Chapter Fifty-Three: The Same Name?

In essence, charcoal balls were simply the manufactured charcoal of later generations.

They didn’t require high-quality wood as raw material—twigs, bark, leaves, nutshells, even walnut shells—all could be used. After being carbonized under high temperature and reduced pressure, the process merely added three extra steps: grinding, adding a binder (which was just clay), and then repressing the mixture into shape.

From the perspective of labor, it was admittedly a bit more complicated.

But if you looked at the cost of raw materials, it was an enormous saving. The wood used for carbonization was almost all waste; as long as the patriarch rallied everyone in the village to collect it from the hills, there was hardly any cost once you set aside labor.

Clay was everywhere too, costing only in manpower. It was just as Wu Ning had said—turning waste into treasure.

Moreover, Wu Ning disliked how ugly and inefficient the hand-formed charcoal balls were. He found a thick piece of bamboo, split it in half, lined each half with the charcoal paste, pressed it in, and then placed a thinner stick in the middle.

He then closed the two halves together and drew out the thin stick.

Once the charcoal paste set, it looked exactly like the hexagonal barbecue charcoal of later times—neat and tidy, far more attractive than the irregular lumps sold in the market.

The patriarch watched the charcoal sticks being peeled from the bamboo tube, his eyebrows arching in delight like crescent moons.

This charcoal cost little, produced little smoke, burned well, and most importantly, the supply of charcoal would no longer be throttled by the Chen Family Village.

“Excellent, excellent,” he said, casting Wu Ning an approving glance. “Didn’t I say you’d amount to something, boy!”

Wu Ning was not pleased.

How did this old man always manage to claim both the good and the bad lines? Just a moment ago, he was chasing Wu Ning all over with a stick, and now he was full of praise!

“Patriarch, perhaps you could be a bit less quick with the stick; it’s too rough!” Wu Ning seized the chance to ask for a favor. After all, he was no longer a child; there was no need to be chased around the village every day with a stick.

But how could the old patriarch possibly agree?

“Rough?” His face chilled. “Nothing like a rod to raise a filial son. Without this very stick, would you all have turned out so well?”

“Fine,” Wu Ning conceded, “forget I said anything.”

“Enough of your nonsense!” the patriarch said with a laugh. “Go and call all the men of every household to the kiln. I, as the village head, have something to say.”

Wu Ning sighed deeply and finally understood a universal truth: no matter the era or one’s wealth, being young meant having no rights whatsoever!

As long as you hadn’t started your own family, in the eyes of the elders, no matter what you accomplished, you were still just a child. Such was the Chinese way of family and filial piety!

Obediently, together with Wu Qi and Huzi, he went house to house, summoning the men.

When everyone was gathered at the kiln, the patriarch, hands clasped behind his back, addressed them on two matters.

First, the kiln was saved. After the autumn harvest, every household had to send people into the hills to cut branches—five carts per household; anyone who brought less would not be allowed to celebrate the New Year.

Second, the new kiln design and the method for grinding and pressing charcoal were to be kept secret from outsiders. Anyone who leaked them would face family discipline and be struck from the ancestral records.

Wu Ning was left dumbfounded.

What did feudal patriarchy mean? This was the very embodiment of it!

Damn, it was impressive—so damn impressive.

“Ninth!” The patriarch, in the midst of his satisfaction, called out Wu Ning’s name.

“These charcoal sticks are your invention. Give them a name.”

His tone was as cold as ever, but with that single sentence, all the villagers turned to look at Wu Ning, their eyes filled with gratitude.

What the patriarch was really saying was: this achievement belonged to Wu Ning, and everyone should remember what he had done.

Sixth Uncle grinned broadly and nudged Wu Ning. “I knew you had it in you, boy!”

Third Brother was delighted as well. “What are you waiting for? Name them!”

Unused to being the center of attention, Wu Ning scratched the back of his neck and chuckled sheepishly, “Haha, it was nothing, just a little experiment...”

“Haha, and it worked!”

“It was a small effort, not worth mentioning.”

Everyone burst out laughing.

