Studying at Western University starts with a knife-forging competition

After filming wrapped, most of the camera lights were turned off in the workshop, leaving only basic lighting on. Staff were dismantling the explosion-proof partitions in the testing area. The simulated blood plasma at the edge of the dummy's fracture had stopped dripping and gleamed semi-congealed under the lights.

Lin Yuan sheathed his sword and was about to go to the rest area when he heard footsteps behind him.

J. Nelson walked in front, followed closely by David Baker, with Doug Macheda coming around from the side. The three of them looked completely different from when they were on the judging panel—not with the restrained and professional scrutiny they displayed on the show, but rather as if they could finally let go of their airs.

"Lin Yuan," J. Nelson spoke first. He stopped in front of Lin Yuan, took off his glasses, and instead of wiping the lenses with the hem of his shirt as usual, held them directly in his hand. "I couldn't make any definitive statements on the show earlier. Judges must remain objective, or at least appear to be. But the cameras are off now."

He folded his glasses and put them in his pocket, looking at Lin Yuan with undisguised admiration in his eyes.

"Your sword is the best I've seen in all nine seasons of the Swordsmithing Contest. Not the best of this season, nor the best of recent years. It's all of them."

David Baker interrupted him before he could finish, speaking much faster than usual.

"Nelson was talking about the technical aspects. What I'm trying to say is—from the perspective of weapons history, your sword is also a groundbreaking creation. The shape of the hand-and-a-half sword is purely a practical weapon from medieval Europe, but the materials, craftsmanship, and surface finish you incorporated cannot be found in any existing historical specimens. I've been replicating ancient weapons for so many years, and I've seen too many so-called innovations that are just piecing together elements from different eras. You're different. What you've created is something truly new."

Doug Macheda didn't say any of that. He stood beside them, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the sword in Lin Yuan's hand, while Nelson and David spoke. Only after the two judges had finished speaking did he take a step forward.

“Nelson can dissect your craftsmanship, and David can tell you about this sword’s historical place. I’ll only tell you one thing.” Doug’s voice still had that rough texture, but his tone was much more serious than usual. “When I held your sword, I had an indescribable feeling all over my body—as if I were a Templar Knight, wielding it to cut down a few demons. I’m not using a metaphor. When I was chopping that dummy on the testing platform, that was the image that came to my mind.”

He glanced at the scabbard in Lin Yuan's hand, then looked up, his gaze direct and frank.

"I've handled hundreds of swords, and none of them have ever given me this feeling. So I'll get straight to the point—when can I schedule the order for this sword? You set the price."

J. Nelson nodded slightly beside him, and only spoke again after Doug finished speaking: "We'll talk about the custom-made item later. I'd like to invite you to dinner tonight, the three of us together, not arranged by the production team. There are still quite a few details about your cloud-patterned steel dagger that I don't understand, and I'd like to ask you about the material treatment of that sword in person. I couldn't come down to take a closer look before because of the production schedule, but now that filming is over, we don't need to worry about those rules anymore."

David Baker added, "Me too. The dagger you made in the first round—I couldn't see the pattern and the curve of the blade clearly from several meters away. You said it was a family heirloom and not convenient to explain in detail on camera—we completely understand. Let's talk privately, out of the camera's view, you can say whatever you want. Your craftsmanship is worth a decent dinner."

Lin Yuan nodded. "Dinner is fine. But please wait a moment—"

His gaze passed over the three judges and landed on the other side of the workshop.

Greg stood beside the staff, watching his spring steel hand-and-a-half sword being packed into a foam-lined plastic box. The staff closed the box, labeled it, and carried it away. His sword had withstood tests, slashing through dummies and steel shield plate armor without chipping, and J. Nelson personally attested to the resilience of spring steel.

But the sword itself wouldn't go home with him. Lin Yuan was very clear about the show's rules—the contestants' works belonged to the production team and were used for subsequent display and promotion.

While researching online, he came across a forum post where a former contestant bluntly stated: it was like selling a knife he made to the show for ten thousand yuan. But that contestant was the champion. Greg wasn't.

Lin Yuan gestured to the judges to wait a moment and walked towards Greg.

Greg was taking his race pass off his neck, carefully rolling up the lanyard, and putting it in his jacket pocket. Seeing Lin Yuan approaching, he straightened up and grinned.

"Hey, champion. Congratulations. That sword of yours is really impressive."

"Your sword performed very steadily in the test," Lin Yuan said. "The blade didn't chip at all."

"Spring steel, it's tough enough." Greg patted his chest, as if to confirm that his competition pass was in place. "It's just that I can't achieve the effect you're showing. When your sword twirls under the lights—that golden light, I wanted to go over and touch it just watching."

