Chapter 13: Sharpening the Kitchen Knife

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With a beaming smile, Yan Bugui entered the room and handed the broken iron cleaver to Duan Chengliang. After Duan Chengliang left with the cleaver in hand, Yan Bugui closed the door behind him, still smiling.

His wife, Yang Ruihua, could no longer lie still inside; she came out with her arm in a sling, worry etched on her face as she asked, “Duan Chengliang is talking nonsense here, and you’re going along with it. What could he possibly fix on a broken cleaver handle?”

Yan Bugui chuckled and replied, “I’m not concerned about that. He said he could fix it. At worst, he’ll take the cleaver down to some village blacksmith and get it repaired. I don’t care how much it costs; I’m only giving him twenty cents anyway. In the end, it’ll save me trouble. If he can’t fix it, he won’t lose much—at least I’ll have a cleaver without a handle.”

He laughed to himself, clearly in high spirits.

“Forget it, no need to worry about him. Let me get the pork bone boiling for you. Don’t chop it up yet; just boil it whole. That way, it’ll last a couple more days. Once it’s cooked soft enough, the marrow will be edible.”

When Yan Bugui ate bones, it was a true marrow-scraping feast.

Duan Chengliang returned home with the cleaver, feeling just as cheerful. As soon as he closed the door, he rushed to the stove next to his kang bed, opened the stove’s air vent, and stoked the fire. He took out several pieces of iron coal and placed them on the stove to heat.

Then he stepped outside into the small courtyard beside the storage room, rummaging for a suitable piece of wood to use as a handle. This step was familiar to him—after all, working in the film props department had made him adept at crafting decorative items.

Back inside, he closed the door and saw the iron coal glowing red. Using tongs, he picked up pieces and placed them on the furnace hearth inside the blacksmith’s workshop.

Then he slipped into the space.

He felt a thrill of excitement—this was his first time genuinely operating the blacksmith’s tools like a professional.

It was thanks to his upbringing around a small blacksmith’s shop that he was so familiar with everything here. Thus, he was far from flustered.

He added more iron coal to the hearth and pumped the bellows. Before long, he regained the muscle memory and rhythm he had built up over the years.

Operating the bellows in a blacksmith’s shop required finesse—not just brute strength. It was about controlling the pace, adjusting in real time to the fire’s intensity.

If you pumped too hard, you might cool the burning iron. Too lightly, and the fire wouldn’t reach the necessary temperature. Besides personal experience, one had to read the master’s subtle signals to know the right rhythm.

Of course, repairing a cleaver handle wasn’t that complicated. It was enough to heat the broken handle and the break point until they were red hot and soft.

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This was the main reason Duan Chengliang confidently promised to fix it. If the blade itself snapped, he wouldn’t dare take the job in his current condition.

But fixing the relatively soft iron handle, which contained no steel, posed no problem.

After some use, he found the furnace and bellows quite effective—far better than the stove he remembered from his father’s blacksmith shop.

Heating the handle and break point was much more efficient than when he had repaired shovels in the coal yard.

Judging the fire was just right, Duan Chengliang stopped pumping the bellows. He stood up, took a deep breath, and placed the small hammer he intended to use next beside the anvil.

Using tongs, he grabbed the cleaver and handle together and moved them onto the anvil.

The old routine followed: slightly overlapping the broken parts, bending over to lift the hammer, he struck the break point with a clear clanging sound.

The first step was rough forging—to fuse the two pieces of iron into one. It went smoothly.

He returned the cleaver handle to the glowing iron coal to reheat, pumping the bellows for another two or three minutes to soften it again.

Once heated, he placed the cleaver back on the anvil with the tongs.

This time, he used the small hammer to shape and refine the handle—requiring more precision and control.

Of course, fixing a cleaver handle was simple work. No matter how meticulous he was, it wasn’t overly demanding. With his current physical state, the task felt natural and effortless. Clearly, he had some innate talent.

It was a pity his father wasn’t a discerning horseman and failed to recognize him as a thoroughbred.

Using the tongs, he carefully inspected the repaired handle, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.

He placed the finished cleaver on the anvil and stepped out of the space.

By this point, he hadn’t even thought about cooking. His entire focus was on finishing the handle and seeing how it turned out.

Fixing a wooden handle was even easier—just drill a hole, carve the wood into a smooth round shape, sand it down, and carve some anti-slip grooves. Then it would be good to go.

However, simple as it sounded, the work still took time. Carving the wooden handle took longer than the forging, consuming a full half hour before he returned to the space with a decent-looking wooden handle.

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He considered adding more iron coal since it had been a while and the coal on the hearth should have burned down by now. But when he looked, the fire was exactly as it had been when he left the space.

This sparked a thought: could it be that time stood still inside the space when he wasn’t there?

That would be wonderful—he could keep the fire burning indefinitely, ready to use at any moment.

Duan Chengliang tentatively spat on the cleaver handle resting on the anvil.

A faint wisp of blue smoke rose. Indeed, the temperature was exactly as it had been when he left. Remarkable—and undoubtedly good news for him.

Now he was certain: time flowed inside the blacksmith’s space only when he was present; once he left, it stopped.

Such a discovery was invaluable.

He simply grabbed the cleaver with the tongs and stepped out of the space.

Since the handle was still hot, there was no need to reheat it. Leaving the space also kept the iron coal on the hearth frozen in time, conserving fuel.

Duan Chengliang planned to fit the handle in his own room.

But just as he stepped out, he reconsidered and returned to the space.

Why? If he installed the handle outside the space, the repair wouldn’t be considered done inside it—possibly invalidating the experiment. That would waste all his previous efforts.

Better to burn some extra coal and speed things up.

Clamping the cleaver with the tongs, he aligned the broken iron handle with the hole he had drilled in the wooden grip and forcefully pushed it in.

The heated iron seared the wood but also made it easier to insert.

He quickly grabbed the small hammer and gently tapped the end of the wooden handle.

Taking advantage of the handle’s high temperature, he easily secured it tightly to the cleaver, achieving a perfect fit.

Thus, the broken cleaver was fully repaired by Duan Chengliang.

As expected, it did not disappoint. Four small frames flickered in his consciousness once again.