Chapter 7: The Gentleman’s Poison

After handing the iron staff to the bladesmith, I went to find the third weapon. The sky was wide, the air crisp—a good day for driving with the windows down and a classic rock station blasting.

The third weapon was an iron fan. Caleb Young, known in the circles as the Gentleman with the Iron Fan, was handsome and skilled in martial arts—the dream of many young women. People like him always have plenty of friends, and he was no exception.

But a few years ago, he used his iron fan to ruin a friend’s wedding, snatched the bride, and killed his friend on the spot. In the bladesmith’s eyes, that was unjust. The story made its way through town gossip, never quite dying out—like a rumor that tasted just a little too juicy to let go.

I carried a six-pack and found Caleb Young while he was picking out lipstick in a makeup store. The shelves glowed with color, the air smelled like vanilla and perfume. He looked perfectly at home, his posture straight, eyes sharp.

"Lipstick, huh? Didn’t have you pegged for a Maybelline guy." I couldn’t help frowning. My voice was playful, but a little bit honest.

Caleb Young, holding a box of lipstick, glanced at me. "Do you know the first rule of the world?"

"What is it?"

"Mind your own business." With that, he put down the lipstick and picked up another box. His smirk was just cocky enough to be charming.

"But I love minding other people’s business. Been like that since I was born, can’t help it."

I shrugged and leaned closer. "Is that lipstick really for you?"

"…Who said it’s for me? I’m buying it for my fiancée."

"You’re engaged?" A thought flashed—could it be the bride he snatched?

"In three months, I’ll be married. If you want to drink at my wedding, you’re welcome."

Caleb Young raised his eyebrows, eyes full of joy.

"Great! How could I miss a free wedding drink?" I grinned, shaking the six-pack.

"But today, I’ve come to invite you to drink."

"Sure, when?" Caleb Young picked out a box of lipstick, paid, and left the store with me.

"Right now."

"Alright."

We sat by the curb, borrowing two cups from a nearby coffee shop. The sidewalk was hot, the traffic hummed by, and somewhere a kid was selling lemonade with a cardboard sign. The sun was hot, and the sidewalk buzzed with late-afternoon traffic.

"Why not drink inside?" Caleb Young asked.

"Because we can soak up the sun out here," I said, opening the beer. I stretched my legs, feeling the heat rise off the concrete.

"Isn’t it hot?" Caleb Young looked up at the blazing sun.

"A calm heart keeps you cool," I said, pouring the beer.

Caleb Young took a cup and drank. As he drank, he used his fan to cool himself. The fan’s metal ribs flashed in the sun.

"Can you stop fanning? I’m afraid those poisoned needles in your fan will fly out and kill me," I said, tilting my head. I laughed, but I meant it—his reputation preceded him.

"Who told you to insist on drinking in the sun?"

"No choice. People always have some gloom in their hearts. More sun, less gloom," I said quietly. The world always felt lighter with a little light on your face.

"You don’t look like someone with gloom in your heart."

I sighed. "Who says? Right now, I have a big gloom."

"What gloom?"

"My girlfriend said she’ll only marry me if I give her the ‘number one knife in America’ as a wedding gift. I can’t become the ‘number one knife’ myself, so I have to find the number one bladesmith to forge one for me."

I looked troubled. I really did—love makes you do stupid things—like chase legends for a girl who’s smarter than you.

"But the number one bladesmith never forges knives for others," Caleb Young mused.

"That’s why I came to you," I said, staring at him.

Caleb Young thought for a moment. "I know ever since I killed that jerk, he’s wanted my fan back, so he sent you?"

"Exactly."

"You’re honest."

"I’m always honest." I smiled.

"If you’re here for the fan, I’ll have to kill you with the poisoned needles in it," Caleb Young said calmly.

"Too bad you can’t now." I sighed, raising my right hand. In it was a piece of rough cloth. Inside were several steel needles.

Caleb Young stared for a moment, then shook his head and smiled at me.

"In that case, we can only drink."

He downed his beer and poured himself another cup. His laugh was low, a little dangerous.

After three cups in a row, I couldn’t help but say, "Don’t drink it all, save me some."

"Are you very idle right now?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Not really." I snatched the six-pack and poured myself a cup.

"Then fight me a few rounds!" he said, standing up.

"Then you’ve found the wrong person. I’m lazy. Drawing my blade three times a year is already a lot." I lay down flat on the curb. The concrete was warm, and the city sounds drifted over us like a lullaby.

"You don’t usually fight or hurt people?"

"Nope. Fighting and hurting people all the time is boring. Drinking and watching the stars is more fun." I took a sip.

"Then what’s your blade for?"

"A pillow."

"Pillow?" Caleb Young was puzzled.

"Roaming the country, wandering the world—the sky as my blanket, the earth as my bed, the blade as my pillow." I smiled.

Caleb Young sighed. "Too bad. No matter how lazy you are, now you have to fight me."

"Why?"

"Because the poison from those needles has seeped through the cloth into your palm. If you take another sip of beer, you’ll drop dead." Caleb grinned, fan flicking open. "So, Mason," he said, "let’s see if you’re as lucky as you are lazy."