Chapter 1: The Furnace Spirit Speaks
“Lu Fan, I’m taking this basket.”
A cloud-patterned boot stepped onto the rim of the bamboo basket. The basket tilted, and broken swords, shattered tiles, and chipped pill dregs spilled across the ground in a clatter, kicking up a layer of dust.
Lu Fan remained squatting on the ground, motionless, still clutching a fragment of a grey-green tile. He looked up, following the line of the boot up to a clean, pale face—a True Disciple. A sect token hung from his waist, cloud patterns were embroidered on his sleeves, and he held a folding fan, waving it with a slow, leisurely air.
“Senior Brother, I spent a month sorting this basket,” Lu Fan said softly, placing the tile fragment back inside.
“I know you spent a month on it.” The True Disciple crouched down, snapped his fan shut, and tapped the rim of the basket twice. “You sorted it well. It saves me the trouble.”
“The alchemy hall has rules. Materials sorted by a handyman belong to the handyman to trade for pills.”
“Rules?” The True Disciple laughed, glancing back at the two lackeys behind him. “He’s lecturing me on the rules.”
The lackeys burst out laughing.
Lu Fan fell silent. He had worked in the alchemy hall for three years; he knew when to shut up. He began picking up the scattered tiles one by one, slowly, his fingernails caked in black grime.
The True Disciple picked out three intact fragments of a pill furnace from the basket and weighed them in his hand. “These three are decent quality. I’ll take them. You can keep the rest as a reward.”
“Senior Brother, I was saving those three to trade for Fasting Pills.”
“Fasting Pills?” The True Disciple looked him up and down. “You’re a mere mortal. What do you need Fasting Pills for? Chew on tree bark when you're hungry.”
Lu Fan’s hand froze in mid-air, his nails digging into his palms. He said nothing.
The back door of the alchemy hall creaked open. An Elder walked out with his hands behind his back, the hem of his green robe sweeping the steps. His eyebrows were half-white and his eyelids drooped, looking as if he hadn't woken up yet.
“What is all this noise?”
The True Disciple’s expression shifted instantly. He bowed deeply. “Master, I was just picking a few materials to try my hand at the furnace.”
The Elder glanced at the basket on the ground, then at Lu Fan, without even lifting his eyelids. “Scraps from the waste pile belong to whoever is fast enough to grab them. Lu Fan, you are a handyman. Why are you arguing with a True Disciple?”
“Elder, this basket was—”
“I said, it belongs to whoever is fast enough,” the Elder interrupted. “You were slow. Who are you blaming?”
Lu Fan gripped the tile fragment in his hand until his knuckles turned white.
“Aren't you going to chop wood?” the Elder asked. “Three hundred pounds of pine in the back mountain. If it isn't finished today, don't bother with dinner.”
The True Disciple left with the three fragments, giving a smug tilt of his chin as he reached the door.
Lu Fan crouched back down and picked the remaining shards back into the basket. The sky was overcast, and the alchemy hall's chimney belched grey-white smoke that drifted onto his shoulder in the wind. Once finished, he hoisted the basket onto his back, the rope digging into his shoulder and leaving a red welt.
The woodshed in the back mountain sat halfway up the slope—a single room with three walls, the fourth blocked by pine branches. He dumped the basket onto a straw mat and began sorting.
Half a broken sword, the blade notched in three places; seven shards of tile, fire-resistant pieces from the inner wall of a furnace; a handful of pill dregs, all chipped and broken Fasting Pills swept up from the floor and destined for the gutter; some rusted iron, decayed copper, and a chipped porcelain bottle.
At the very bottom lay something black.
Lu Fan dug it out. It was a furnace. One of its three legs was missing, and a crack ran from the rim all the way to the bottom, as if it had been struck by a blade. The body was a polished, glossy black—not the red of rust, but a black like ink. He weighed it; it was heavier than it looked.
“This thing could probably be traded for half a pound of iron if I smash it.”
He stuffed it into the hearth, intending to heat it up and flatten it. He kept the fire going for half an hour, the flames leaping to the mouth of the stove, but the furnace remained cold to the touch.
Lu Fan pulled the furnace out and examined it from every angle.
“Strange.”
His stomach growled. He fished out those three pieces of pill dregs from his tunic—each the size of a fingernail and chipped. He had planned to warm them up and swallow them. He tossed the dregs into the furnace, hoping to use the residual heat from the hearth to toast them.
The furnace made a *click* sound.
A faint, bluish-white light leaked from the crack. There was movement inside, as if someone were rummaging through things. After a moment, the furnace spat out two items that landed on the straw mat and rolled a few times.
Lu Fan looked down.
Two Fasting Pills. Perfectly round, bluish-white, with concentric pill-veins swirling around them, as pristine as if they had just been crafted.
He picked one up and held it against the light filtering through the window. The pill-veins were alive, rotating slightly.
“I threw in three broken ones...” He picked up the other pill. “And two whole ones came out?”
“Broken,” a voice emerged from the furnace, ancient and raspy, like sandpaper on iron. “Three broken pieces combined into two whole ones. You should be offering incense in gratitude.”
Lu Fan flinched, nearly dropping the pill. He stepped back half a pace and grabbed a piece of firewood from the ground.
A wisp of blue smoke drifted from the furnace mouth, swirling in the air before condensing into a tiny old man the size of a palm, sitting cross-legged on the rim. He was dressed in black, with a beard that reached his feet and eyes that were mere slits.
