Chapter Eleven: Grand Production

The meat sizzled over the fire, fat dripping down, as Sun Licheng grabbed a handful of salt crystals from leaves nearby and sprinkled them on top. Instantly, a rich aroma filled the air. Swallowing greedily, he turned the makeshift roasting fork fashioned from a tree branch, watching as the boar meat browned to a golden hue. He lifted it, biting off a piece from the top; his mouth was flooded with savory juices.

“Delicious... Salt truly makes all the difference!” Sun Licheng sighed in utter contentment.

Discovering salt had drastically improved Sun Licheng’s quality of life. In his previous existence, his cooking skills were quite impressive; whenever the mood struck him, he’d whip up new dishes to reward himself and his family, earning a reputation as a hands-on gourmet. Now, stranded in this strange world, Sun Licheng made eating well his primary goal for improving life. Though he’d found some seasonings before, the lack of salt left everything tasting oddly off. With salt at last, he felt life was no longer so bitter.

This was Sun Licheng’s first meal upon returning to his camp—charcoal-roasted wild boar.

“Give me back my body! I want meat! I want meat!” In his mind, the temporarily awakened deity watched Sun Licheng devour his feast, mouth watering, shouting furiously before sinking back into slumber.

After the meal, Sun Licheng chewed a leaf reminiscent of mint, lying comfortably on the ground, gazing at the sky where two moons—one white, one red—hung in silence. Beside him stood a rudimentary framework for a wooden hut.

The unpolluted sky was crystal clear, stars shimmering like jewels, the moons large and round, casting a breathtaking beauty over the night.

…

The night passed quietly. At dawn, Sun Licheng began preparations to fire pottery.

Making pottery had long been on his agenda, but the lack of salt—and the blandness of boiled meat—had delayed it until today. Searching along the riverbank, he found some clay. Although ideal pottery clay contains minerals like iron, is rich in color, and highly plastic, Sun Licheng figured any fine, impurity-free, somewhat sticky clay would suffice. The soil here seemed excellent.

He used stones to crush lumps in the clay, then washed it at the river with animal pelts to remove stones and impurities, finally forming clay blocks. Kneading them like modeling clay, he squeezed out air and evened out moisture. He rolled the clay into uniform strips, completing the first step.

Next came the pottery blank. He coiled the clay strips on the ground, pressed them flat, then pinched up the edges to form a plate shape. The plate blank only needed air-drying before firing.

Since it was his first attempt, Sun Licheng made three plates to practice. Once dry, he piled up a large heap of fuel beside the river, ready to fire.

He laid soft grass on the ground, placed the three plate blanks on top, built a framework of thick branches above, and densely covered it with firewood, enveloping the whole kiln.

Normally, pottery requires a proper kiln, but Sun Licheng didn’t know how to build one, so he opted for the simplest wood-firing method.

He fired the pottery for three days and nights, guarding the fire, constantly adding wood to keep the heat steady. When the embers finally died, he carefully moved aside the charred branches and found two and a half pottery plates resting quietly in a thick layer of white ash.

Why two and a half? Because one plate had broken into two halves. The other two were imperfect: one missing a corner, the other riddled with cracks. Pouring water in, the chipped plate was usable; the cracked one became a sieve.

This first firing brought success and failure, but Sun Licheng seemed to grasp the right method. He attributed the failures to two main reasons: insufficient temperature in open-air firing, causing cracks, and the branch framework not being sturdy enough, damaging the blanks.

He set about improving his process, with the key being to build a proper stove.

To fire pottery, he needed a Yukon-style stove with a large chamber. The Yukon stove’s design was simple: dig a pit and a flue, then build a chimney above. It maximizes heat output; the chimney can heat pots and pans for stewing food, protects the flame, and improves ventilation. This stove fully burns fuel, produces little ash, lasts a long time, and reduces cooking labor.

For pottery, Sun Licheng needed a shelf in the chamber to hold the blanks. After much thought, he decided to make a honeycomb-shaped clay fire tray—a simple clay disk pierced with regular holes for the flames to pass through. It had to be thick enough to support the pottery.

