Chen Hao stared at the clump of mud that had collapsed into a small mound, neither moving nor speaking. After five seconds, he reached out and pushed the defective product marked "Trial 2" half an inch to the left, then placed the latest failed work in the middle, as if arranging them in order of precedence.
“The first one looks crooked, like it’s been run over by a car,” he said, pointing to the three lumps of mud. “The second one is a little better; at least it has the shape of a bowl bottom. This one… well, it’s a tribute to abstract art.”
Nana stood by the furnace, her optical lens scanning the tabletop: "The current success rate is still lower than the estimate from the basic process model."
“I know I’m terrible.” He rubbed the dry, cracked clay on his palms. “But you can’t expect someone who usually has to stir their instant noodles twice before eating them to suddenly become a pottery master, can you?”
He took a new lump of clay from his backpack. This time, instead of immediately handling it, he first pressed around the edge with his fingertip to test its softness. Yesterday, he found this stuff difficult to work with, but today it didn't feel so unfamiliar. Moisture control, kneading time, palm temperature—these terms swirled in his mind, not like knowledge, but more like last-minute rubbings.
“I’ll try a different position,” he said, pulling the stool forward a little, bending down close to the workbench, supporting the bottom of the clay with his left hand, and slowly pushing it upwards with his right thumb against the side. The movement was slow, pausing after every half-turn to check if the clay had cracked.
The first two times, he always tried to finish the shape quickly, but the more he rushed, the more it collapsed. Now he's learned his lesson and doesn't care about perfect shape; he only focuses on one thing: no seams.
“This feeling… is a bit like popping a pimple,” he suddenly said. “If you use too much force, it will burst; if you use too little, it won’t move. You have to find that just right amount of pressure to push it up.”
Nana did not respond, but simply updated the monitoring data: the stress distribution during the shaping stage tended to be uniform, and the local tension peak decreased by 37%.
The second clay piece took twelve minutes to work on, and it was still crooked when finishing the last part, but it managed to stand up. It didn't look like a bowl, but more like a paper cup that had been flattened by sitting on it. Chen Hao didn't throw it away, but placed it next to "Trial 3" and labeled it "The Survivor".
“It’s improved,” he said. “At least now it dares to call itself a container.”
The third time, he changed his method. Remembering the simple figure in the projection diagram rotating the mud counter-clockwise, he tried it too. Unexpectedly, his left hand was more comfortable, and it was much more stable to push. He then found two pieces of iron and wedged them on both sides of the stone mat to hold the mud in place and prevent it from slipping. Although it couldn't really rotate, at least it wouldn't veer off course with a push.
He stopped halfway through and lightly scratched a mark on the mud wall with his fingernail.
“Remember the starting point,” he explained, “otherwise, as you spin around, you won’t know which circle it will start to deform.”
This time it went more smoothly. The mud wall rose little by little, and although the thickness was still uneven, it didn't crack overall. When it was almost finished, he slowed down and used his right hand to gently press the edge with his fingertips, one circle after another.
After the final pull, he released his grip, leaned back, and let out a long breath.
"Oh my, it really does look like a bowl."
The thing was certainly not pretty—it was crooked, the rim was uneven, and the bottom was a bit upturned, but at least it was a closed groove that could hold water without letting any light out.
He picked it up and held it up to the light, nodding in satisfaction: "Although his looks aren't exactly appealing, he still has a certain charisma."
After scanning, Nana indicated: "The structural integrity meets the standard. After drying, it can retain its basic shape during the firing stage."
"So you're saying that as long as I don't do anything stupid, it can actually survive until it gets into the furnace?"
"The premise is that the subsequent procedures comply with safety regulations."
"Ha, here we go again." He gently placed the clay model back on the table and covered one corner with a cloth to keep it from getting cold. "I don't expect you to help much anymore, just don't suddenly set off the alarm when I light the fire."
He wiped his hands, then pulled out the sample clay he had saved earlier, ready to try again. This time, he tried adding some of the cooling water he had stored up the night before, making it a bit wetter than last time. During the kneading process, he discovered that while too dry clay was difficult to shape, too wet clay was also prone to collapsing; the key was to find a balance between the two.
