Chapter Fifty-Two: The Tool

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Some days had passed since Liu Ji arrived in this era, and he had grown enough composure to handle the sudden warmth from strangers. He couldn’t quite decipher whether this was due to his father-in-law or his own father.

Whichever it was, he accepted it gladly. Being a second-generation—no matter the era—meant starting ahead of the pack. And if this second-generation happened to have ideals, drive, and a willingness to endure hardship, what heights might he reach?

Liu Ji felt himself walking along such a radiant road, provided that a certain fat fool didn’t go mad enough to raise a rebellion. If only that chaos could be avoided, his journey through time would be flawless.

Historical inertia could not be shifted by mere human will—or could it, if that will proved powerful enough?

Led by Yuwen Sheng, he inspected each workshop in turn. Within, the primitive tools, the sweat-drenched air, the bare-chested craftsmen with towels around their necks—all served to remind him of the era he now inhabited.

“This is the Goldworks. Here, they fashion ironware, copperware, gold and silver implements. Whatever you need, you may tell them. I do not boast, but if something cannot be made here, then only the Directorate of Works in Chang’an might manage it—their chief craftsmen are the best from every region, far beyond what we have here.”

To Liu Ji, it was little more than a large forge, but his requirements were modest. The item itself wasn’t complex, but to ensure the old craftsmen understood, he needed to draw a three-view diagram.

Unable to find suitable tools—no hard stylus, and unfamiliar with the brush—he resorted to using a knife.

“I need something like a hammer, elongated, with a sharp front, serrated at the base. The handle can be hardwood, but the head must be forged from fine steel—strong, tough, resistant to breaking, and able to withstand extreme cold. It must bear the weight of a man in one strike; this is no exaggeration, it could mean a life saved.”

He sketched the design in the dirt; it resembled a pickaxe, with one end pointed, the other heavy. It looked simple, but demanded high-quality materials. Steel was scarce in this era, mostly reserved for weaponry—like the famous Wootz steel. Who would dream of using it for a pickaxe? It would be a waste.

Seeing the old craftsman hesitate, Yuwen Sheng urged him, “Well? Can you make it or not? Speak plainly.”

“Such a design will take time, but that’s manageable. The fine steel, though—it’s not plentiful. How many do you require?”

“Fifty, preferably more for replacements.”

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At this, not only did the old craftsman look troubled, even Yuwen Sheng drew a quiet breath. The tool wasn’t large; each used about half as much steel as a knife. With the extra requested, perhaps thirty could be made. He recalled the special instructions sent by Feng Changqing.

Yuwen Sheng steeled himself and decided, “Do as the Commandant says. Forge one first, send it to the Commandant’s camp for inspection. If approved, make the rest. How does that sound?”

“Very well, I thank you all.”

Liu Ji simply stated his needs, leaving the method to them. In truth, he knew no more of metallurgy than these old craftsmen, and couldn’t even describe the process in detail. He dared not claim expertise.

This small tool was, in essence, the modern ice axe—essential for mountaineering, especially in glacial regions. Often, it was a life-saving instrument, which compelled him to oversee it personally.

And it was only one of several items he needed, with others to follow—such as snow sleds.

For fifty men, their gear couldn’t be carried solely on their backs. If someone were injured, there would be no way to transport them. That required sleds—simple wooden frames, but needing extra strength.

To do a job well, first sharpen the tools.

He also needed ropes—for climbing, rescue, and camping. Once all these were settled, Yuwen Sheng escorted him from the camp, bidding him farewell with a salute. Liu Ji asked,

“Are you related to Yuwen, the Minister of Works under the former Sui?”

“I dare not claim, but he is indeed my ancestor.”

So that was it. Liu Ji had asked on a whim. Yuwen Kai had been the Minister of Works in the Sui dynasty, overseeing the construction of Daxing City—now Chang’an. He was also famed for designing the floating pontoon bridge.

“No wonder, a family legacy. I’ve long admired your lineage.”

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With this pretext, Liu Ji had made the acquaintance of a military official in charge of craftsmanship—he had his own motives. He was no craftsman himself; if he wanted specialized equipment, he had to commission others. Of course, nothing overly complex was possible, nor could the materials always be ideal. What mattered was functionality.

Returning to camp, he found Zhang Wujia and Xu Guangjing had already returned with their men. Now, each field exercise would employ a last-place elimination system—those with the weakest stamina would be weeded out. He couldn’t yet afford to maintain a hundred elite soldiers, so this was his method for refinement.

From this hundred, he picked the fifty in best condition, forming a squad for special training. Before any mission, he would attend to every detail, preparing as thoroughly as possible to boost the odds of success. Liu Ji dared not slacken, for this was a matter of life and death.

Three days later, the fifty selected stood in formation before him, and Liu Ji—now nearly recovered—distributed all the prepared gear.

Each man received a fur robe, a fur hat, a windproof mask, a pair of tall snow boots, a hard ice axe, a coil of rope—together weighing thirty to forty pounds. They would also carry their weapons: a saber, a quiver of arrows or bolts, a bow or crossbow. For this, they sacrificed armor—no mail, no shields.

“Today, we won’t run the valley or climb the mountains. Follow me.”

There was no rousing speech, no extra words. Bundled in his robe, Liu Ji waved his arm, leading as if they were running or fighting, striding at the head of the line.

No one protested. After so many days together, they were used to following him. Each time, this young commander led from the front—what reason had they to hesitate?

Watched with envy by the remaining fifty, the oddly outfitted soldiers, each pair dragging a strange hardwood sled, formed double columns and marched toward the distant snow-capped peaks.

Their destination: the Nanga Parbat, the ninth highest mountain in the world, about a hundred miles from the Guiren Army—what would one day be Gilgit City.

Its elevation: 8,125 meters!