While the fire tray dried, Sun Licheng dug a large pit, lining its edge with river stones.

Once the tray was dry, he coated the stones with wet clay, set the tray above the fire pit, and built a thick clay chimney around it, about seventy or eighty centimeters tall, big enough for a sizable pottery blank.

Despite lacking proper tools, he worked quickly. The trial firing went well—the stove was ready for pottery.

Without a wheel, he still used the coiling method to make two bowls, two spoons, and a basin. To make the basin easier to lift from the stove, he fashioned two handles.

Lighting the stove, Sun Licheng sealed the chimney top to raise the temperature, constantly feeding in wood. After about half a day, he carefully removed the cover from the chimney, finding all the pottery glowing red-hot. After a bit longer, he stopped adding fuel and let the stove cool naturally.

This firing was a success; apart from one broken bowl, all pieces were usable—some even had irregular color patches on the basin, resembling glaze.

With a basin, Sun Licheng could finally boil water.

“How long has it been since I drank hot water?” Staring at the boiling water, Sun Licheng felt dazed.

The Yukon stove provided ample heat, and soon the water was bubbling. Sun Licheng, impatient, scooped a spoonful with his homemade spoon and gulped it down, only to spit it out, scalded. He learned his lesson, blowing on the spoon for ages before sipping. The warmth spread from mouth to stomach, sweat breaking out, leaving him thoroughly comfortable.

His happiness was short-lived, though; when he placed the scalding basin on the ground, it shattered. From then on, he made pottery with feet to prevent bursting. He also crushed broken pottery and mixed it into the clay, which prevented explosions and improved success rates.

Now equipped with pottery, salt, and a stove, Sun Licheng’s quality of life soared. Soups, boiled meat, and even stir-fried dishes appeared—he found a stone slab, added animal fat, and stir-fried with two sticks.

His main prey, large field rats, were fat and rich in lard. After boiling, a thick layer of fat formed on the basin. Unwilling to waste it, Sun Licheng pondered what to do.

After much thought, he decided to make soap. Rendered fat, once strained, becomes excellent soap material.

Salt, iron, and soap are essential tools for travelers between worlds. According to the novels Sun Licheng had read, at least eighty protagonists had made soap; he understood the basics of saponification. Though he thought he only knew the surface, for some reason, every detail of soap-making was etched in his memory.

“Perhaps this is a perk of crossing worlds?” Sun Licheng murmured to himself.

Among the many methods, those requiring industrial chemicals seemed unreliable, but he felt traditional soap recipes were worth a try.

To make soap, Sun Licheng fired a batch of pottery—pots, bowls, plates—and collected a mound of dry grass.

The wood ash from the Yukon stove was high quality; after discarding large charcoal pieces, he mixed the pure ash with water and set it aside.

The ash water needed filtering. Sun Licheng bundled dried grass and laid it over the pottery pot as a filter. This filter needed replacing each time, troublesome due to the lack of cloth, but it sufficed.

After a week and several filtrations, the ash water was clear. According to his memory, this was a mild alkaline solution, suitable for soap-making and tanning leather. Its low concentration meant it could only make bathing soap, not laundry soap.

With purified fat and filtered ash water, the next step was saponification.

Sun Licheng heated the fat over the fire, then added ash water, stirring thoroughly. After three hours, the mixture in the pot became a creamy solution, slightly thinner than jelly. He tested its consistency with a stick.

He poured the liquid into a wide-mouthed basin and set it aside to cool.

Two days later, the rustic soap began to solidify. He cut it into small blocks, laid them on a stone slab to cure. Four days later, his soap was complete.

He took the soap upstream of the waterfall, found a calm river bay, and bathed. Although the soap was unattractive and yellowish, it worked well, producing abundant bubbles, leaving his skin noticeably cleaner and smooth—almost like a shower gel.

After bathing, Sun Licheng looked somewhat better. As he mused, even a pig that hadn’t wallowed in mud wasn’t ugly.

Unbeknownst to him, with his soap, Sun Licheng had become the cleanest goblin in the world. Even so, he wondered if next time he should add plant essential oils, rumored to be good for the skin.

