Lu Zheng has been sharpening knives at the corner of Anvil Street for six years, charging five copper coins a blade. The knives belong to other people; the score is his own.
Six years ago, seven coffins made of thin wood were carried out of Anvil Street. Each lid bore the brand “Lu.” Of the seven members of the Lu family, only he survived. He lived through that night, and a chain appeared beneath the skin at the back of his neck.
Six years later, the weapons bureau’s order to surrender blades was posted on the street again: hand over your weapons within three days to have them melted down and forged into plowshares. Anyone who failed to do so would be treated as a thief. The surrender squad lined up in the street, muskets leveled.
Lu Zheng tore down the notice. In front of the whole street, he ground the weapons bureau’s red seal into a smear of mud.
After firing a volley, the muskets had to be reloaded. In that brief pause, the back of his neck split open. A bloodied iron chain thrust out from his spine and, with a clank, embedded itself in the flagpole across the street. The chain snapped taut, and he shot sideways from where he stood. The spot he had just occupied was riddled with bullets.
He didn’t retreat. He took a step forward.
“Anyone who comes to take the blades of Anvil Street will leave their life here.”
His chain struck in a flurry, his golden blade unleashed its force, and real steel killed real people. To find out who had carried those seven coffins six years ago, he followed the northbound blade wagons, asking in city after city and killing in city after city.
Ashi, who had come from the capital, gripped a small knife with a silver handle and walked the same road as him.
Pay your debts the day they’re owed. Never let them wait until tomorrow.
