Volume One: The Caged Sparrow

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Volume One: The Caged Sparrow

Chapter One: Awakening of Insects

The second day of the second lunar month, the dragon raises its head.

At dusk, in a quiet corner of a small town called Mud Bottle Alley, a thin and lonely young boy was following tradition: in one hand he held a candle, in the other a peach branch, shining light on the beams, walls, and wooden bed, tapping here and there with the peach branch, trying to drive away snakes, scorpions, centipedes, and the like. He muttered an old saying passed down for generations in this town: On the second day of the second month, shine the beams with a candle, strike the walls with a peach branch, and all the snakes and insects in the world will have nowhere to hide.

The boy’s surname was Chen, given name Ping’an. His parents had died young. The town’s porcelain was renowned far and wide, and since the founding of the current dynasty, it had been responsible for “supervising the firing of sacrificial vessels for the imperial mausoleum by imperial decree.” Government officials were stationed here year-round to oversee the official kilns. With no one to rely on, the boy became a kiln worker at an early age, at first only able to do odd jobs and hard labor, following a bad-tempered, halfway master. After several years of hard work, he had just begun to grasp the basics of porcelain making, but fate is fickle—suddenly, the town lost its official kiln status, and dozens of dragon-shaped kilns around the town were all ordered by the authorities to shut down overnight.

Ethan Brooks put down the newly cut peach branch, blew out the candle, walked out of the house, and sat on the steps, looking up at the brilliant starry sky.

The boy still clearly remembered that old master who only acknowledged him as half a disciple. His surname was Yao. One morning in late autumn last year, he was found sitting on a small bamboo chair, facing the kiln, eyes closed.

But people as stubborn as Old Carter were, after all, rare.

The town’s craftsmen, who for generations had only known how to make porcelain, dared neither to overstep and produce tribute ware for the official kilns nor to secretly sell stored porcelain to the common folk. They had no choice but to seek other livelihoods. Fourteen-year-old Ethan Brooks was also kicked out, and after returning to Mud Bottle Alley, he continued to guard the already dilapidated old house. The place was almost bare, so even if Ethan Brooks wanted to squander the family fortune, there was nothing to squander.

After drifting for a while like a wandering ghost, the boy simply couldn’t find a way to make a living. Relying on his meager savings, he barely managed to fill his stomach. A few days ago, he heard that in Qilong Alley, a few streets away, an old blacksmith surnamed Ruan from out of town was looking to take on seven or eight apprentices. There was no pay, but meals were provided. Ethan Brooks hurried over to try his luck, but the old man just glanced at him sideways and turned him away. At the time, Ethan Brooks was puzzled—wasn’t blacksmithing about strength, not about looks?

You should know that although Ethan Brooks looked frail, he was actually quite strong. This was thanks to the years of working the kiln and throwing clay, which had built up his body. Besides that, Ethan Brooks had followed the old man surnamed Yao all over the mountains and rivers within a hundred miles of the town, tasting all kinds of soil in the area, always willing to do the dirtiest and hardest work without complaint. Unfortunately, Old Carter never liked Ethan Brooks, thinking the boy lacked talent and was as dense as a block of wood, far inferior to his senior apprentice Brian Clark. It was no wonder the old man was biased—after all, a master can only lead you to the door; cultivation is up to the individual. For example, when it came to the tedious work of throwing clay, Brian Clark’s skill after just half a year matched what Ethan Brooks had achieved in three years of hard work.

Even though he might never use this craft in his life, Ethan Brooks still, as always, closed his eyes and imagined a bluestone slab and a potter’s wheel in front of him, practicing throwing clay—practice makes perfect.

About every quarter of an hour, the boy would rest for a bit, shaking out his wrists, repeating this cycle over and over until he was completely exhausted. Only then would Ethan Brooks get up, stroll around the courtyard, and slowly stretch his muscles and bones. No one had ever taught Ethan Brooks these things; he had figured them out on his own.

The world was utterly silent, when Ethan Brooks heard a sharp, mocking laugh. He stopped, and sure enough, saw a boy his age squatting on the wall, grinning, his contempt plain to see.

This was Ethan Brooks’s old neighbor, rumored to be the illegitimate son of the former supervisor. That official, fearing criticism from upright officials and censors, eventually returned alone to the capital to report for duty, leaving the child in the care of his successor, who was a close friend. Now that the town had inexplicably lost its official kiln status, the supervisor in charge of overseeing the kilns for the court could barely protect himself, let alone look after a colleague’s illegitimate child. He left some silver and hurried off to the capital to pull strings.

The neighbor boy, now reduced to an abandoned pawn, still lived a carefree life, always accompanied by his personal maid, wandering in and out of the town, idle all year round, never worrying about money.

The earthen courtyard walls of Mud Bottle Alley were all low, so the neighbor boy didn’t even need to stand on tiptoe to see into this yard, but every time he spoke to Ethan Brooks, he insisted on squatting on the wall.

Compared to the plain and common name Ethan Brooks, the neighbor boy’s name was much more elegant: Jason Smith. Even his maid had a refined name: Evan.