Dawn was just a rumor on the horizon, but Zhao An was already awake, long before the first rooster crowed. His thin blanket offered little defense against the morning chill, a discomfort he’d grown used to during his apprenticeship as a potter, a life of rising early and sleeping late. He pushed open the door and stepped onto the soft, loamy earth of the courtyard, taking a deep breath of the cool air. After a few stretches to loosen his limbs, he left the courtyard and noticed a frail, slight figure next door. It was Lin Zixuan's maidservant, her shoulder pressed against the neighbor’s gate as she struggled to open it, a full bucket of water gripped in her hands. She must have just come from the Tiesuo Well on Apricot Blossom Alley. Zhao An looked away and began his jog, weaving through a series of streets and alleys toward the eastern side of the small town. His home in Porcelain Bowl Alley was on the westernmost edge; his destination was the gate on the easternmost side, where a man kept watch through the night, monitoring the merchants and visitors who came and went. The man also handled the town’s mail, and Zhao An had worked hard to secure the job of delivering those letters to their recipients for one copper coin apiece. It was an arrangement set to begin officially after the Longtaitou Festival. Lin Zixuan would say that Zhao An was born for a life of poverty; that even if the winds of fortune blew straight into his house, he wouldn't be able to catch them. Lin Zixuan often said things that were difficult to grasp, strange pronouncements he likely plucked from the books he read, leaving Zhao An scratching his head in confusion. Just a few days ago, he had muttered something about how one should "Beware of the spring chill, for it has been the death of many a young man," and Zhao An had no idea what he’d meant. He did, however, know from experience that the first days of spring always felt colder than the dead of winter. Lin Zixuan called it the unexpected spring chill—a cold that caught people off guard and claimed them, like a sudden counterattack on a battlefield. The town had no walls, making it vulnerable not just to petty thieves but to bandits and gangs. The so-called town gate was little more than a line of old, mismatched fencing, a token checkpoint for people and carriages that served only to maintain a sliver of dignity. As he jogged past Apricot Blossom Alley, Zhao An saw a crowd of women and children gathered around the Tiesuo Well, the winch groaning under the constant strain of use. A street later, the familiar sound of recitation reached him. It came from a private school, jointly funded by several of the town’s wealthiest families. The teacher was an outsider. When Zhao An was younger, he used to squat beneath the windows, secretly listening to the lessons. The teacher was strict in his classroom, but he never shooed away freeloaders like him. Then Zhao An had left town to apprentice at a dragon kiln, and he hadn't been back to the school since. A little further on, Zhao An ran past a stone archway. Supported by twelve stone pillars, the locals called it the Crab Archway. As for its real name, Lin Zixuan and Wei Junjie had fiercely different opinions. Lin Zixuan swore he’d read in an old book called the Local County Chronicles that it was the Grand Secretary Archway, a gift from a past emperor to commemorate a historical official who had overseen the military with great distinction. Wei Junjie, on the other hand, was just as much of a country boy as Zhao An. He insisted it was the Crab Archway, and had been for centuries. Giving it a nonsensical name like Grand Secretary Archway was ridiculous. He’d even challenged Lin Zixuan once: "How big is a grand secretary's hat? Is it bigger than the mouth of the Tiesuo Well?" Lin Zixuan, unable to answer, had flushed a furious, embarrassed red. Zhao An ran a lap around the twelve-pillared archway. Each of its four sides bore four large characters inscribed in strange, distinct scripts. The inscriptions read "doing my part," "comply with the natural order," "refrain from looking outward," and "unmatched aura." According to Lin Zixuan, all but one of the inscriptions had been defaced or altered over time. Zhao An knew nothing about such things and had never given it much thought. Even if he had wanted to find answers, he wouldn't have known where to start. To this day, he still had no idea what kind of book the Local County Chronicles even was. Just past the archway stood an old but thriving locust tree. Someone had dragged a large log to its base and propped it up on two bluestone slabs, fashioning a crude bench. Every summer, the whole town gathered there to escape the heat. Adults from the richer families would pull baskets of chilled melons and fruit from their wells for the children, who, after eating their fill, would chase each other in the deep shade of the tree. Zhao An was used to long journeys on foot, so he wasn't even breathing heavily when he reached the makeshift town gate and stopped before the lone earthen cabin beside it. Outsiders rarely visited the town. Now that the official kilns—once its main source of income—had been shut down, there was even less reason for anyone to come. He remembered one time when Old Man Sun, his former master, had had too much to drink. He’d told his disciples, Zhao An and Wei Junjie among them, that their kilns were the only official ones under heaven. The porcelain they made was imperial ware, he’d slurred, used by the emperor and empress themselves. Anyone else, no matter how rich or powerful, would be beheaded for daring to use it. Old Man Sun had seemed like a different man that day. Glancing past the gate, Zhao An was startled to