cut through iron like mud."

Everyone hurried to say, "That's enough, that's enough, this is more than enough."

Smith Johnson gave a self-satisfied chuckle, left the blade behind, and swaggered off to forge the next one. The villagers were overjoyed—at last, hope had returned. Mr. Bolton slapped his forehead: "Quick, send someone to buy wine..." Only then did everyone remember that while the wild boar was taken care of, they had forgotten to buy wine. The two jin of wine from yesterday had all gone down Smith Johnson's throat in one sitting.

Chapter Six: Blade Inspection (Part One)

Once again, the village was in a flurry. Smith Johnson was now practically the savior of the village—even if he pinched another wife on the butt, aside from her husband, no one else would dare criticize him.

After everything was arranged, someone finally noticed: "What's going on? Why is there still another hammering sound?"

A series of clanging sounds came from the other side, but earlier everyone had been focused on Smith Johnson. Only now did they realize there was another blacksmith at work.

Mr. Bolton was taken aback, suddenly remembering his son-in-law.

He went over and peeked into the house. Henry Stone was single-mindedly hammering a red-hot piece of iron on the anvil, already much more skilled than before. Sparks flew from the iron, which quickly took on a long, strip-like shape.

At Henry Stone's feet lay a pile of broken, pitch-black ring-pommel sabers, snapped in two.

Mr. Bolton shook his head. This kid really is a stubborn one.

Everyone knew that Henry Stone was still practicing blacksmithing, but no one said much. After all, if Henry Stone hadn't discovered this iron mine, even if someone had thought of this plan, just the cost of buying iron ore would have been more than the village could afford.

No matter what, Henry was a great benefactor to everyone—this was absolutely not the same as hiring Smith Johnson with money.