As soon as the kiln opening was uncovered, a wave of heat poured out once again. Lin Qiu was a bit tired, and climbing up to the kiln opening was a bit of a struggle.

Lang Yan reached out his hand, watching him.

Lin Qiu paused, then slowly placed his hand on it. The rough, warm palm was so hot it made him curl his fingers—it felt a bit strange. The next moment, Lang Yan gave a slight tug and pulled him up.

The beastmen crouched at the mouth of the cave, peering down.

“Woof! It worked! It worked!”

Lin Qiu glanced down as well and said, “We’ll have to go down and bring it up.” 

“King! I’ll go!” Lang An stepped forward.

Since he was the one who put it in, he should be the one to retrieve it. The beastmen didn’t know their own strength—what if they crushed it…? All that effort would be wasted.

The sub-beastman carefully climbed down. A wave of heat washed over him—it had already been two days, yet the heat hadn’t completely dissipated. One could only imagine how hot the clay had been when it was fired.

Lang An started by carrying items from nearby. He carefully cradled the small clay pots the beastmen had used for practice, holding them in both hands to make sure they hadn’t cracked before passing them out. Outside, the beastmen had already lined up in a row.

The line stretched all the way down the hillside.

The clay pot was first handed to Lang Yan, for fear that Lin Qiu might be too tired to handle it at the moment.

They felt solid to the touch, even more exquisitely shaped than the tribe’s original clay cooking pots. They were reddish in color, of uniform thickness, and in some places, faint traces of clay strips—traces of coil-building—though extremely subtle.

It was about the size of his palm—a very delicate piece.

Lang Yan looked at Lin Qiu with a gentle expression. He handed him the pot, and Lin Qiu took it, turning it carefully in his hands. “It’s done.” 

The temperature was just right—the clay wasn’t dried out and brittle enough to crumble at the slightest touch; it had successfully been transformed into pottery.

The beastmen watching from below let out a collective sigh of relief—Lin Qiu could see every one of them. Their eyes burned with intensity as they stared at the jar in Lin Qiu’s hand.

What a tiny jar—what could it possibly hold?

Next came more pots—still the practice pieces made by the beastmen.

At first, Lang An didn’t dare touch the larger ones; he’d picked up almost all the small pots and bowls, most of which were in good condition. Then, the beastmen watched as a large pot slowly emerged from the kiln opening.

It was huge—even bigger than the priest’s!

Lang Yan lifted it with both hands and brought it up. Lin Qiu walked around it once, and their eyes met. He smiled—like ice melting into water, like the first flower peeking out in spring.

It was exceptionally beautiful. “No problem,” said Lang Yan. 

“Alright.”

The clay pot began to be passed down, and each beastman got a chance to touch it. One by one, they handled it more carefully than they would a cub; some couldn’t resist tapping it lightly, only to have a companion grab their paw and give it a firm slap.

The beastman who’d been slapped rubbed the back of his hand and grinned sheepishly.

The clay pot was passed down the slope to the flat ground below, where clay pots and bowls of all sizes were gathered together. It was as tall as a beastman’s thigh; a cub could curl up and squat inside it completely.

“Wow!”

“Awoo!”

The beastmen who hadn’t been assigned to carry the pots surrounded them, examining them over and over again, with several pairs of paws reaching out to touch and feel their surfaces. The large clay pot was brought directly before the priest.

Leaning on his wooden staff, he moved very close, examining them carefully, inch by inch.

The flames had turned the soft clay as hard as stone; the clay, molded into various shapes and baked by the fire, had finally become this clay pot that had sent shockwaves through the tribe.

He narrowed his eyes and, for a moment, simply stared at Lin Qiu, who was crouching on the slope, not knowing what to say.

The beastmen watched the kiln opening as if it were spewing out treasures, letting out an occasional “howl,” and whenever a treasure appeared before them, they would gather around again. Even though every one looked alike and was made of the same material, it didn’t dampen their excitement.

In the eyes of the beastmen, these pots of all sizes were nothing but food.

“Two Curved Horn Beasts.” 

“A Curved Horn Beast…”

“Wow! So many curved horn beasts.”

Lang An’s arms grew sore from carrying the pots, but he finally managed to bring out the entire contents of both kilns. The beastmen each grabbed a pot and headed toward Wolf Mountain.

The beastmen hurriedly built a campfire, arranging the clay pots in three circles around it.

Surrounded by the beastmen, Lin Qiu sat by the campfire this time and carefully counted them.