“Look at him!” Fifth Uncle teased. “Compliment the boy and he’ll be over the moon.”

“Hurry up. You’re the literate one—pick a good name.”

“Hmm...” Wu Ning pondered. “Since they look like bamboo joints, let’s call them Black Bamboo Charcoal.”

“Black Bamboo Charcoal?” The patriarch repeated the name. “Black Bamboo Charcoal...”

“Hmph, I could’ve come up with that myself,” he scoffed. “But, it will do! Black Bamboo Charcoal it is!”

———

It was nearly dark by the time Wu Ning made it home.

With the new charcoal, not only did the kiln’s stakeholders see hope, but every able-bodied villager would have work through the winter.

The patriarch was already assigning tasks—after the harvest, some would gather branches, others would grind charcoal at the factory. Once the new charcoal sold, every family would have a prosperous New Year.

Entering the courtyard, Wu Ning paused in surprise. The old man’s son and daughter-in-law, whom he’d seen off that morning, were still there, eating dinner in the yard.

Were they spending another night?

Wu Ning was curious. “Brother, did you not get a place in the Temple of Seeking Immortals?”

The young man stood and bowed respectfully. “Greetings, young master.”

“To answer your question, we did get a place in the queue. Without that note, though, we had no idea when our turn would come.”

“But we arrived a bit late this morning. Daoist Meng wanted to help, but the auspicious time for divination had already passed. So, we’re first in line for the evening session.”

“We can’t go down the mountain tonight, so we must trouble you for another night.”

“I see,” Wu Ning nodded. “And why isn’t the elder dining with you?”

The young man glanced awkwardly toward the guest room. “My father has no appetite and is resting in his room.”

“I understand,” Wu Ning said, asking no more. He washed up and prepared for dinner.

Meanwhile, in the house, the old man cradled his month-old grandson, staring in a daze at the poem scrawled on the wall.

His mind drifted back to the scene at the Temple of Seeking Immortals, when Daoist Xiao read the child’s fortune.

“This child’s eight characters are highly unusual,” the Daoist had said. “He is fated for neither great wealth nor high rank; his life will be one of toil and scant fortune.”

“But...” Daoist Xiao calculated further, his brow furrowing deeper.

“But this child is blessed by the star of literature, brimming with talent. His name shall be renowned far and wide, his fame lasting through the ages!”

He looked up at the old man. “Such a peculiar fate—I have seen one like it only once before.”

Daoist Xiao was not making excuses. The strangest fate he had ever seen belonged to Wu Ning: a void within a void, both presence and absence, a destiny both supreme and precarious, determined by neither heaven nor man.

The second strangest was the baby in the old man’s arms.

His was a fate of “seeking official position all his life and never attaining it, yet leaving an everlasting name.”

The old man had been deeply unsettled by this reading. “Is there any way to resolve this, Daoist?”

Daoist Xiao nodded, then shook his head.

“All things in the universe are balanced; where there is danger, there is remedy, where there is death, there is life. Naturally, there is a way.”

“But it does not lie with me.”

“Then where?”

Daoist Xiao replied, “This child loses at ninety-five, gains at fifty-nine.”

“Sir, take care and see for yourself.”

The old man pondered this strange phrase but could make no sense of it for now.

He could only ask again: “The child still has no name. Since you are versed in the Book of Changes, could you give him an auspicious name?”

“Very well.” Daoist Xiao sighed and fell silent in thought.

Naming was a service for which one normally charged extra.

“This child’s life is marked by excessive stubbornness, which is not ideal. But if he can embrace the world with broad-mindedness, he will fare better.”

“I suggest...” he paused, “the single name Hao.”

“And when it is time to choose a courtesy name, let it be Haoran. That would be most fitting.”

The old man repeated, “Meng Hao? Meng Haoran?”

He nodded slowly. “A fine name.”

Yet, at that very moment, in Wu Ning’s guesthouse, the old man looked at the poem on the wall: “By the southern ferry of my home, accustomed to a rustic life on a boat...”

Meng Haoran?

He wondered, was there another Meng Haoran here? The poem was quite well written.

(Votes! Votes!)