Chapter 3: The Old Man's Three Slaps

Chen Yan stared intensely at the reconstructed bowl in front of him, his knuckles white from gripping too hard, looking like dead branches twisted together. The old man’s casual remark—"Your hands are the problem"—still felt like a rusted steel needle driven deep into his eardrum, buzzing in time with his heartbeat, making his temples throb.

The crowd hadn't dispersed yet. The morning light pierced through the smoggy streets, stretching the shadows of the onlookers into long, distorted shapes. Their gazes were searing, filled with the excitement of a spectacle and a chilling scrutiny, like a thousand hidden eyes spying on him.

The air smelled of dry, trampled dust mixed with the steam of soy milk wafting from a nearby breakfast stall, but it couldn't break the tension hanging in the air. Chen Yan instinctively wanted to pull his hand back, to explain that he’d only used ordinary glue and wasn't practicing some dark art—he even wanted to argue that this was the cheapest quick-dry glue on the market.

But as he opened his mouth, it felt as if a wad of soaked cotton had been stuffed down his throat. Dry, swollen, and utterly voiceless.

Zhou Dehai stepped out of the shadows. He was still crouching in the same spot, his faded cloth shoes splattered with mud. He tapped his tobacco pipe against the ground in a rhythmic motion to knock off the ash, sparks snapping against the bluestone before quickly dying out.

Those cloudy eyes stared at Chen Yan through a haze of white smoke, a faint, cold sneer curling his lip, as if he were looking at an ignorant ant that had wandered into forbidden territory. He didn't speak; he simply stood up slowly. His hunched back cast a long shadow in the morning light, falling directly over the broken bowl like an invisible net trapping Chen Yan.

*Snap!*

A sharp crack, so crisp it made one's teeth ache. Zhou Dehai reached out a withered hand and slammed it down on the rim of the bowl. The newly assembled porcelain shattered instantly, shards flying everywhere. A piece sliced into the skin of Chen Yan's forehead, and beads of blood seeped out, sliding down his cheek and vanishing into the dust.

The crowd gasped. Some stepped back, the sound of soles scraping the ground clearly audible; others raised their phones, the red recording dots blinking like prying eyes.

Zhou Dehai leaned down, picked up a fragment, and twirled it between his fingers. His rough thumb rubbed against the sharp edge, and he spat in disgust.

"This is what you call a restoration?" Zhou Dehai’s voice wasn't loud, but every word hit like a hammer, making the heart flutter. "You trying to fool a ghost? This trade has rules. What you did is the murder of an object."

Chen Yan clutched his forehead, the sharp pain making his vision go dark, grey-green ripples pulsing at the edges of his sight. But more than the pain was the humiliation of being shamed in public—a feeling like a bucket of ice water poured from head to toe, triggering goosebumps across his entire body. He gritted his teeth, his voice trembling, but he forced his back straight, refusing to collapse.

Zhou Dehai raised his hand and delivered a second blow, slapping the back of Chen Yan's hand hard.

"Ugh!" Chen Yan groaned. His hand swelled, a searing pain shooting up his nerves to the crown of his head, leaving half his body numb for a second. He glared at Zhou Dehai, a fire of defiance igniting in his eyes—a flame that flickered in the pain but refused to go out.

"Does hitting me help?" Chen Yan rasped, spittle flying. "I just wanted to sell it fast to pay off my family's debts! What do I know about your rules? Being able to put it back together is a skill in itself!"

Zhou Dehai sneered, poking Chen Yan in the chest with a force that felt like it would pierce his ribs and hit his heart.

"For the sake of money, you dare pour superglue into ancient porcelain? You're destroying its roots!" Zhou Dehai's eyes were ice-cold as he looked through the smoke. "You only see the money, not the object. You'll crash and burn sooner or later."

The crowd began to whisper, a humming tide of voices. Some shook their heads in pity; others exchanged smug glances. Chen Yan felt utterly isolated. A wind blew through the alley, swirling scraps of paper against his thin clothes. But he didn't retreat. He grabbed Zhou Dehai's wrist with a grip so strong it stunned the old man, his muscles taut and veins bulging.

"Then teach me!" Chen Yan roared, his voice hoarse as if sanded down. "Since you say I'm wrong, then tell me—how is it done right? I'm stubborn; you can't beat the spirit out of me!"

Zhou Dehai stared at him, his gaze lingering on those calloused hands. Though they were rough, with indelible ink and glue stains embedded in the nail beds, they were unnervingly steady. Not a single tremor. For a moment, the surrounding noise faded away, leaving only two men and a shattered bowl.

The old man suddenly let go. He turned, pulled a dark, sticky mass from a cloth bag at his feet, and tossed it at Chen Yan's feet with a dull thud.

"Fish Bladder Glue. Old recipe. Your father had some left over from back in the day." Zhou Dehai's voice returned to a calm, unquestionable authority. "Scrape off all that trash glue and start the process over. Don't let your hand shake. If you shake, it's ruined."

Chen Yan knelt and picked up the glue. As his fingertips touched the cool mass, a strange fragrance hit his nostrils—a mix of old wood and animal fat that inexplicably reminded him of the smell of his father's study. With trembling hands, he began to scrape the old glue from the bowl bit by bit. As he reached the second layer, his fingers suddenly froze.

