Days slipped into autumn through a haze of tension and silent power struggles.

Tourist numbers in Celadon Town didn't wane with the changing season. Instead, clear skies and crisp air after autumn rains brought another surge of visitors.


At the town entrance, Artisan Heritage Group's "Cultural Experience Center"—built with massive investment—bustled with activity. Enormous LED screens played slick videos promoting the "modernized, scaled, industrialized" revival of traditional crafts. Staff in matching uniforms demonstrated simplified pottery techniques at spotless workstations. Nearby, a lavish retail space offered "Master-Approved" and "Heritage Collection" pieces at premium prices in elegant packaging.

This commercial spectacle formed a stark contrast with Pinewave Kiln across the street. The workshop grew quieter daily, its few rays of light seeming feeble and dying. Christopher's coughing echoed more frequently through the empty space, like a worn-out bellows. A final rent notice sat on his table, the amount crushing his chest like a boulder. Desperate, he called old customers, receiving either polite brush-offs or insultingly low offers.

"Look, Chris, nothing personal—it's just business. Artisan Heritage sells similar pieces at half your price, plus they've got the brand recognition. Makes them easier to move, you know?"


"Your work is exceptional, but damn, it's slow. Clients want pieces yesterday. And that wood-firing is so unpredictable—if something goes wrong…"

After hanging up, Christopher sat motionless, staring at the wooden box containing the shattered lotus jar fragments.


He pulled a small red silk-wrapped box from his drawer. Inside lay a faded silver ring—Susan's only remaining memento. His callused fingers traced its cold surface as moisture gathered in his cloudy eyes. "Susan, I've failed… Pinewave is dying."

Then came the crushing blow.

One evening, while Charlotte packed redesigned teacups for shipping, she heard a heavy thud from the workshop. Her heart lurched as she dropped everything and ran.

Christopher lay crumpled on the floor, half his body twitching unnaturally. His face had turned bluish-purple, right hand twisted against his chest. His lips trembled wordlessly, producing only labored gasps. Pottery tools and fresh clay lay scattered around him.

"Dad!" Charlotte screamed, rushing to him. Neighbors heard and came running, someone called an ambulance, chaos erupted.

The hospital's antiseptic smell burned Charlotte's nostrils. The diagnosis hit like lightning: stroke. Though they'd saved his life, his right side was severely impaired—especially that masterful right hand. The doctor delivered the crushing news: functional recovery was unlikely; fine motor skills would probably never return.

Christopher lay on the sterile bed, only his left side responding. Stubbornly, he tried repeatedly to lift his leaden right hand. Each failed attempt extinguished more of the craftsman's light in his eyes. Despair drowned him completely. He stopped acknowledging visitors, staring only at the ceiling as if reading Pinewave's epitaph written there.

Pinewave Kiln teetered on the precipice. The workshop closed, its cornerstone shattered. Medical bills, rehabilitation costs, overdue rent, bank loans—a gaping maw ready to swallow the family whole.

Charlotte juggled hospital paperwork, her father's emotional collapse, the landlord's visits, and creditors' calls. In the midst of this chaos, an unexpected visitor appeared at the hospital room door.

Jeremy Jones stood impeccably dressed, holding an elegant bouquet of lilies.

His face showed perfectly calibrated concern. "Miss Carter, I heard about your father's condition and came right away." He placed the flowers beside the bed, his gaze sweeping over Christopher's emaciated form. Something flickered behind his glasses.

He guided Charlotte to the hallway, voice low and earnest: "Your father's condition is tragic. Pinewave is a treasure—its loss would hurt our entire community." He produced an elegant document folder. "As industry leaders, we can't stand by watching. Here's our proposal: we'll cover all medical expenses, pay a substantial brand acquisition fee, and name your father lifetime honorary consultant. The Pinewave legacy will flourish under our care. You'd join our design team with excellent compensation, of course."

The figures in the document looked like salvation to Charlotte. It would solve their immediate crisis, ensure her father's care, preserve the Pinewave name. For a moment, she nearly accepted.

Then she noticed the fine print: acquisition of all trade secrets, her father's "honorary" (powerless) position, her own non-compete clause and subordination to corporate management… Behind Jones' warm smile lurked predatory intent. This wasn't partnership—it was consumption. Her father's life's work would become just another mass-produced label.

"Honorary consultant? While you mass-produce with machines and chemical glazes under the Pinewave name?" A hoarse but powerful voice came from the doorway.

They spun around. Christopher stood in the doorway, left hand gripping the frame for support. His face was ashen, body trembling with effort, but his eyes blazed with defiance as they locked onto Jones.

"Never…" Each word squeezed through clenched teeth, flecked with blood. "I'd rather… die… than sell Pinewave… to vultures like you!"

Jones's smile vanished, revealing cold calculation. He tucked away the documents and gave father and daughter a venomous look. "Admirable spirit, Master Carter. But pride won't pay your bills or fuel your kiln. How much longer can you and Pinewave afford such… principles? We'll see." Without another word, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the corridor like a death knell.

Christopher collapsed, strength spent. Charlotte rushed to catch him, his frail body suddenly heavy as stone. She looked at his closed eyes and ashen face, then down the hallway where Jones had disappeared, and finally at the document in her hand—the symbol of their surrender.

Despair crashed over her like a wave. Yet through it, her father's defiant "Never!" and Jones's cold "We'll see" pierced her heart like twin blades of fire.

She couldn't surrender! Couldn't hand her father's life's work to that bloodsucker!

A desperate idea sprouted from the ashes of her despair. Supporting her father, she gazed through the window toward the distant silhouette of Pinewave's long-dormant wood-fired kiln.

The wood kiln… only the wood kiln! Her father's life's passion! Only there could the true soul of Pinewave be reborn!

A desperate plan crystallized in her mind. She needed money, people, expertise, and above all… a miracle. With trembling hands, she called the one person who might help, who understood the soul of their craft—Harrison.

"Uncle Harrison…" Her voice broke with tears yet burned with determination. "Dad's down. Pinewave is dying. I… I want to fire up the wood kiln! One last time! Create something worthy of Pinewave's past and future! Please… help me!"

Silence answered her. Only heavy breathing came through the line. Charlotte's heart pounded as she waited for fate's verdict.