“Don't point that thing at me,” the little old man said. “A stick of firewood can't hurt me.”
“What are you?”
“From the furnace.”
“What furnace?”
“The Heaven-Mending Furnace.” The little old man patted the rim beneath him. “I can mend the heavens themselves, let alone your little pile of junk.”
Lu Fan stared at him for a long time before putting the wood down and squatting back by the mat. “Those two pills just now—you did that?”
“You throw in the materials, I do the work.” The little old man held up a finger. “Let's get the rules straight: mending requires materials. The more that's missing, the more you add. To mend a pill, add pill dregs; to mend iron, add iron scraps. If you come empty-handed, I won't conjure anything for you.”
“How much do I add?”
“Depends on what's missing.” The little old man pointed to the two pills in his hand. “Those three broken pieces were originally from one single pill that shattered into three. I pulled them back together, and since there were leftover materials, an extra pill was produced. That is called mending.”
Lu Fan looked at the pills, then back at the creature. “You mean, if I throw junk in here, I get good stuff out?”
“Junk in, treasure out,” the little old man said. “But it has to be the *right* kind of junk. Throw in a rock, and I'll spit out a rock.”
Lu Fan fell silent. He picked up the broken sword from the mat—three notches in the blade and the tip gone. After a moment of hesitation, he stuffed the broken sword into the furnace, then picked two shards of tile from the pile and shoved them in as well.
“Add materials,” the little old man prompted.
“I did.”
The furnace *clicked*, and the bluish-white light flared again. This time it lasted longer, and the body of the furnace grew slightly warm. After about a hundred breaths, the furnace spat something out with a *puff*, and it bounced once on the straw mat.
Lu Fan picked it up.
The broken sword was whole. The tip had grown back, the three notches were smoothed over, and the blade was coated in a thin layer of grey-green, looking as if it had just come out of a mold. He ran his finger along the edge, leaving a white mark, but it didn't break the skin.
“This...” He turned it over and over. “This is better than the original.”
“The original was common iron. I mixed in some furnace tile to make it three times harder,” the little old man said, stroking his beard. “If you had some high-grade iron, I could mend it even better.”
Lu Fan stood up, walked to the door, and sliced the sword through a pine branch.
The branch, thick as a wrist, snapped. The cut was as smooth as if it had been sliced by a professional knife.
He stood there, gripping the sword, motionless for a long time. The mountain wind whipped through the pine needles, pressing his clothes against his back. For three years, he had chopped wood, carried water, swept the alchemy hall, and taken abuse. The sharpest thing he had owned was a wood-chopping cleaver that needed constant sharpening.
He wrapped the sword in a rag and tucked it under the straw mat.
“What is your name?” he asked, looking back.
“The Furnace Spirit.” The little old man yawned. “You can call me Old Furnace, or Furnace Grandpa, if you like.”
“Furnace Grandpa.” Lu Fan found the name easy to say. “How long have you been in this furnace?”
“Three hundred years.” The little old man stretched. “Waiting for someone.”
“Waiting for who?”
“Someone with materials in their hand.” The little old man glanced at him. “The scrap you have is... passable.”
Just as Lu Fan was about to speak, he noticed the furnace body—the crack had grown by half an inch, stretching from the rim down to the waist of the furnace.
“Why did the crack get bigger?”
The little old man stopped talking, his beard drooping to cover half his face.
“I asked you a question.”
“Mending things consumes the furnace's own foundation,” the little old man's voice dropped. “A thick foundation can mend a lot. A thin foundation mends one item and cracks one分.”
Lu Fan picked up the furnace, the crack feeling rough beneath his fingers.
“What happens when it cracks all the way?”
“It shatters,” the little old man said. “When the furnace shatters, this wisp of smoke that is 'me' vanishes.”
“And what about me?”
The little old man lifted his eyelids, a glint of light appearing in those slits. “You? You signed the contract. When the furnace goes, the owner goes.”
Lu Fan’s hand stiffened.
“However—” the little old man said slowly, “if you can mend this crack, it will be different.”
“How do I mend it?”
“Feed it good things. High-grade iron, high-grade pills, high-grade materials. Feed it those, and the crack will close.” The little old man held up a finger. “Within three firings, you must give it its first taste of something quality. If you can't, this crack will reach the bottom, and we'll both be finished.”
“How long is three firings?”
“Three days.”
Lu Fan opened his mouth to speak.
“Oh, by the way,” the little old man suddenly remembered, shifting on the rim. “There's something you should know. This furnace has had eight masters before you.”
“Eight?”
“Seven died.” The little old man counted on his fingers. “One... didn't die, but he's in a state worse than death.”
Lu Fan tightened his grip on the furnace. Outside, the sky had turned pitch black. A sliver of moonlight filtered through the pine branches and fell upon the furnace, making the crack look like a scar.
“How did they die?”
Just as the little old man was about to answer, he suddenly pricked up his ears and shrank back into the furnace, leaving only a wisp of smoke.
Outside the woodshed, a dry branch snapped.
“Lu Fan, open the door.” It was the True Disciple’s voice, right outside. “I think I missed a few pieces from that basket of yours.”
Lu Fan looked down at the furnace in his hands. Under the moonlight, the crack grew another fraction.
The little old man’s voice drifted from inside, very faint: “The eighth one was beaten to death. The ninth one—”
*Bang!* The door shuddered under a heavy blow.