Blueprint for Immortality: a Crafting Xianxia

Booker had exactly one high school project worth of experience working with clay. He had made a mug. And he’d made it by rolling out long, thin coils of clay, then winding them into a spiral base and stacking them in rings along the outer edge, then using pinching and careful fingerwork to combine the coils into solid walls for the mug.

Booker rolled the clay between his hands, trying to make a steady, even cylinder. The base of his vessel was nothing but a spiral, long tubes of clay laid out end to end. Whenever he needed to join two coils, he’d scratch crosshatch marks into the clay with a knife, then use the added friction to smush the two coils into each other.

Once the base was laid out, he began to stack circles of clay atop it, forming walls.

The difficult part would be firing it in the oven, when any defects in the walls, any thin points formed by careless fingers, would split and fragment the entire jar. Considering the finished vessel had to reach the highest temperatures the oven could produce for the refinement process to work, glazing and firing would be the real trial.

He spent five hours there, slowly shaping and forming the clay. As he piled up coils of clay, he would smooth them together into the walls of the vessel, slowly making the pot taller and taller. It didn’t need to be big at all. Just enough for the refinement material, a little dirt, and coals from the oven.

Still, it took the better part of three hours to make the first jar.

By then, the oven had burned down its fuel supply to coals, leaving a hot bed of glowing orange ash that provided a steady heat.

Booker dropped back into the grass, letting the sweat trickle down his face as he watched a beetle crawl along the earth. Somehow, that one pot had felt more difficult than the delicate works of alchemy his master had him working on…

Thank the book. He thought. I can’t measure the ways it’s helped me…

Looking at the muddy jar in his hands, he grinned. But there’s something fun to doing this without the book’s help.

Before it could be fired, the pot needed to be glazed. This was close enough to alchemy that the book did contain recipes for it – alchemical glazes that could let the pottery dry quicker, become harder, or even take on strange colors.

But for me, all I need is for it to withstand the heat of the oven for as long as possible.

He rolled onto his feet, setting the jar aside. “Froggy, watch over that for me, will you? Snips, let’s take a walk.” The mantis buzzed down from a tree in an arc of pink wings, landing neatly on his shoulder.

Smiling, Booker washed the clay off his hands in a bucket of ice-cold well water, and set out for the medicine market.

— — —

Booker was careful as he approached the market. There was a danger here, even if it was only theoretical.

The Sect took very little notice of the petty alchemists who competed in the market, as their own alchemists stood at the head of the lot. Most of the alchemists from outside the Sect were experts from distant cities, or their pupils. The appearance of a strange masked man would certainly stir the gossip here, but it wasn’t that unusual – he could be an outlaw or an outcast from another city, trying to make a clean start. This was a common background among the petty alchemists.

But if I go too far, that math changes.

By comparison, a stranger with an alchemy technique better than the Sect’s was in for some real pain and trouble. At best, the Sect would assume they were something between a spy and an ambassador from another city – someone sent to keep an eye and an ear out for another power. This assumption would be best for Booker because it would offer him a degree of protection, a second thought before they took any action against him.

Worse, they could assume he was an exile from another Sect or cultivation power. Exile was an exceptionally rare punishment for cultivators – death was almost always preferred, because an exile would carry your secrets and methods to another city, while a dead man would be conveniently silent.

But for the Sect that caught an exile, fortunes would surely be dancing in their eyes. An exile was like a pinata full of powerful secrets.

Flex my alchemy too proudly, and they’ll start to believe I’m someone worth paying attention to. Then it’ll be a question of whether they think it’s worth the risk to have me interrogated…

Booker wanted to head that off. So he’d decided to make a habit of scouting the market for watchers before ‘officially’ arriving in his role as the mysterious masked physician.

If anything’s changed, if there are suddenly more guards about, I’ll know not to show up that day.

While covertly scanning the market, more to get himself used to the normal sights and rhythms than expecting to catch sight of anything unusual, Booker bought the ingredients for his alchemical pottery glaze: Ground feldspar crystals, which had become a honey-brown dust. Ashes from burnt flesh, which he purchased by the scoopful from an old woman with shaking hands, choosing goat from the selection of goat, chicken, and pig ashes. And milk-soft lead, a special magical substance that dripped like mercury from the seller’s spoon, filling up a vial. Considering what he knew about lead, Booker was hesitant to even breathe until the vial was stopped up.

At the same time, he counted guards, memorized faces, and tried to get a feel for the pulse of the market.

There definitely were guards– but not from the Sect. They patrolled past, wearing the feathered cap and armored blue robes of the City Lord’s men.

Compared to the Sect, the City Lord really was far from Booker’s mind. The old man was powerful, but not paranoid or jealous of power like the Sect. His journey down the ceaseless road of cultivation was clearly a second concern to watching over the little civilization he had built. Accordingly, the people loved him.

