Late the next morning, after doing his daily rounds, Chún trotted with anticipation into his workshop clearing and hopped into the drying pit, slowly looking around at the completed Essence-imbued ceramic on the shelves.
The songs of birds, the hum of insects, the chuckle of the creek and chatter of wildlife underscored the handcrafted forms of the pots, cups and bowls started two days ago. The more elaborate clay work he had made yesterday had dried overnight and the Mountain had already placed them into the kilns for firing.
He sucked in a breath of moist air, heavily scented with the smells of forest, water and rich soil, blinking in surprise. Some of the ceramic was white — or at least a very pale brown — looking more like it had been painted and glazed than the darker browns and earthy reds his earlier handmade attempts had produced.
"Mountain? Did you… make the pots look like this? It looks like Jina ware." Tentatively, he reached out and laid a hand on the nearest pot. It was definitely real, almost slick, and he could see the faint marks of his fingers in its shape.
The Jina Empire exported a small amount of very expensive tableware that was prized and affordable only by the wealthy in the Lotus Empire. It was renowned for its white, smooth and even texture, so much so that it had come to symbolise the other Empire, with most simply referring to that form of ceramic as "Jina." Most "Jina" pieces had designs painted and glazed into them — usually in blue or red.
He only knew that because the village mayor had once received a very small "Jina" teacup from another official in return for a favour and had ever since made a point of drinking from it during village meetings.
The village children — and their parents — had asked the storyteller, who was known to be the most widely travelled among them, what the odd translucent-looking cup was, and he had explained about the famous Jina that was made by a whole other Empire. That was the day Chún had learned that their village lay on the edges of the Lotus Empire — on the far side of it, from another Empire entirely.
His locus sent a negative feeling down the link.
"No. This seemed to happen naturally with the Essence-infused clay as the Fire Essence fired the clay into ceramic. The more even the distribution of Essence and the thinner the clay, the better the result. None of these is quite as good as Jina, but I expect some of the current firing will be — I was getting better at achieving a more coherent result as I went on. And your new clay has a much higher level of Essence."
Chún picked up the pot that seemed the closest to Jina. He could still see streaks of ochre, blue and brown swirled through it, but the resemblance and texture were remarkable. He had never touched the mayor's cup, of course, but he recalled the storyteller's explanation and this felt close to the description.
Looking closer at the surface of the pot, Chún could see finely etched patterns and designs of different colours that seemed to rest just under the almost glazed surface. He blinked — the patterns seemed strangely familiar.
"How did you paint—"
"Did not. Those happened naturally. The better balanced the Essence was, the more the Dao patterns formed."
"Oh… no wonder they look familiar… but they are rather… odd?"
His locus laughed down the link.
"If Dao patterns could be accurately represented in the material world, the Consumers would not be in the mess they are. At least this is three-dimensional — imagine trying to express this on a flat scroll or bamboo sticks?"
Chún looked up, considering how he might express what he saw in his Essence Sense on paper. "Ah… I see what you mean — and they are not moving either."
He looked back down at the pot in his hands and blinked. "Wait…"
In the moment his eyes had left the pot, when his gaze returned to it the patterns had shifted — subtly, but undeniably. He wondered if he would have noticed it had he not become so familiar with Essence patterns recently.
"Yes, the patterns are still active. Some pieces more so than others. The one you are holding is among the best from that set — but I learned a great deal from it. I am sure this new firing is going to be better."
The young teen sucked in a deep breath of forest air. "Still active, even after being turned into ceramic… does that mean?"
The Mountain gave the impression of a shrug.
"Offer your Essence to the pot. Ask it to remember being earth and water and air. Ask it to keep any plant within it alive."
He nodded and gently let Essence wrap around the pot, visualising growing Essence herbs and plants being carried alive and safe within it.
In his Essence Sense, a soft, almost musical tremor passed through the clay as Dao patterns unfurled from inside the ceramic and floated around it, drawing in Earth, Water and Air from the surroundings. The little pot glowed faintly, and then minuscule wisps of Essence Mist rose from its surface.
Chún whooped.
"It worked! Mountain, it worked! Did you see? It took almost a week… but we did it!"
His locus radiated quiet satisfaction.
"You can put plants in those without worrying about them dying now. You simply have to 'wake' the pots before you add soil and seed."
His friend paused.
"More importantly, you and I have just achieved something completely new which creates and supports life together. That is what True Cultivators do. We create more than we take."
Chún regarded the little pot. Without Essence Sense, it looked ordinary — a somewhat inferior version of Jina with odd patterns glazed onto it.
"Hm," he whispered, smiling. "That is… rather impressive."
"Very," agreed the Mountain.
---
Unfortunately, after Chún had removed the other pots from the shelves, his locus insisted on starting yet another batch of clay — "just in case" the current lot in the kilns proved insufficient. Chún suspected it was more that the Mountain was becoming obsessed with creating the perfect pot, but he decided it was not worth arguing. Besides, working the clay with Essence was much more enjoyable than shaping it by hand alone.
At his locus's request, he varied the amounts and types he manipulated the clay with very specific measurements dictated by the Mountain. Some clay balls received more Earth, others less Air, still others more Fire or Water. He even tried adding Metal to a few, which resulted in some very odd-looking gilded effects along their surfaces.
