Chen Hao squatted in front of the workbench, his chisel stuck in a crack in the wood. He pried hard, sending wood shavings flying, which landed on his nose, but he didn't care. He blew on them, but they didn't come off, so he simply wiped them off with his hand, only to end up with a black stain of sweat and ash mixed together on his face.

The table legs were a bit crooked, but at least it stood up. He placed it on the ground, took two steps back to look at it, and then gently kicked it with his foot. It wobbled quite a bit, but he nodded: "As long as it holds up."

Nana stood a few steps away, her optical mirror flickering slightly, as if recording some data. "We recommend adding a counterweight simulation for the load-bearing test; the current structural offset angle has reached fourteen degrees."

“I know it’s crooked.” Chen Hao stood up and patted his pants. “But I sawed it myself, chiseled it myself, and pieced it together myself. You can’t make it completely stable unless I sleep on a stone.”

Nana didn't speak, but simply raised her hand and pointed in the air. The holographic projection lit up, and a long table appeared between the two of them. The table legs were long and slender, with spiral patterns, and the edges of the tabletop were carved with vine decorations. Even the chair backs curved into elegant arcs.

"This design is inspired by 21st-century European retro style," she said. "It has an 89% material utilization rate, high structural redundancy, and is suitable for long-term use."

Chen Hao stared at the table for three seconds, then grinned: "This thing? I knocked it over on the very first day I ate there. Look at those legs, they're as thin as bean sprouts. If I sat on them, I'd be doing the splits!"

“The robotic arm can perform precise processing to ensure strength,” she said calmly. “Moreover, this design has cultural continuity and can reflect the sense of ritual in rebuilding life.”

"A sense of ritual?" Chen Hao laughed. "My biggest ritual now is waking up in the morning without being hit by a collapsed roof. You say these fancy things are meaningful, but here they rattle in the wind, leak halfway when it rains, and if you build a carved table, it'll be a rat's nest before it even gets warm."

“It is precisely because we started from ruins that we need to preserve something worth keeping.” Nana swiped her finger lightly, and the projection rotated to show the details. “Every line can record time. For example, this main line represents the spring construction cycle; this loop symbolizes cycle and recovery.”

Chen Hao scratched his head and threw the chisel onto the table. "It sounds like a monument's commentary. I wanted to make a table for eating, not for an exhibition. We only have so much wood, and you expect me to carve a story? If one day I'm eating and the chair suddenly starts reciting poetry, I'll be scared out of my wits."

“Functionality and aesthetics are not contradictory.” Her voice remained the same, but her speech quickened slightly. “You can choose practicality, but you cannot deny the value of meaning.”

“I’m not denying it.” Chen Hao bent down to pick up another log and carried it to the workbench. “I’m saying it’s too early to talk about beauty. We still hang the toilet doors with ropes. Let’s solve the problem of ‘having’ first, and then think about ‘looking’.”

“If we only focus on ‘having’ each time, we’ll never achieve ‘good’.” Nana pulled up another set of drawings, this time for a complete furniture set, including a sideboard, shelves, and light fixtures, all in a unified style. “I can control waste and cut to the millimeter level. Resources won’t be wasted.”

“But time will be wasted.” Chen Hao picked up a pencil and drew lines on the wood. “How many hours will it take you to do these patterns? I could make three more practical tables. We have a lot of people to live on, so every minute we save is precious.”

“Life is not just about consuming time,” she said, “it also includes creating value.”

“Right now, I feel that being able to finish my meal peacefully is the greatest value.” He paused, the tip of his pen making a small black dot on the wood. “I understand all the meanings you’re talking about. But right now, standing here with a saw in my hand, covered in dust, I only have one thing on my mind—how to keep the next meal from getting cold too quickly. I can’t think about anything else.”

The air went still for a moment.

Nana turned off the projector, the halo disappeared, and only the cold white light of the overhead lamp remained in the room.

She looked at him; his face was reflected in her glasses. His sweaty bangs were plastered to his forehead, the collar of his shirt was frayed, and the pencil in his hand had been bitten with teeth marks.

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

“A simple design.” Chen Hao put down his pen and patted the wood. “Four straight legs, a flat tabletop, and reinforced seams with glue. No need for decoration or fancy designs, just sturdy and durable. I’ve already thought of a name—'Living Series'.”

“The naming logic is flawed.” She shook her head slightly. “Furniture doesn’t need self-deprecating labels.”

“It does need that,” Chen Hao laughed. “Because it was carved out of a pile of broken wood. I don’t expect it to be passed down through generations; I just hope it doesn’t fall apart while I’m eating noodles.”