see seven or eight people waiting outside. There were men and women, old and young. He didn't recognize any of them. Locals rarely used the eastern gate, whether heading to the fields or the kilns. The reason was simple: the path leading out from it didn't go to any fields or kilns. For a moment, Zhao An and the outsiders just looked at each other, separated by the flimsy barrier. He wore a pair of straw sandals he’d woven himself, and his eyes lingered on the thick clothing of the people outside. They looked so warm, perfect for keeping out the biting cold. The people outside were clearly separated into several small groups, not one large one. They all wore aloof, indifferent expressions as they looked at him. A few had already glanced past him, their gazes fixed on the town beyond. Zhao An was puzzled. Did they not know the imperial court had shut down all the dragon kilns? Or did they know the real reason for the closures and see an opportunity to be exploited? Among them was a young man wearing a strange, tall hat. He was slender, with a green jade pendant hanging from his waist, and he seemed to have grown tired of waiting. The gate wasn't locked. He stepped forward from the group as if to push it open, but just as his finger touched the wood, he stopped. He slowly drew his hand back, clasped his hands behind him, and looked at Zhao An with a faint smile. He said nothing, just smiled. Out of the corner of his eye, Zhao An saw the people behind the young man react in different ways. Some looked disappointed, some amused. Others furrowed their brows or watched with open derision. Just then, the door to the cabin burst open and a middle-aged man with a messy thatch of hair stormed out, launching into a tirade. "You little bastard, are you that desperate for money? Who comes looking for work at this ungodly hour? Are you in a rush to join your dead parents?!" Zhao An rolled his eyes, unfazed. He lived in a town full of coarse people; if he got angry at every insult, he would’ve thrown himself down a well long ago. Besides, this gatekeeper was a town joke himself. The bolder women didn't just curse him, they often hit him. He was always boasting to toddlers in their split-crotch pants about his glory days, telling them how he once beat up five or six burly men right here at this gate, hitting them so hard they had to pick their teeth up off the ground. He claimed there was so much blood that the twenty-foot-wide path had turned as muddy as if it had just rained. "We'll talk about your shitty job later," the man grumbled at Zhao An. No one in town respected him, but he was the one who decided which outsiders got in. He strode toward the gate, reaching a hand down into his own pants as he went. With his back to Zhao An, he opened the gate. As each person passed, he took a small embroidered pouch from them, tucking it up his sleeve before waving them through. Zhao An had already stepped aside. The eight strangers entered, split into roughly five groups. Two children, about seven or eight years old, walked on either side of the young man with the jade pendant. One was a boy in a festive red robe; the other was a little girl, as fair and delicate as fine porcelain. The boy, almost a full head shorter than Zhao An, opened his mouth as he passed but said nothing aloud. It was clear, however, that he had mouthed something rude and provocative. The middle-aged woman holding his hand cleared her throat softly, and the boy reluctantly restrained himself. The little girl, walking behind them with an imposing, white-haired old man, turned to Zhao An and started chattering away, pointing at the boy up ahead. Zhao An couldn't understand a word she said, but it was obvious she was complaining about the boy. The burly old man glanced at Zhao An from the corner of his eye. It was a fleeting look, holding no particular intent, but Zhao An instinctively took a step back, like a mouse seeing a cat. The chatty little girl's enthusiasm vanished. She turned away without a second glance, as if just looking at him now was an insult to her eyes. Zhao An didn't have much experience with the world, but he wasn't so dense he couldn't read a face. After the group had moved further into the town, the gatekeeper turned to him. "Want to know what they said?" "I do," Zhao An replied with a nod. The middle-aged man chuckled. "They were praising you. Said you were handsome. All good things!" Zhao An gave a wry smile. Do I look stupid to you? The gatekeeper saw his expression and laughed even louder. "If you weren’t stupid, I wouldn't have hired you to deliver letters!" Zhao An held his tongue, not daring to talk back for fear of losing the job. The gatekeeper turned to watch the departing strangers, stroking his stubbled chin. "That woman just now," he mused, "she had a pair of killer legs!" Zhao An hesitated, then asked with genuine curiosity, "Is she a martial arts practitioner?" The innocent question seemed to take the man by surprise. He turned back, his expression suddenly serious. "You really are a stupid kid." Zhao An was still completely baffled. The gatekeeper told him to wait and disappeared into the cabin. He returned a moment later with a stack of letters—not a thick one, maybe ten in all. He handed them to Zhao An. "They say fortune favors the foolish, and karma favors the righteous. You believe that?" Zhao An took the letters in one hand and held out the other, blinking innocently. "You promised me one copper coin per letter." With a grunt of annoyance, the gatekeeper pulled out five copper coins he’d prepared earlier and slapped them hard into Zhao An's palm. "I'll give you the other five some other time!" he said, waving him away.

Chapter 2: A Potter Before Dawn