Beneath the glue, a gossamer-thin Golden Thread faintly emerged. The line wound and curved like some secret vein, flashing through his mind and outlining the Complete Form, as if the shards had originally grown there.

Zhou Dehai watched from the side, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. A flicker of appreciation crossed his eyes, but it vanished instantly, replaced by his usual indifference.

"Don't rush the heat. Mix the glue three-to-one," the old man said flatly, smoke swirling around him. "Think of the soul of the object, not the money."

Chen Yan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The complete image of the bowl surfaced in his mind; every gap was highlighted, every missing piece clearly defined, like a puzzle lighting up in the dark. He opened his eyes, his movements becoming steady and precise. When the final shard clicked into place, it was a perfect fit, seamless and natural, as if it had never been broken.

The bowl regained its warm luster, glowing softly in the morning light. Zhou Dehai reached out and felt the wall of the bowl, his fingertip sliding over the seam without feeling a single bump.

"The feel is acceptable, but your vision is shallow." The old man withdrew his hand, his tone still caustic. "You're only fit for a street stall. You're still eight hundred miles away from being a master."

Zhou Dehai stood up, brushed the dust off his hands, and turned to leave. Chen Yan hurried forward, but the old man had already walked away, his gait hobbling yet firm. Only one sentence lingered in the wind.

"Come find me at the Junk Station tomorrow. Bring a brush, and clean yourself up before you show up." Zhou Dehai's voice drifted back from the alley, tinged with a hint of mockery. "If you're late, don't bother coming."

Chen Yan stood there, looking at the mess on the ground, but a fire was burning in his heart. He knew he had gambled correctly. Though the method was suffocatingly brutal, that fire was enough to light the road ahead.

The next day, with two massive dark circles under his eyes, Chen Yan appeared at the back door of the Junk Station right on time. The sun was blinding, and the air was thick with the scent of decay—a damp, moldy smell mixed with rotting produce that hit him right in the face.

Zhou Dehai was leaning against a rust-covered tricycle, smoking his pipe. Seeing him arrive, the old man didn't bother with a greeting; he simply yanked a grimy cloth bag from his side and threw it on the ground.

The bag split open, spilling a chaotic heap of porcelain shards. Some had glaze, some were raw clay; they varied in size and shape. Zhou Dehai pointed at the pile, his gaze as sharp as a knife, cutting right through Chen Yan's facade.

"Put them together. If you can't, get lost." Zhou Dehai exhaled a cloud of smoke, his voice raspy and cold. "Remember, this isn't a game. This is cultivation."

Chen Yan looked at the shards, the light in his eyes gradually focusing. He reached out, his fingertips touching a cold porcelain edge, and those shimmering Golden Threads surfaced in his mind again, connecting every lonely fragment and pointing toward an unknown wholeness.

The shards were cold, and the rough edges stung his fingertips. Chen Yan didn't rush. Instead, he knelt and pulled a soft-bristled brush—polished bright from the previous night's work—from his tunic. He took a deep breath, forcing down the restless agitation churning in his chest. Following the method Zhou Dehai had taught him, he stopped staring at the shards themselves and started "listening" to them.

Zhou Dehai stood on the tricycle, squinting and blowing smoke rings like a stern examiner. Chen Yan held his breath, his fingers dancing between the fragments. At first, his movements were clumsy; several times he tried to force a fit, only to be interrupted by Zhou Dehai's sharp bark: "Look at the body beneath the glaze, not just the surface!"

Chen Yan gritted his teeth and swallowed the humiliation, observing again. This batch of shards came from different kilns; some glazes were as smooth as jade, others as coarse as stone, and the fracture patterns were complex, like frozen cracks in time.

He stopped chasing speed and began searching for those hidden points of convergence. The lip of a celadon piece had a microscopic chip that perfectly matched a protrusion on a raw clay piece; the pattern on a cracked bowl bottom aligned seamlessly with a broken handle.

Chen Yan's fingers grew supple. He carefully applied the Fish Bladder Glue to the seams—not too much, not too little, thin as a cicada's wing.

As the pieces fell into place, the chaotic heap slowly revealed a silhouette. It wasn't a simple bowl or plate, but a strange polyhedron, its joints emitting a faint, ghostly blue glow. Zhou Dehai remained silent, his eyes shifting from indifference to depth, carrying a trace of barely perceptible approval.

The final piece dropped with a crisp *click*, fitting perfectly without a single gap. The entire object shimmered with an eerie light in the morning sun, as if it had come to life. Fine beads of sweat broke out on Chen Yan's forehead, but his face held an unprecedented calm. He looked up at Zhou Dehai, waiting for the verdict.

Zhou Dehai slowly lowered his pipe and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. It was a yellowed ancient map depicting the same object, but beside it was a line of small, scribbled text, like a deathbed whisper: *This vessel is not for restoration, but for sealing a soul. The missing corner is here.*

Chen Yan's pupils contracted. He looked back at the finished piece and suddenly realized that no matter how he checked, the object was still missing one critical fragment from the bottom right. And that missing spot pointed exactly toward the deep Sewer outside the Junk Station, leading down to the underground conduits.

Zhou Dehai sneered and slapped the map against Chen Yan's chest. "Well put together.

Now, go find the last piece of the 'soul.' And remember—don't let it touch the water."

Clutching the unfinished object, Chen Yan turned toward the Sewer, his shadow stretching long behind him like a clawing black beast.