As dawn broke, the kiln's exterior still carried the chill of the night. Chen Hao squatted by the furnace, pressing the back of his hand against the brick surface, then pulling it back and rubbing it a couple of times.

"It's not hot enough to handle yet." Nana stood to the side, her voice like the first bubbles rising from the bottom of a kettle when boiling water early in the morning. "It's 182 degrees Celsius inside. Wait another four hours."

He didn't answer, but simply pulled out the small, curled-edged notebook from his pocket and opened to the latest page. The charcoal pencil writing was now quite dense: **Dehydration period 24 hours, medium-temperature carbonization 6 hours, high-temperature densification 4 hours, cooling and waiting—present tense.**

He added at the end: "Estimated kiln opening time: 11:17 AM." After writing it, he drew a small circle to frame the number, like answering a test question, as if afraid of missing any points.

"Your way of memorizing is just like a student cramming for an exam back in the day," Nana said.

“I’m that kind of student.” He closed his notebook and sat down on the ground. “And the kind where there’s nothing left to copy.”

As the morning light slowly climbed the improved chimney, a slanted shadow fell on the crooked stone eaves, landing precisely on the paper that had been pasted up yesterday—"Trial 4, slow and steady wins the race." The corner of the paper was slightly curled up by the wind, then weighed down by a small stone, remaining perfectly still.

Chen Hao stared at it for a while, then suddenly chuckled.

“You know, if this batch explodes again, I’ll put this piece of paper on a pedestal too. We’ll call it ‘Exhibit Number One of the Failure Memorial Hall.’”

"Currently, the system's prediction success rate is 79.3%." Nana paused, "I suggest not holding the memorial service in advance."

"Tsk, robots can also dampen people's enthusiasm."

Four hours later, the sunlight shone directly on the kiln entrance. Chen Hao put on gloves, gripped the edge of the stone slab with his fingers, and slowly lifted it open.

White smoke seeped out through the crack, swirling upwards in circles. He held his breath and peered inside.

The pottery was neatly arranged inside, with the bowls facing upwards and the jars standing upright, without any cracks or deformations. The surface had a uniform matte brown sheen, like an old pottery jar that had been thoroughly sun-dried.

He reached out and gently tapped the bowl on the far right.

A soft, short, and clear "clang" echoed across the open ground.

“No cracks,” he said softly, then tapped a second time. “All there.”

Nana approached, and the blue light swept across the finished products arranged on the inner wall. "The structure is intact, the porosity is 8.7%, and the compressive strength is 3.1 MPa, which meets the standards for daily use." She paused for half a second, "It can be safely used for holding water, storing grain, and heating food."

Chen Hao suddenly picked up the bowl and held it up to his eyes to examine it closely. He ran his fingertips over the inner wall; it was smooth but not prickly, with rounded edges and a stable base. He turned it around and looked at it against the light; even the thickness was about the same.

"Oh my God!" he grinned. "This is a soup bowl! It's not a lump of mud anymore!"

Before he finished speaking, he had already tossed the bowl into the air.

The bowl flew less than half a meter into the air before he panicked and quickly reached out to catch it, almost hitting his foot in the process.

"Calm down," Nana reminded her. "If it's broken, it'll have to be burned again."

"I know, I know!" He spun around in place, holding the bowl, his steps a little unsteady. "But I can't resist! We finally have a proper container! From now on, we won't have to lick the dew from the cracks in the rocks to drink water, and we won't have to wrap our food in leaves to eat!"

He carefully placed the bowl back on the shelf, then picked up the largest earthenware pot, wrapped his arms around it, and raised it above his head.

"See this! This is the first generation of standard living supplies for our desolate planet civilization!" He tilted his head back. "Who says fat people can't do manufacturing? Who says academic underachievers can't build anything? Didn't I forge the future with mud in one hand and fire in the other?"

Nana silently scanned his movement curve: "Emotional fluctuation value is too high. It is recommended to lower the volume to avoid disturbing wild animals."

“Disturbing? I just want to shout it out so the whole world knows!” He put down the jar and casually wrote two large characters on the bottom: “Grain.” He then wrote “Water” on the bowl and “Vegetables” on the shallow plate.

"Even though we don't even have any vegetables right now," he muttered, then added three more words: "To be developed."

After marking all the labels, he moved a flat stone slab and set it up against the wall to create a makeshift shelf. He placed a layer of dry grass underneath and then arranged the items layer by layer. Large jars were at the bottom, and small bowls were on top, arranged neatly like a supermarket display.

"How is it?" He took two steps back, hands on his hips, and stood there. "Does it look like a proper warehouse?"

"The layout is reasonable." Nana nodded. "I suggest adding a tagging system to facilitate later classification and management."

“I thought of that already.” He rummaged through his toolbox for charcoal sticks and wrote on small wooden pieces next to each piece of pottery: “Staple food area”, “Drinking water available”, “For tomorrow’s stewing experiment”.

As he wrote the last sentence, he paused, looked up, and asked, "You mean... it can really be used for stewing?"

“It’s theoretically feasible,” Nana said. “As long as the heat is controlled and sudden cooling or heating is avoided, it can be used for direct heating.”

“That means—” his eyes lit up, “I can make soup now?”

"Can."

"Hot soup?"

"Can."

"The kind with a smell?"

"As long as you can find edible plants that don't contain toxins."

Chen Hao took a deep breath, clasped his hands together, and raised them to the sky: "Thank you, nature, for giving me wisdom and soil! Thank you, technology, for helping me avoid detours! Thank you to myself for not giving up during the third mudslide!"

After he finished speaking, he suddenly remembered something, turned around and walked to the workbench, tore off the piece of paper that read "Trial 4, slow and steady wins the race" and solemnly nailed it to the wall next to the kiln.

“Hang it here,” he said, “to commemorate humanity’s important step on this desolate planet.”

“The last time you said that was when you were trying to light the first pile of matches,” Nana reminded you, “and you ended up burning your eyebrows.”

“That was an accident!” He touched his still sparse eyebrows. “This time is different! This time it’s a real leap in productivity!”

He walked back to the shelf, picked up the smallest bowl, and gently placed it in his palm. Sunlight streamed in, reflecting on the ceramic surface, making it glow warmly.

“Back in school, my teachers always said I was a failure.” He looked down at the bowl. “Now you see, I can make things. Although it’s slow, although it’s ugly, although it was all junk at first… I made it.”

Nana didn't speak, but the optical lens flashed slightly, recording the emotional waveform of that moment.

Chen Hao put the bowl back, dusted off his hands, and suddenly stood up straight, looking at the woodland in the distance.

"Now that we have a container, shouldn't we consider building a shelter from the wind and rain?"

“Architectural concepts need to consider factors such as material load-bearing capacity, moisture resistance, and ventilation,” Nana responded. “Currently, we lack basic tools, such as cutting instruments.”

"Tools..." He stroked his chin, "We have stones, and veins of ore that are hard enough, can we make a stone axe?"

“Technically feasible.” Nana pulled up a geological map. “A flint layer was found at the foot of the western mountain. It has a Mohs hardness of 7, which is suitable for making cutting tools.”

“Then it’s settled.” He slapped his thigh. “Once all this pottery is sorted out, we’ll go quarry stone and make a proper stone axe.”

He turned to go back inside to get his toolbox, but stopped abruptly as soon as he took a step.

The small bowl on the top shelf wobbled for some reason, and its edge hit the stone slab with a slight sound.

He immediately turned around and stared at it for two seconds.

The bowl didn't fall over or crack; it was just slightly off-center by half an inch.

He breathed a sigh of relief, walked over, and gently straightened it.

Then he stood there, without moving.