It was an ordinary afternoon. Shen Ye sat in the yard with Lu Xingchen's father, polishing iron. The sun was fierce; the metal burned hot under his hands. Blisters had risen on his palms, but he did not make a sound—only hammered, stroke after stroke. Lu Xingchen's father watched and offered guidance from time to time. "That's it—same force, don't rush, take your time…" Then someone knocked at the gate. Neighbor Zhang's voice came from outside. "Old Lu, someone's here for your guest—says she...