…

“Interesting. Truly interesting,” the deity in Sun Licheng’s mind remarked involuntarily.

The virtual space in Sun Licheng’s mind had transformed into a grand palace, where the deity sat comfortably on the throne, sipping fine wine, watching Sun Licheng’s every endeavor.

Ten thousand years of flight had rendered the deity’s life as dull as plain water. Now, trapped here, he had endless time. Watching Sun Licheng experiment with curious inventions became his new entertainment.

In the deity’s opinion, Sun Licheng’s use of earthly techniques to make soap thoroughly satisfied his curiosity.

Though ancient, even in this world, the deity lacked amusements. Watching Sun Licheng’s adventures was like watching a live stream, greatly enriching his spirit.

…

With soap made, Sun Licheng next set out to solve his clothing problem.

Although he lacked minerals like mirabilite, he had plenty of clean wood ash—one of the oldest chemical materials, naturally alkaline.

To process pelts, he first scraped off all fat, blood, and tendons. For efficiency, he made a bone knife specifically for scraping pelts, fashioned from a scapula and very handy.

After cleaning rabbit skins, he took the prepared ash water and applied it to both sides, then hung them in the shade to dry.

During drying, Sun Licheng dug a water pit by the river, connecting it to the main stream. Once the rabbit skins dried, he submerged them in the pit, weighting them with stones to keep them down.

After handling the rabbit skin, Sun Licheng dug a rectangular pit near his camp, filled the bottom with ash, placed selected pelts inside, covered them with more ash, and finally backfilled with earth. This method was said to tan pelts, though the process took two months.

Three days later, he retrieved the rabbit skin from the pit for hair removal. Spreading the skin, hair-side up, on a large stone, he plucked the fur, which came away easily thanks to the ash water. He then stretched the skin on a frame and scraped it again with the bone knife, removing residual fat and hair.

Sun Licheng took a small pottery pot, added collected animal brains and fat, and simmered them over the fire until they formed a thick, dark liquid.

He sprayed water on the rabbit skin to keep it moist, then applied the liquid to both sides.

After these steps, he placed the skin by the fire to dry. When fully dry, he washed off the residue, yielding a decent piece of leather.

Though not pretty and smelling strongly of smoke, it was wonderfully soft. Sun Licheng finally had material for underwear.

…

These days, Sun Licheng lived joyfully. As his pottery skills improved, he made many vessels and successfully produced tiles for his wooden cabin.

The cabin’s frame was built from thick logs. Lacking nails, Sun Licheng burned large holes in the beams, sharpened upright posts, and inserted them, securing joints with vines.

The walls were made by weaving thin branches into a skeleton, then plastering river mud to form thick earthen walls.

There were two kinds of roof tiles: semicircular ridge tiles and rectangular tiles for the roof. To fix the rectangles, he added a raised hook on one side to latch onto the rafters.

With the final tile set in place, the cabin’s main structure was complete.

Proudly surveying his work, Sun Licheng felt immense satisfaction. Though crude and primitive, the design came from twenty-first-century Earth, optimized with many small improvements. For example, he especially built a fireplace and heated bed in the cabin, solving lighting and heating, and the tall chimney in the wall allowed the fireplace to defy the cold wind.

Three days later, the world was shrouded in darkness, torrential rain and fierce winds drove temperatures down sharply.

Sun Licheng sat in his chair, holding a newly fired teacup, sipping tea brewed from unknown leaves, leisurely admiring the scenery outside, thoroughly content.

Much of a person’s confidence comes from familiar life and experience; the closer life is to one's own knowledge, the more confident one becomes.

He hadn’t understood this when he’d read it before, but now, here, he deeply agreed.

Sometimes he thought, “Perhaps all this is just an unconscious attempt to replicate my old life.”

Thrown into an alien world, Sun Licheng’s understanding of labor and reality enabled him to overcome adversity and survive. With no foundation, he started from scratch, never complained, worked steadily, and finally achieved a qualitative improvement in his life.

Neither Sun Licheng nor the deity watching his live stream realized that from this moment, Earth’s civilization and the magic of this world would truly collide, sparking boundless brilliance.