On the second day of the second lunar month, when the dragon raises its head, as dusk settles over the quiet Mud Bottle Alley in the small town, a solitary, lanky youth follows an ancient tradition. In one hand, he holds a flickering candle, and in the other, a peach branch, using them to light up the beams, walls, wooden bed, and every shadowed corner of his humble abode. He taps the branch and sweeps it through the air, murmuring a chant passed down through generations: "On the second day of the second lunar month, the candlelight shines bright, the peach branch swishes light; pests and evil spirits, take flight."
This youth is named Chen Ping'an—a name that brings safety, but also a life marked by early loss. The town, known for its fine porcelain, once held the imperial mandate to craft sacred vessels for the Mausoleum. Imperial officials lived here year-round, a sign of the town's importance and its craftsmanship. From a young age, Chen Ping'an had worked as a kiln master's apprentice, learning the trade under a grumpy, indifferent mentor. After years of hard work, he had only just begun to understand the complexities of porcelain firing when fate struck. The town, once a proud center of imperial porcelain making, lost its standing overnight. The authorities ordered the kilns shut down, their flames extinguished, like dragons asleep on the land.
Chen Ping'an set the peach branch down, blew out the candle, and stepped into the night. He sat on the stone steps, staring up at the starry sky, a quiet reminder of the vast world beyond his small, humble life.
He still remembered his old mentor, Yao, who had grudgingly accepted him as a half-disciple. Yao, a man bound by stubborn principles, had passed away one chilly autumn morning, leaving behind unfulfilled hopes and untaught secrets.
But Yao was just one among many.
The craftsmen of this town, who had spent generations perfecting the art of porcelain firing, were forbidden to make tribute porcelain or privately sell their wares. They were forced to find new ways to survive. And so, Chen Ping'an, evicted from his home, returned to Mud Bottle Alley to guard the crumbling old house. The scene, bleak and devoid of warmth, left him with little to start anew, even if he had wished to squander away his inheritance.
After wandering aimlessly for some time, he found himself unable to earn a living. With his meager savings, he could barely feed himself. A few days ago, he had heard that a blacksmith surnamed Ruan had arrived in Dragon Ride Alley, a few streets away, looking to take on seven or eight apprentices. Though the position offered no pay, food was provided. Chen Ping'an hurried there to try his luck. But when he arrived, the middle-aged man merely cast him a cold glance and sent him away. At that moment, Chen Ping'an wondered if blacksmithing was a trade of physical strength—or just one of having the right face?
Though Chen Ping'an might appear frail, his strength was not to be underestimated. This was due to the physical foundation he had built over years of shaping porcelain bodies during his apprenticeship in porcelain firing. Beyond that, Chen Ping'an had also followed his mentor, Yao, traversing the mountains and rivers around the small town, willingly taking on any dirty or strenuous work without a word of complaint or hesitation. Yet, despite his efforts, Yao had never been fond of him, scornful of his lack of understanding and stubbornness—qualities far inferior to those of his eldest disciple, Liu Xianyang. It was no surprise that the old man was biased, as the saying goes, "The teacher opens the door, but personal cultivation determines the outcome." Liu Xianyang's skill, after just half a year, had already reached the level of Chen Ping'an's after three long years of hard work.
Although he might never need it, Chen Ping'an closed his eyes and envisioned a slate and pottery wheel before him. He began to practice shaping the porcelain body, trusting in the power of persistence and practice.
Every fifteen minutes, he would pause, shaking out his wrists. This cycle continued until he was completely exhausted. Only then would he rise, stroll around the courtyard, and stretch his muscles and joints. No one had ever taught him these things; they were the result of his own trial and error. No one had taught Chen Ping'an these things; he had figured them out through trial and error.
The world was quiet, but suddenly, a sharp, mocking laugh cut through the silence. Chen Ping'an paused, and as expected, he saw his neighbor perched on the wall, a smug grin spreading across his face.
The man was Song Jixin, Chen Ping'an's elegant yet disdainful neighbor. According to local gossip, he was the illegitimate son of the former supervisor. Fearing scandal and impeachment, the former supervisor had returned to the capital alone, leaving his son behind with the new official. For reasons unknown, the town had lost its status as an imperial kiln site. The new supervisor, struggling with his own troubles, had no time for the illegitimate child of his fellow official. After leaving behind some silver and money, he hastily departed for the capital.
Unaware of the role he had played in his own abandonment, Song Jixin continued to live a carefree life. He wandered the town, accompanied by his maid, Zhigui—whose name was as literary as his own. She stood on the other side of the courtyard wall, her timid almond-shaped eyes watching Chen Ping'an.