Chap 1

February 2nd, Dragon Raising Its Head.

As the sun set, in a quiet alley of a small town called Clay Basin, a thin, lonely boy followed his nightly routine. One hand held a candle, the other a peach branch, casting light around the room—on the walls, the wooden bed, every corner. With the branch, he tapped the surfaces, muttering an old saying passed down through generations in the town:

"On the second day of the second month, light up the house, strike the walls with peach wood; let snakes and vermin find no shelter in the mortal realm."

The boy's name was Chen Ping'an. Orphaned at a young age, he lived in a town famed for its porcelain. Since the founding of the current dynasty, this town had carried the responsibility of producing sacrificial offerings for imperial ceremonies, with court officials stationed here to oversee operations.

Without family or support, Chen Ping'an had become a kiln worker early on. Starting with menial tasks, he apprenticed under a temperamental master, enduring years of hardship. Just as he began grasping the basics of pottery, fate took a cruel turn. The imperial decree suddenly revoked the town's role as a porcelain supplier. Overnight, the dozens of dragon-shaped kilns surrounding the town were ordered to shut down, plunging the community into despair.

After setting down the peach branch and blowing out the candle, Chen Ping'an stepped outside. He sat on the stone steps, gazing up at a star-studded sky.

He vividly remembered his old master, surnamed Yao, who had reluctantly taken him as a half-apprentice. One chilly autumn morning last year, the old man was found sitting on a small bamboo stool, head tilted toward the kiln, his eyes forever closed.

In a town of craftsmen focused only on their trade, few cared for such a meticulous and quiet man.

Generations of artisans had made porcelain here. Bound by strict rules, they dared not exceed their commission of imperial tributes, nor sell any ware to commoners. When the imperial contract ended, many had no choice but to seek other livelihoods. At fourteen, Chen Ping'an was forced out of his home. Returning to his family's crumbling house in Clay Basin Alley, he found it little more than four bare walls. Even if he wanted to squander his meager savings, the place wasn't fit for living.

Wandering aimlessly like a ghost, he struggled to find work. Barely surviving on his dwindling funds, he recently heard that a blacksmith named Nguyen had arrived in the town's Long Street. The man was recruiting seven or eight apprentices, offering no wages but providing meals. Chen Ping'an rushed over, hopeful, but was turned away with a single glance. Frustrated, he wondered aloud: "Since when does smithing depend on appearance?"

Despite his frail build, Chen Ping'an was surprisingly strong—a result of years of labor and mountain treks with Master Yao. He had learned to identify the region's soil types and was willing to endure hardship. Yet Master Yao always dismissed him as untalented, calling him a dull block of wood compared to Liu Tianyang, his senior apprentice. While Liu mastered a basic bowl in six months, Chen Ping'an needed three years of relentless practice.

Though the trade seemed useless now, Chen Ping'an still closed his eyes at night, imagining himself at the wheel, shaping a bowl from clay. He practiced the motions over and over until exhaustion took over, pausing only to stretch his aching wrists.

One quiet evening, as he moved about the yard, he heard a sharp, mocking laugh. Startled, he looked up and saw a boy his age squatting on the wall.

It was Song Jixin, a former neighbor rumored to be the illegitimate son of a previous imperial overseer. When the official returned to the capital, leaving Song Jixin in another official's care, the boy had been left to fend for himself. Yet, despite his circumstances, Song Jixin lived carefree, always accompanied by his maidservant, Zhi Kui, as he roamed the town.

Song Jixin always chose to perch on the wall when speaking to Chen Ping'an, perhaps to assert a sense of superiority. Unlike Chen's rough demeanor, Song carried an air of refinement.

On this evening, Zhi Kui stood quietly by the wall, her timid almond-shaped eyes betraying her unease.

Suddenly, a voice rang out from the other side of the courtyard gate:

"Is your maid for sale?"

Both boys turned to see a young noble, dressed in fine clothes, standing outside with a faint smile. Beside him stood an imposing elderly man, his gentle expression masking sharp eyes as he assessed the two boys and the maidservant.

Song Jixin, momentarily stunned, recovered quickly and replied, "For sale? Of course!"

The noble smiled. "Name your price."

Song raised a finger and shook it, smirking. "Ten thousand taels of silver!"

Without batting an eye, the noble nodded. "Deal."

Song's expression faltered. Hastily, he added, "Actually, I meant ten thousand taels of gold!"

The noble chuckled, his lips curling into a sly grin. "Just joking."

Song's face darkened.