Upon returning to the courtyard, Chen Ping'an felt a persistent twitching in his eyelids—an old superstition came to mind: the left eye heralds wealth, the right foretells misfortune. So he sat down on the threshold and began to envision himself shaping clay on the potter's wheel, his hands poised in midair. Soon, the straw-sandaled youth slipped into a state of selfless concentration. Diligence was part of it, but more importantly, this practice helped stave off hunger. Thus, whenever Chen Ping'an was troubled, he took to throwing clay, turning it into a habit as natural as breathing.
In the craft of porcelain-making, fate played a significant role—before the kiln was opened, no one could predict whether the glaze and form would meet expectations; one could only entrust the result to the whims of heaven. However, prior to firing, the shaping of the clay was indisputably the most crucial step. Unfortunately, the old master Yao had always deemed Chen Ping'an talentless, relegating him to menial labor like kneading clay. The boy could only observe silently, then practice alone, searching for that elusive feeling with his own hands.
From the courtyard next door came the creak of a wooden gate. It was Song Jixin, returning from the academy with his maid Zhi Gui. The handsome youth dashed forward, leaping effortlessly over the low wall, crouching down and opening his palm to reveal several pebbles no larger than fingernails. Their colors were varied—creamy white, pea green, pale lotus. Such stones were worthless and could be found anywhere along the town's creek. The most prized among them was a blood-red one, vivid as if soaked in fresh gore. Master Qi of the academy had once carved a seal from one such stone for his disciple Zhao Yao. Song Jixin had taken a fancy to it and had tried several times to barter for it, but Zhao Yao refused.
He tossed a pebble that landed lightly on Chen Ping'an's chest—no reaction. Another followed, this time striking the boy's forehead, yet still, he remained unmoved. Song Jixin, unsurprised, threw a handful of stones in quick succession. Though his intent was to provoke a response, he avoided hitting Chen's hands or fingers, thinking such a tactic beneath him.
Once he had flung the last pebble, Song clapped his hands clean. Chen Ping'an exhaled slowly, gave his wrists a shake, and ignored Song altogether. After a pause, he lowered his head, his left hand curling into the shape of a carving tool.
The art of the "leaping knife" wasn't a closely guarded secret among the town's potters, but Old Yao's technique commanded universal admiration. Though he had taken on several apprentices, none had pleased him—until Liu Xianyang came along. When Liu practiced, Chen Ping'an would often squat nearby, watching with unblinking focus. Liu Xianyang was prideful, but knowing Chen kept secrets well, he often used Old Yao's secret mantras to impress him. "To guide the knife steadily," he once said, "your hand must not be stiffly steady—it must be the steadiness of a calm heart." Yet when Chen asked what exactly a "calm heart" meant, Liu could never answer.
After watching for a while, Song Jixin lost interest and jumped down from the wall into the house. Maid Zhi Gui remained, her upper face just visible over the wall. Even so, it was clear she would grow into a great beauty. She rose onto her toes and scanned the area around the poor youth, finally spotting two stones she fancied—one was a brilliant, translucent red, the other, a snowy white with a luminous sheen. Both had been cast aside by her young master.
She hesitated briefly, then lowered her voice and asked timidly,"Chen Ping'an, could you pick up those two stones for me? I like them very much."
He slowly raised his head, his hands remaining steady, his eyes gesturing for her to wait. Zhi Gui smiled gently—like the first budding leaf of spring, delicate and stunning. But the boy had already looked down again, missing the moment entirely. Her lips curled into a smile, her eyes sparkling like tiny, living things swam quietly within.
When Chen finally stopped his work and asked which two stones she wanted, her gaze returned to its usual softness, like earth after a gentle rain. He followed her pointing finger, picked up the stones, and placed them neatly atop the wall. She picked them up and held them tightly in her palm.
For those who search deliberately, such treasures are like finding a needle in the ocean—one might go a decade without success. But for the fated, even discarded refuse could become treasure, available on a whim.
Chen Ping'an asked with a smile,"Aren't you afraid that snot-nosed brat will stand outside your door and shout all day?"
She neither confirmed nor denied that her young master had been stealing pebbles, merely smiled without a word.
In Clay Bottle Alley lived a mother and her unruly son, unmatched in the art of quarreling. Only Song Jixin could occasionally spar with them verbally. The child was especially mischievous, always dripping with two long trails of mucus, forever wading in creeks to catch fish and collect stones. He kept the fish in a large vat and piled the stones beside it.
Song Jixin, for reasons unknown, loved provoking the boy—stealing a few stones now and then. It wouldn't be noticed at first, but over time, the losses added up. Once the boy realized he was missing a favorite stone, he would erupt like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, screaming outside the yard for hours. His mother never stopped him—she even fanned the flames, openly calling Song Jixin the illegitimate son of the former superintendent. More than once, her barbs had left Song so infuriated he nearly stormed out swinging a stool. Only Zhi Gui's pleading managed to calm him.
Suddenly, a shrill voice pierced the alleyway,"Song Jixin! Come out and see for yourself! Your maid is flirting with Chen Ping'an—look at them making eyes at each other! If you don't rein in your bed servant, she'll be climbing his wall tonight! I even saw Chen Ping'an touch her face—he was grinning like a damn pervert…"
Song Jixin didn't even bother to show himself, shouting from inside,"So what? Just last night, I saw Chen Ping'an tugging and pawing at your mother. I had to shout before he finally pulled his claws from her collar. But I don't blame him—your mom's chest is so massive and full, poor Chen was drenched in sweat from the effort…"
Outside, someone kicked Song's gate furiously and roared,"Come out, Song Jixin! Duel me one-on-one! If I win, you give me Zhi Gui to feed me, make my bed, and wash my feet! If I lose, you can have Chen Ping'an as your errand boy! Deal or not? Or are you just a gutless turtle hiding inside?"
Song Jixin replied lazily,"Go cool off somewhere else. I checked the almanac—today's not a good day for beating sons. Gu Can, you lucked out!"
The boy outside pounded the door,"Zhi Gui! Don't stay with that coward. You should elope with Liu Xianyang. The way that big oaf looks at you—it's like he wants to eat you alive!"
Inside the house, Song Jixin was carefully polishing a jade-green gourd—an old artifact left behind by his father, Lord Song. He hadn't thought much of it at first, but later discovered that whenever thunderstorms rolled in, the gourd would emit a low hum. Yet no matter how he shook or poured it, nothing ever emerged—not even when he filled it with water or sand. Whatever went in came out unchanged, down to the last drop or grain.
Baffled and increasingly agitated—especially after being berated once again by Gu Can's foul-mouthed mother—Song Jixin had once hacked at the gourd with a knife. What happened next had left him utterly speechless: the blade curled like a withered leaf…