Booker bowed his head respectfully as he passed the guards.

Looks like the coast is clear.

On the way back, a quick visit to a small store yielded a dozen small cooking implements, such as sieves and whisks, that he would need for this and other alchemy experiments.

Returning to his shack, Booker laid out his acquisitions on the countertop.

He dumped the ashes into a bowl, adding water from the well to make a slurry. He whisked the mixture vigorously to stir out the lumps, producing a still-watery mixture into which he mixed the crushed crystal and lead paste, lending a gleaming silvery-dark color to the finished clear glaze.

This is going above and beyond. The first glazes were nothing but ash falling from the top of the oven and coating the pottery. But if I want good results, fast, I’d better be willing to go the extra mile.

He mixed further, then grabbed a sieve and forced it through to absolutely finesse the finished product into a smooth, consistent texture. Alchemy equipment wasn’t so different from cookware, and you could make do with the contents of a well-stocked kitchen.

Hell this whisk is just a bundle of sticks tied together. If I had a modern kitchen, I could revolutionize alchemy, book or no book.

Happy with that thought, Booker took the glaze outside to coat the pot with.

There, he paused and glanced around, realizing he hadn’t seen the gold-backed frog since he returned. “Froggy? Where are you?”

There was a croak. For a moment Booker tilted his head, trying to figure out where it had come from. Then he realized – the frog had crawled inside the oven, a small frog-shaped shadow inside the flickering and dancing of the flames.

“Ohhh. Of course, you’re a fire-type froggy. You’re probably most comfortable in a nice fire...” Booker shook his head, shaking off the moment of worry where he’d thought the frog had somehow died. “I guess I haven’t really been taking the best care of you, if I didn’t think of something obvious like that. Sorry lil guy. I’ve just been busy– busy getting beaten to a pulp, among other things.”

The frog let out a deep, ribbiting croak. Blue flames vented from its back and shot through the fire of the oven, forming a billowing flow of azure blue within the red.

“Hmm.” Booker snapped his fingers. “Hey froggy, you stay in there, and when I say go, I want you to raise the heat.” The frog croaked again.

Going back to his bowl of pottery glaze, Booker washed the pot in it, making sure to coat every surface within and without. He set it inside the oven, feeding a few more logs onto the flames while being careful not to squash Froggy. “Alright, give it your best! Go!”

Blue flame washed through the oven as Froggy let out a belching warcry. The alchemical glaze would help the pottery cure faster than normal, leeching out the moisture as the heat activated it. The resulting material would be stronger than stone, a super-refined earth without any flaws that would crack it open under high heat.

Or at least… I hope so…

It would be hours before he knew for sure.

In that time, Booker needed to head back to the market and continue his act as the mysterious physician. Bundling the cloak and mask under his arm, he departed the shack as himself, walked about halfway to his destination, and changed into costume.

When he arrived the old clerk glanced up, grinning a slightly devious smile. He had an assistant today, a short young man who might have been his grandson. “You there! I’ve got something to show, oh yes I do. You brought the pill, yes?”

“Of course.” Booker reached into his pocket and drew out the vial of pills, rolling the fragrant milk-white pill out into his palm. “This will cure–”

“Nevermind that, nevermind that.” The old man snapped. “You said the old pills were poisoning me, didn’t you? And that I needed to switch to your medicine right away, right?” His dark eyes gazed accusingly. “Well, I got about halfway to my house before I thought: say, that’s a pretty good way to sell yourself. Accusing some other alchemist of being a hack and swooping in to the rescue.”

“It made a convenient way for me to introduce myself, I’ll admit.” Booker said, his voice modified by a wad of bitter herbs he chewed. The whole of his throat tingled whenever he took them.

“Well, I’m no fool. So I paid a visit to the City Lord and borrowed this.” He took out a leather and brass case, snapping open the claps and flipping the lid back. Revealed within was a pair of calipers made of ivory, set on a black velvet padding.

Booker grinned. His book recognized what this was.

Calipers were a kind of measuring tool, a pair of tongs with a measuring stick that gave you an object’s diameter. But these ones were tipped with small shards of lightning spirit stone. Lightning would make a gentle current through the object you placed between those tongs, and the spiritual lightning was deeply reactive to the element of toxicity, causing it to lose energy. That energy would otherwise light up another small spirit stone set into the haft. The more the spirit stone shined, the less energy was lost, therefor the less toxicity was in the measured object.

When the book explains it like that, even magical treasures seem like simple sciences applied to a problem.

I wonder, did the other fifteen books include ways of creating magical treasures? It seems like the book’s creator knew a lot about them.