Nana paused for a few seconds, then raised her hand again. A new projection appeared, no longer showing an intricately carved table, but a minimalist design: a square tabletop, sturdy legs, and all lines were right angles, without any curves.

“This is the basic model I generated based on your description,” she said. “It is highly stable, easy to assemble, and saves 23 percent of the materials.”

Chen Hao leaned closer to take a look and nodded: "That's more like it. Although he's a bit ugly, he looks like someone who can do the work."

“But it doesn’t have any commemorative value,” she added, “nor will it become a future archaeological specimen.”

“Who wants to be an archaeological specimen?” He waved his hand. “What I want are things that can be used now.”

“Then we can test it.” Nana withdrew her hand, and the projector went out. “You make your minimalist version, and I’ll make my retro version. We’ll do a comparative evaluation after we’re done.”

Chen Hao was taken aback: "Compare?"

“Yes,” she said. “Functional testing, durability testing, ease-of-use testing. The data speaks for itself.”

He stroked his chin and thought for a moment, then suddenly laughed: "Alright, I was afraid you'd only talk the talk. Come on, let's see if your fancy moves are more reliable, or if this rough guy can really take it."

“I will use a robotic arm to assist in the processing,” she reminded, “which will be more efficient.”

“Then go ahead and try.” Chen Hao grabbed the saw and stomped his foot on the ground. “I’m using my hands, so it’s a bit slower, but I’m gnawing off every piece of wood myself. If you really want to win, you’ll have to make your robotic arm sweat.”

“The robot doesn’t sweat,” she calmly replied, “but I will record the energy consumption and error rate throughout the entire process.”

"Remember it however you like." He had already started sawing, sawdust falling everywhere. "In the end, whoever makes a table that's still edible wins."

Nana turned and walked to the other side of the work area. Two metal arms slid out from the ceiling track, with milling cutters and measuring instruments clamped at their ends. She input the command, and the robotic arms slowly descended, aiming at a flat wooden board.

Chen Hao glanced back and muttered, "They're putting on a show like they're running a factory."

"Efficiency is paramount," she said. "You can also request assistance."

“No.” He continued sawing. “I want this table I made to know—its owner was an idiot, but not lazy.”

The sound of sawing wood rose, monotonous and continuous.

On the other side, the motor hummed as it started, and the milling cutter lightly touched the wood surface, beginning to carve the first line. Fine wood dust fell like snowflakes, shimmering under the light.

Chen Hao was piling up scraps, his movements slow but each cut precise. He would stop every now and then to measure with a tape measure and smooth out any burrs with sandpaper. Sweat dripped down his neck and into his collar, but he didn't bother to wipe it away.

Nana, on the other hand, seemed to be completing a precise task. The robotic arm moved with perfect precision, each arc flowing seamlessly into place. Amidst the interplay of light and shadow, the outline of a vine was beginning to take shape, the veins of its leaves clearly visible.

The two of them remained silent.

Only two sounds echoed alternately: the rough sound of a handsaw cutting through wood on one side, and the steady hum of machinery on the other.

The setting sun slanted in, passing through the high window and landing on the two unfinished table legs.

One side is rough with sharp edges; the other side is smooth with flowing curves.

Chen Hao stopped sawing, took a breath, and looked up at the workbench opposite him. Nana was adjusting the parameters, the robotic arm hovering in mid-air, waiting for the next instruction.

He grinned and said, "So, are you making a table, or are you planning to take it on a blind date?"

Nana looked up at him: "I don't understand this metaphor."

"It means—it's too particular." He shook his head. "It looks nice, but it's windy and sandy here. If we don't wipe it for three days, there'll be a layer of dust. Your patterns are full of dust; can't we clean them without picking them out with a needle?"

"Regular maintenance is all that's needed," she replied casually. "Important items deserve to be treated with care."

"I think being able to sit and eat is the greatest dedication." He bent down and continued working. "You take your time carving, I'm going to work on the third leg first."

He picked up the new wood and redraw the lines.

Nana did not respond, but simply tapped the mechanical arm again, the blade cutting into the wood and slowly advancing along the preset trajectory.

The sounds inside the room returned to their original rhythm.

The saw moves back and forth, and the motor runs at a low speed.

One prioritizes usability, while the other insists on beauty.

Neither side yielded.

No one stopped.

Chen Hao's hand brushed against the rough edge of the wood, leaving a faint red mark. He glanced at it, ignored it, and continued to press the saw down.

The blade went deeper, and the wood made a slight cracking sound.