Blacksmith Old Hong was sitting idly in his smithy. The fire in the oven was out, his bellows quiet, and tools covered in dust. He hadn't used his hammer in over a year, and the neighboring smithies' ringing sounded were like noises that had accidentally arrived here from another world.
Reminiscing on his past life, he discovered that all of his efforts had been in vain – the one he loved was dead, the ideal he pursued was degenerating, and even this business he had worked so hard to build had to be prematurely ended at a time when he still had enough strength to continue.
The first person came in. Standing at the door with a torch in his hand, he looked pretty young. His eyes were sweeping around vigilantly, which reminded Old Hong of another young man.
The second person came in, hands crossed behind his back, and in a calm mood, seeming to have something to say.