But he snapped himself back to the present moment and said, “I have no objections to you measuring the pill. Did you bring the other alchemist’s medicine as well?”

“Of course.” The old clerk brought out a vial of dust gray pills. “I’ll measure both and see who I believe after that. And just to make things more interesting–” He slapped his assistant on the back of the head. “You! Go fetch up a crowd. Tell them I’m making a demonstration. And fetch Alchemist Frostraven too, his work is being judged here so he should make an appearance.”

The assistant turned to scurry off, but Booker held up a hand and stepped in his path. “Please don’t make me enemies within the market. I don’t want trouble from Alchemist Frostraven.”

The clerk snorted. “Hh! If it’s what you said, he almost poisoned me, and we should run him out at once. And if you’re lying, he deserves to know what’s being spread about his name.”

Booker hesitated, then let the boy pass.

Unfortunately his logic is pretty solid. It won’t make me many friends among the other alchemists, but it will bring in clients through the show.

Slowly a crowd trickled in, drawn by the promise of a show. With no television or radio, and half of them illiterate, entertainment of any sort had a high value in the city.

Through the crowd pushed a short man with a lined face, a small stature, and a roaring temper. “You fucking masked imbecile you tried to steal my clients!?” He rushed at Booker, jabbing a finger towards his chest. “I’ll have you killed.”

But at that point, blue-robed guards had already stepped out and grabbed him, pulling him back.

“No you won’t!” The clerk snapped. “Not until I’m done. Now, one of you two –”

The guards let Frostraven free, and the man furiously brushed his sleeves clean and fixed his tiny, pointy goatee back into order, pinching it back into a spike with his fingers.

“One of you two is lying. One says take this medicine, one says, it’s killing me…” The clerk said, his finger pointing at Booker then traveling over to Frostraven. “And I intend to find out who. If this motherfucker is lying, Frostraven, you won’t have to kill him. I’ll have him hanged for theft. But if you’ve fucking poisoned me–”

He sat down without finishing the threat.

Frostraven was sweating, Booker noticed. The man probably knew his work was sloppy – he’d probably not realized it had almost amounted to a poisoning.

“I ah, don’t think we need to be that harsh on this stranger. A little known effect of my pills is a slight blackening of the veins. It certainly looks like toxicity imbalance, so one can forgive him, perhaps, for making the mistake.” Frostraven said, nervously glancing back to the test.

“I’m happy to take the test.” Booker said. “So long as this man isn’t hung for a mistake.”

“What? Are you– you self-righteous twat! Go ahead then, test them. This imbecile can’t do better than me!” Frostraven’s face twitched with rage as he realized Booker was moving to protect him.

The clerk looked at them in confusion. By Booker’s guess, this was the opposite of what he expected to see. “Well…” He grumbled. “Alright then.”

Setting Booker’s pill on a small platform, he pressed the calipers down around it. As the crystals made contact with either side there was a faint humming sound, and the crystal on the grip began to glow. Faintly at first, then brighter, and brighter, until it was shining brilliantly.

Frostraven’s face sunk. He had probably seen these calipers used before, and knew that kind of result meant impeccable work.

The clerk seemed stunned, his mouth hanging open. “It’s ah– ah– It’s pure as gold.”

“My work is good.” Booker said.

“I uh…” Frostraven screwed up his face, biting back his words, but as the clerk reached for his pill with the calipers he suddenly belted out, “No wait! I didn’t make that pill!”

The old clerk paused. “This is the pill you sold me, isn’t it?”

“I um, allowed an apprentice the chance to make those pills. They must have made a mistake.” Frostraven’s face was totally pale and his voice was a whisper. People were beginning to jeer, and it was easy to lose his words entirely in the sound of the crowd.

“You old bat! You almost poisoned me!” The clerk stood up. “Take a good look at this, people, take a good look at what he tried to sell me!” He grasped the pill in the calipers and the crystal dimly flickered. With a snort, the clerk threw it to the ground. “This is trash! Guards, seize him!”

“Hey, he made a mistake– there’s no need for him to be hanged over this.” Booker said, trying to speak over the sound of Frostraven wailing as the guards grabbed him.

God, the punishments here are draconian.

“Fine, fine.” The clerk waved his hand. “You want to be generous, we’ll do this generous. I’ll ask the judge to exile him instead.”

The guards pulled Frostraven away, and Booker scowled.

“Everyone, be careful! There are predators everywhere – but there are diamonds in the rough too. I hear this masked alchemist still has space on his waiting list! They could see you in less than a day, and I’ve never seen a purer medicine!” The clerk called out to the crowd.

I’ll have to remember – city officials around here, even minor ones, have a lot of power to wield the guard against you. Pissing off even a clerk can have consequences.

