Hammer Technique of a Thousand Weights

In truth, even witnessing Gu Fei herself crafting ink, the skill is not easily stolen or imitated. Just watching her measure the ingredients left Huang Pinyuan dizzy, while the old craftsman beside him had eyes shining with anticipation. Yet as Gu Fei’s hands moved faster, her sleeves fluttering, different powders weighed and added—pearl powder, musk, and others—the old craftsman’s brows knit tightly, unable to fathom the purpose behind these mixtures.

Gu Fei stirred the heated pot with a stick, her movements precise: a set number of turns to the left, a pause, then to the right, the pauses varying in length. She sprinkled in the powders, faint steam rising, carrying a fragrance unique to ink.

When the onlookers thought she was about to produce the base material, Gu Fei’s eyes flashed. She spoke, “Is there morning glory pollen and clove?”

Huang Pinyuan was startled, but quickly responded, waving to those outside, “Yes, yes, hurry and bring them!”

The servants rushed out, wind at their heels, and within moments returned, breathless, with the requested items.

Without hesitation, Gu Fei poured the morning glory pollen and clove powder into the hot pot, stirred swiftly, then bent to sniff, finally satisfied with the aroma.

Now came the shaping of the base. She rolled up her sleeves to the crook of her arm, her jade-white fingers kneading the paste until her hands were stained, losing their former fairness, yet nothing seemed amiss.

Next was the crucial lacquer hammering stage. She placed the base onto a large wooden block, grasped the hammer at her side, and began to strike. The hammer was so heavy that even a strong man could not wield it for hours, but Gu Fei not only hammered, she skillfully adjusted the base’s position with her other hand—hammerhead, tail, or flipped—each blow delivered with varying force, her movements fluid and graceful, her fingers dancing beneath the hammer like fluttering butterflies.

In less than half an hour, sweat began to bead on her porcelain-smooth forehead. The room was silent, save for the sound of her hammering.

Her arms grew sore, but she seemed oblivious, lips pressed tight, gaze unwavering, stray hairs dampening her face, yet she did not pause to wipe them away.

Only when sharp pain shot through her arm did she finally set the hammer down. Lifting her head, her face pale as snow, but her dark eyes shone brilliantly, like the most dazzling obsidian. “You continue,” she commanded the old craftsman, her tone harsh and commanding.

The craftsman, long eager, stepped forward in delight, took up the hammer, and resumed the rhythmic pounding.

Gu Fei watched, her hands stained black, resting them on the wheelchair’s armrest as she observed the craftsman’s technique, directing, “A bit to the left, use three parts strength.”

“In the center, eight parts strength, the second strike full force.”

“Flip the base.”

Huang Pinyuan only knew how to appraise ink, not how to make it, but this did not prevent him from seeing Gu Fei’s worth. The hammering method alone was unheard of.

He felt a joy akin to discovering a treasure, but it was tempered by deep caution. His gaze rested on Gu Fei, shadowed and uncertain.

Seeing that the craftsman had grasped the rhythm and no longer needed much instruction, Gu Fei signaled a maid to wipe her hands. Once clean, she rubbed her arms, feeling the ache now that the initial hammering—hundreds of strikes—was done. Those first blows had to be hers alone, and now her arms felt too weak to lift.

She sighed inwardly. Back in the capital’s Ink House, she had not needed to make so many ink pellets daily, but one every two days was manageable, and she had never felt much strain. Now, after just a few hundred strikes, her arms were spent—a clear sign her body had not yet recovered its strength.

“After ten thousand hammer strikes, come report to me,” she instructed, then indicated she wished to speak with Huang Pinyuan.

They left the workshop and entered the courtyard. Gu Fei was direct, “Having seen me make ink, Master Huang, have you nothing to say?”

Huang Pinyuan chuckled awkwardly, hand to his lips. “Miss Gu, your skill is remarkable. That hammering method—I’ve never seen the like.”

Gu Fei lifted her chin. She had learned the Capital’s Ink House’s ‘Thousand-Jin Hammer Technique’ since childhood—a method emphasizing immense force. Regardless of the original quality of the ink base, repeated hammering would refine the good and reduce the bad to dregs. Even in the Ink House, few mastered it fully. She had learned early, and, wary of the House’s intrigues, rarely revealed her full skill. For Huang Pinyuan to witness it today was fortune indeed.

“I feared you might be ruthless enough to silence me,” she said with a faint smile. “If I wish to live well, I must show you some true ability.”

Huang Pinyuan laughed heartily, seemingly pleased with her understanding. Stroking his beard, he said, “No need to worry, niece. After all, Yizhou is a land of order. Such reckless killing is not the way of merchants. If you continue making ink, once we’ve divided the Ink House, Yizhou will be ours to command.”

Gu Fei scoffed inwardly, cursing the sly old fox. Threatening with a smile—only he could do such a thing.

She gathered herself, her gaze passing over Huang Pinyuan to the workshop behind him. “That medicinal ink was specially requested by Mister Nine, the eccentric doctor from the Pavilion of Marvels. You know their status; if what he wants isn’t delivered soon, he could turn Yizhou upside down.”

She paused, looking deep into Huang Pinyuan’s eyes, her tone grave. “So, you wouldn’t dare keep the ink I made for yourself, would you? If you offend both the Ink House and the Pavilion of Marvels before toppling the former, that would be a foolish mistake. I trust you’re wise enough not to smash your own foot.”

This was her greatest concern: that Huang Pinyuan would never deliver the medicinal ink to the Pavilion.

His smile faded, eyes flickering with menace. After a moment, he warned, “Are you planning some trick, niece?”

Gu Fei laughed derisively, her lips curled with disdain. “A trick? Then by all means, offend the Pavilion of Marvels and Mister Nine if you dare.”

“I’m sure you have plenty of ways to deliver the ink without anyone noticing. Why test me again?” Her tone grew colder, ending with clear indignation.

At her words, Huang Pinyuan suddenly smiled, as if the previous tension was but a hallucination. “Don’t be angry, niece. I was only speaking in jest.”

Gu Fei snorted, letting the matter drop.

Just then, a maid appeared to announce that the base had been hammered.

Gu Fei turned her wheelchair to enter, but Huang Pinyuan stepped forward and personally pushed it. “Those hands of yours are precious. Let me do the honors.”

She did not refuse, turning her head away to show her lingering displeasure, her every movement and expression carefully displayed, reassuring Huang Pinyuan.

The ink base, after the hammering, already showed the sheen of a finished ink pellet. Gu Fei pinched it, then called, “Bring the ink mold.”

The craftsman, eager to please, quickly brought it forward.

Gu Fei glanced sideways at him, saying nothing further. She pressed the base into the mold, aligning the six faces. When no one was watching, her long nails traced along the mold’s seams, and once it was tightened, she handed it to the old craftsman. “Let it air dry, then polish it smooth and the ink will be complete.”

Huang Pinyuan leaned in to examine the mold, asking, “You won’t handle the polishing yourself?”

Gu Fei understood his suspicion—he feared she might tamper with it. So she replied, mocking, “No need. I see your master craftsman is experienced enough for that.”

“I hope you won’t sabotage your own efforts. Otherwise, regret will come too late,” she finished, wheeling herself away.

Huang Pinyuan stood for a moment, glancing at the ink mold, then at Gu Fei’s receding figure, his face shadowed and unreadable.