"So there's a KPI for playing with mud," he muttered. "Moisture content, plasticity index, shear strength... If this were on my exam, I might even pass."
By the fourth attempt, he was able to summarize the patterns as he went. For example, applying force with the right hand tended to cause the right side to thin out, while the left hand was more coordinated; pushing counterclockwise was more stable than pushing clockwise; each push should not exceed five millimeters, otherwise the upper layer would not be able to support it.
The fifth time, he even tried to make a deep-mouthed jar. Although it eventually collapsed because the walls were too thin, the process was much smoother than before.
"No, no, don't try to do too much at once." He kneaded the clay into a lump. "Let's deal with the bowls first. Don't try to become the director of a Jingdezhen factory right away."
He looked back at the neatly arranged finished and defective pieces, and suddenly laughed: "If you guys really become the first batch of pottery, I'll have to hold a memorial service for you. I've even thought of a title—'The Clay Lumps That Sacrificed Themselves for Human Civilization'."
Nana recorded the latest batch of operation logs: a total of 8 shaping attempts, with an average time of 16.3 minutes per piece, and a success rate of maintaining the integrity of the structure of 45% of the pieces.
"I suggest pausing for 30 minutes to avoid hand muscle fatigue affecting accuracy," she said.
“You’re quite thoughtful.” He shook his aching wrist. “But I’m not addicted yet. I’ll take this opportunity to look at my spoils.”
He inspected them one by one, selecting three relatively neat ones, which he then laid out on a clean stone slab to dry. One of them had a slightly concave bottom, and while the mud was still wet, he discreetly carved a small human figure on the underside with his fingernail—a round head holding a stick, like some kind of primitive totem.
"Once we actually make usable bowls, I'll pass this mark down," he said. "It'll be the first 'brand logo' for our base."
"This logo has no practical functional value," Nana cautioned.
“You don’t understand, this is called cultural export.” He chuckled. “Even if no one watches, I have to pretend to be a craftsman with passion.”
After a short break, he resumed work. This time, his goal was to standardize the size and make a pair of bowls that were roughly the same, so that he could easily compare the firing results later.
He specifically measured the diameter of the previous successful push and drew a circle on the stone slab with a pencil as a reference. Although the tools were rudimentary, he became more and more skilled and could even intuitively judge where the material was thick or thin when pushing against the wall.
By the time the sixth clay piece was finished, the sun was already setting. The sunlight slanted in, casting long shadows on the row of clay artifacts.
He picked up the last piece and examined it. Although it was still not perfectly round, at least it wouldn't collapse at the slightest touch. He gently tapped the wall, producing a dull thud.
"It sounds pretty sturdy," he said. "I wonder if it will be able to hold its own for soup after it's cooked."
"The current ambient humidity is low, so we recommend moving to a shaded area to air dry," Nana advised. "Continuous exposure to airflow may cause surface cracking."
"Okay." He carefully moved the three unfinished blanks to the inside of the windowsill, half-covered them with an old canvas, leaving a gap for ventilation, "Let them stay quietly and don't let anyone disturb them."
He sat down in front of the kiln and began cleaning out the accumulated ash. The makeshift brick kiln hadn't been used properly yet, and it was filled with debris and dust. He took a rag and wiped it bit by bit, his movements as meticulous as if he were preparing his first ever all-you-can-eat barbecue.
"It'll be your turn tomorrow." He patted the furnace wall. "If it explodes, we'll just treat it as a firecracker celebration for the furnace opening ceremony."
Nana stood to the side, her optical lens continuously monitoring the condition of the billet: "The moisture content is steadily decreasing, and it is expected to reach the initial drying threshold by 6:00 AM tomorrow."
“Okay, then let’s set it for tomorrow morning.” He stood up, stretched, and cracked his neck. “Tonight I want to dream of bowls piled up all over the floor, as high as a mountain.”
He took one last look at the three clay figures lying quietly, then suddenly squatted down and reached out to touch the edge of one of them.
A cool, rough sensation came from my fingertips.
He grinned, about to speak—
Deep inside the furnace, a loose refractory brick suddenly slid down and landed on the bottom layer of ash, raising a small cloud of dust.
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