“Thank you, sir. That pill really will cure your medical issues entirely.” Booker said to the clerk. But any reply was cut off as a nervous merchant shoved his way forward, grasping Booker’s gloved hands.

“Merciful sir, I’ve been having the worst pain in my legs, it keeps me up all night…”

“Come along then. I’ll take a look at you over at my tent.” Nodding gratefully to the clerk, Booker led his new acquaintance over to the medical tent and sat him down, examining the leg. It looked like a case of gout or another swelling disease.

“I’ll have the prescription ready for you by tomorrow. Something to bring the inflammation down.” Booker said, opening the tent’s flap to peer outside. There was a long line assembling. Some were the clients he’d promised medicine yesterday, but others were new patients

I don’t know whether it’ll bring good or bad, but that clerk sure whipped up attention around me.

I’ll be busy all day.

— — —

Booker broke away from the market when the sun was just beginning to sink towards dusk. The promotional benefit of the testing challenge had brought him nearly a dozen customers, and his head was spinning as he tried to keep their conditions and the medicines they needed straight.

He made his way back to the shack, changing costumes halfway, and arrived in time to pull the pot out of the oven. It was completely cracked. A single massive tear had ripped down its side, blasting the walls apart into thick shards. The glaze had turned the raw red-brown clay a vibrant green color, but it was nothing but pretty-colored fragments.

Damn.

Below, his stomach grumbled. It had been more than a day since he’d eaten. There was no spiritual rice on the horizon, so it was looking like the start of a seven-day fast.

Sitting there, gazing at his pottery shards, feeling his empty stomach cramp, Booker sighed and sat down. Closing his eyes, he sought the focus state.

I’ve learned a lot. This day wasn’t a waste. It wasn’t. I can’t expect to demolish every problem in one try, even with the book’s help. If I start getting impatient – if I start expecting instant results – I’ll just frustrate myself.

So what have I learned…

I think I made the walls too thin. Thicker walls will stand up to the high heat better. I can also raise the heat slower, thanks to Froggy, so I should try that with him.

And at the market…

I learned that I might not like the City Lord’s justice. If I hadn’t asked for leniency, it’s very possible that man would have been executed. I can’t deny he was dangerously incompetent, but…

But I also cultivated a reputation. People know me now…

Hmm.

The best thing now would be to stop giving tailored service. Instead, if I could come up with a product everyone finds useful, I could sell it in bulk. Assistants could handle that, and I’d be freeing up time while keeping my profit high.

My time is valuable. I only have a scant few years to really leap forward in cultivation before my body starts to age out of its prime. But if I can break through quickly, I’ll stay young forever.

What else do I need more of…

Time, money. Information.

Maybe the solution to my problem is simple. If I use the Apprentice Page to absorb a book on pottery from the Sect library, won’t have an instant hit of knowledge?

He looked at the broken shard in his hand and grinned.

Yeah, that could work.

— — —

In the seventh eastern courtyard of the Sect, there were heavy metal cages that held prisoners awaiting trial. Even being put in these cages meant that the investigation being done was focused on you, and the Sect would surely find you guilty of something, if only to save face. The best you could hope for in that situation was for them to find very little, and give you a cursory punishment.

But for a cripple, even a cursory punishment could be deadly.

Booker paused in the next courtyard over, taking out a tiny piece of folded paper and tucking the two moss-green pills inside. He kept a careful eye out behind him, kept behind the cover of a tree in the courtyard, and listened acutely; every laugh and murmur echoing through the Sect was potentially a threat, someone headed his way.

He had to finish this stealthily.

Snips buzzed down off his shoulder and took the paper. “Go to the next courtyard. Give that paper to the people in the cages while nobody is looking. And come back with the paper they give you. But don’t let anyone see you except the people in the cages.”

He had folded the edges of the paper to make a little pocket, and tucked both a second folded piece of paper and a fingernail-sized fragment of charcoal inside.

Snips took it and flew up, over the top of the Sect’s walls. Booker waited patiently, relaxing and looking like he was meditating under the tree.

Soon enough, Snips buzzed down.

The letter Booker sent had been simple: “Brothers, I am sending you medicine. Take this one hour before you are to be whipped. In exchange, please tell me everything about the disappearance from the warehouse.”

The letter he received was equally simple.

“BROTHER, ONE THOUSAND THANKS. WE ARE INNOCENT. THE WAREHOUSE JOB WAS SILENT, HAPPENED AFTER THE DOORS WERE SEALED, AND THEY KNEW WHEN THE GUARDS WOULD CHECK. IT HAPPENED AFTER THE LAST CHECK OF THE NIGHT.”

Booker gazed at it for a moment, then tucked it into his pocket. It was time to go.