He spoke in a relaxed tone, but the smile faded after a few seconds. His gaze unconsciously drifted towards the staff—the plastic box had been moved away, and the worktable was empty except for the display stand where the sword had been placed before the test.

"You must be feeling bad that your sword was taken away," Lin Yuan said.

Greg looked away and shrugged. "It's the rules, we all signed the agreement. It's nothing, the game's over, I'll go home, rest for a couple of days, and then get back to work."

When he said "get back to work," he clenched his right hand in his pocket, and through the fabric of his jacket, you could see his knuckles tighten and loosen briefly.

"Will the order book be full after we get back?" Lin Yuan asked.

Greg glanced at him, surprised to be asked such a specific question. He opened his mouth, then said in an attitude that was neither willing to hide anything nor entirely candid, "It's alright. I took on a few hunting knife orders recently, which will keep me busy for a while. It's just—" He paused, scratched the back of his head, "I haven't been working during the competition, and I had to turn down two orders. I need to get back to them and make up for them as soon as I get back; I've already received the deposits, and it's not good to drag it out."

He turned down two orders—orders that could be easily turned down couldn't have been many to begin with. He collected the deposits—he needed the money to start work and buy materials, not to have the workers pay in full after completion.

"Do you have any other sources of income?" Lin Yuan asked.

Greg paused for a moment, but Lin Yuan's tone was devoid of any extraneous meaning; he was simply asking a swordsmith about the most practical situation.

"My family has an ancestral farm, and we rent out part of it to collect some rent." His voice was a little softer than before. "Not much, just enough to cover income tax. We mainly make knives. It's a small town, so there aren't many custom orders. We get whatever orders we can get in a year."

He finished speaking, chuckled, and shrugged. "I live alone, so I don't spend much. It's just that I need to save up to buy new equipment when it breaks, but everything else is fine."

The farm rent barely covers taxes. He takes whatever orders he can get in a year. He has to rebuild the equipment when it breaks down. Each piece of information is stated in a very calm tone, but put together, it represents the entirety of a middle-aged swordsmith's life. His sword made it to the final round of the test, but the sword has already been packed into a plastic box and taken away, leaving him only with the title of runner-up and perhaps a meager appearance fee.

Lin Yuan took the championship check out of his pocket and handed it over.

"Take this."

Greg glanced down at the check, his expression changing. Not surprise, but the brief helplessness one feels when someone's predicament is seen through. His lips moved, but he didn't take it.

"Here's your bonus—"

"I don't need the money right now," Lin Yuan said. "My family provides me with living expenses, and the price for custom orders won't be low after winning the championship. This $10,000 isn't something I absolutely need to keep."

For Lin Yuan, ten thousand US dollars was indeed a lot of money, but after he finished making the Paladin's Cross Sword, the system task was completed, and fifty gold coins were already in his storage compartment.

Ten thousand US dollars is worth about two or three gold coins. He might not have that much cash, but he wouldn't be unable to survive without it.

Moreover, Doug's custom orders would obviously bring him some income, and since he wasn't short of money, he didn't mind being generous in helping Greg.

After all, he does seem to need money.

Greg's lips pressed into a thin line. He clenched his hand in his pocket, took it out, and then put it back. He didn't say "This won't do," nor did he say "I can't accept this"—the words swirled in his mouth, but he swallowed them back.

He pulled a palm-sized old notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket; the edges of the cover were worn white. He tore off a page, wrote a phone number on it, and then added an email address. The handwriting was messy, but each number was written with great force. He handed the note to Lin Yuan.

"Consider it a loan. I'll definitely pay you back once I've settled down."

Lin Yuan took the note, folded it, and put it in his pocket. "Okay. No rush."

Greg folded the check, put it in the inside pocket of his jacket, zipped it up, and pressed his hand against his chest to make sure it was secure. He looked up at Lin Yuan, his lips moved, and finally he only said, "When I get back, I'll revise the blueprints for that spring steel sword and try out the forging method you taught me. I'll send you photos when it's finished."

"it is good."

Greg nodded to him, glanced at the judges' panel, and turned to walk towards the door. He pushed open the double metal door, and the January night breeze blew in, diluting the lingering propane smell in the workshop. The sound of a pickup truck starting up came from outside the parking lot; the engine coughed twice before starting, its headlights cutting two dim yellow streaks of light on the gravel, and it slowly turned onto the highway.

Lin Yuan turned around. The three judges were still waiting in their original positions. Doug was leaning against the display stand, Nelson had put his glasses back on, and David Baker was rubbing his chin with his thumb—a gesture he made when thinking about technical issues during the competition.

"Sorry to have kept you all waiting." Lin Yuan walked over.

"No need to apologize," J. Nelson waved his hand. "What you just did speaks volumes about who you are, more than any forging technique."