After the new clay was left in the drying pit to stiffen, Chún asked about lunch.
"I made a dozen balls this time, Mountain. That is four times the amount we first made — twice the amount in the kilns now. I know you can just make more kilns, but so much Essence manipulation truly taxes my limits."
"You are getting better at it though," came the smug rejoinder down the link. "Your control has improved and your touch is much more delicate. You are not just swamping the clay with Essence now — you are working with its patterns."
Chún rose and walked towards his fire pit, his feet landing on the bare soil of the narrow path worn smooth through the leaf litter by his repeated trips. The new pots, cups and bowls floated beside him, suspended in Essence.
"Yes, well… after that thing with the 'rock flower' yesterday, I realised that even if the clay wants to soak up Essence like nothing else I have worked with so far, it is still better to work with the patterns already in the clay."
He scratched his head sheepishly.
"I will learn to stop reverting to brute force as my first response eventually…"
"So you can be more effective with less wastage," pointed out his locus.
"I get to eat out of my bowls today," Chún said happily as he sat beside the fire pit, the floating pottery settling gently to the ground around him.
He spent the next half shí simply enjoying his lunch from a bowl — not a wok, or old pumpkin shell, or his hands — and chopsticks. The carp truly did add something unique to his diet, he thought; rich in Essence and succulent. Thankfully, the fish had remained fresh after being slow-cooked all night, wrapped in leaves and buried at the very edge of the fire pit.
Afterwards, Chún sat back, chewing a stem of grass to clean his teeth, enjoying the warmth of the Golden Crow and the sighing of the breeze through the trees. He needed to build a place to hold all his new pottery, he thought — at least until some of it was sold along with the plants. Some basic shelves and benches made from the extra-large dead wood he had been setting aside each time he gathered firewood would work.
"Do not forget to fill your new large water pot from the hot spring in the cave," reminded the Mountain as he finished his lunch. "I have prepared a very large, almost flat surface back at the workshop that has the same Dao patterns as your stew pot. It will boil away the water quickly and you should have some salt remaining. Probably other minerals too."
"Oh, yes!"
Picking up the several-catty-sized pot, he walked swiftly into the cave and filled it directly from the hottest point of the spring bubbling from the rock. The heat was annoying, but thanks to his cultivation it could do him no harm.
The spring bubbled sedately, so Chún realised he would need to wait a little while for the pot to fill. He sat down against a convenient bulge in the cave wall beside the hot spring and gazed up at the glittering and shifting light patterns cast by the Silver Sapling across the cave roof.
A sudden thought struck him.
"Mountain? Why do you say I am thirteen summers and not eleven?"
"I can read your bone age," replied his locus matter-of-factly. "Growing things is my nature — it comes naturally for me to tell how old things are. I know the exact age of everything that touches me — unless they are Immortals. That is why sects and clans use Assessment Stones to test the ages of applicants. Assessment Stones are small pieces taken from places like me."
Chún considered that as he watched the pot filling.
"Oh. Why did I look eleven then? That was how I guessed… I compared myself to the other village children of similar height."
A comforting feeling swept down the link with the Mountain's reply.
"You were malnourished. Not a problem now, of course. With all the improvements your body has gone through, you could pass for someone three or four years older — but you will not appear to age physically much more than that for a long time. If you reach World-level or Immortal levels of cultivation, age will simply be like clothes you change on and off."
Chún rubbed his nose in slight confusion.
"Oh, is Immortal another word for Cultivator, then?"
"It is another way to refer to Cultivators who have advanced beyond World-level. Not something you need to worry about for a long time — and not quite as relevant for True Cultivators either, because part of them have some aspects of World-level from birth."
Chún nodded.
"I remember Yijing saying World-level Consumers were at least sort of True Cultivators because they generated Essence — but that the vast majority of Consumers were below that level."
An affirmative feeling trickled down the link.
"Correct. Out of a billion people who attempt cultivation, there may be a million or so who succeed in becoming cultivators of different ranks. Out of those, perhaps one World-level Cultivator might advance. Sometimes it takes far more. That is only an average. You might not have anyone talented enough in three or four billion people — or you might get one or two in five hundred million."
The Mountain sighed through the link, and Chún fancied he felt a faint breeze brush his cheek.
"For every successful World-level Cultivator, there are at least a million people who succeeded in cultivating at lower ranks — consuming resources as fast as they can manage while trying to advance. Each rank requires more resources, rarer and older. So you see the problem."
The cave was silent for several moments as Chún tried — and failed — to imagine a million people.
The pot was finally full.
He lifted the vessel, heavy with several tens of catties of water, and carried it back to the workshop.
Just as his locus had said, there was now a large, slightly concave surface of the same black rock as the stew pot and drying pit a few paces away. As Chún poured the water across it, familiar Fire patterns shimmered into life, and after a moment the thin layer began to bubble.
"That should work," said the Mountain. "Give it half a shí. The clay should be stiff enough to shape now, by the way."
"I hope this is the last batch for a while," sighed Chún in resignation as he sat down at the work stone and began the now-familiar process.