Counting all the clay forms—large and small—from this batch, a total of sixty had been fired. Among them were twenty small practice clay pots, twelve clay bowls, and, not counting the clay chopsticks and spoons, nearly all of them came out intact.

The remaining ten or so large jars and clay cooking pots were fired in two separate kilns. Three of the large jars came out intact, and one of the clay cooking pots was intact. For a first attempt, that was already quite good.

But Lang Shi and Lang Mo weren’t satisfied.

Lang Mo and Lang Shi sat down with Lin Qiu to review the process, determined to find out why so many pieces had failed.

Just as Lang Yan was about to lash out at someone, Lin Qiu gently pressed down on his arm and, smiling, went off with the beastmen. 

He wasn’t satisfied either.

It could be better.

“Have the beastmen try cooking meat in the pots and jars first. Lang An and Lang Guo know how—be careful, though; the pots might break.”

After saying that, Lin Qiu returned to his own small campfire.

Seeing that the beastmen were eager to get started, Lang Yan waited just a moment before Lang An immediately led them away.

Since clay cooking pots were a rarity in the tribe, the beastmen could only often eat the porridge cooked in them when they were cubs.

But when the beastmen tried to recall the taste, they pondered for a long time without being able to pinpoint it. They had long forgotten what the meat porridge cooked in a clay cooking pot actually tasted like.

All they could remember was the medicinal porridge cooked in the priest’s clay cooking pot—that was truly disgusting! But now, the beastmen dug a pit on the spot to make a hearth, filled the clay cooking pot and clay pots with water,

They watched as Lang An and the others cut the fat from their prey and fried it repeatedly in a small clay cooking pot; as the fat rendered, a mouthwatering aroma filled the air. The beastmen, overcome with hunger, drew near and huddled in a circle around the pot.

They were all beastmen returning from hunting and gathering, their fur disheveled and their stomachs growling. Yet their eyes shone with a startling brightness, like the sun that occasionally breaks through during the rainy season.

Lang An led Lang Yu, Lang Shuang, and six other young and middle-aged sub-beastmen from the tribe who had remained behind as they circled the clay cooking pot. When he accidentally stepped on a beastman’s paw, Lang An turned and said, “Stay back a little—I can’t walk anymore.”

The wolf beastmen silently backed up a tiny bit and continued to stand guard, drooling.

“An, when can we eat?”

Lang An: “First, we need to render some fat.”

Today, the beastmen had brought back a Horned Beast—beastmen’s hunts usually yielded one of just a few species.

Horned beasts don’t yield much fat; after processing all three, they managed to render just three small clay pots. Lang An set two aside and used the fat from the third jar to fry the meat.

As for the stew, it was made by simmering the bones of a sharp-horned beast—which hadn’t been completely cleaned—along with some chunks of meat; there was enough to fill three pots. In another pot, they had just finished stir-frying the beastman vegetables.

First, they added oil; once it was fragrant, they tossed in the seasonings that Qiu had mentioned. Qiu called them ginger and garlic.

A beastman sneezed, covering his nose with his paw. At first, he found the smell strange, but as the scallions, ginger, and garlic released their aroma, the scent of rendered animal fat filled the foothills of Wolf Mountain.

The beastman took a few deep breaths—and the area around the campfire suddenly came alive.

“An, is it ready yet?”

“An, it smells so good! I’m so hungry…”

Lang An knew the beastman was hungry—and he was hungry too. He reassured him while slicing the meat. From a clay bowl full of meat slices, Lang An added half.

The sudden heat caused the meat slices to curl up, and the sizzling sounds filled the air with a lively commotion, like all the insects across the grasslands chirping together during the rainy season. The aroma of the stir-fried meat shot out, and the beastmen standing nearby let out a loud growl from their stomachs before clutching their bellies and rolling around on the ground, “I’m so hungry, so hungry, so hungry…”

“Awoo! Awoo! Awoo!!!” The beastmen clawed at the ground, sending dirt and grass flying; if Lang Yan hadn’t been watching them closely, their heads would have ended up in the pot. “An, when will it be ready?”

“An!!!”

Lang An was sweating bullets from all their questions.

“Almost there, almost there!” He waved the wooden spoon he’d borrowed from Qiu at the last minute, the little muscle in his arm tensing as he swung his hand.

The hot oil sizzled as the meat slices cooked through, and the sub-beastman brought over a bowl of washed wild greens. Lang An dumped them onto the meat.

The beastman let out a wail.

“No—”

Lang An: “This is delicious.” 

“Waaah… I don’t eat grass.” 

“My meat…”

There’s no way they wouldn’t eat it.

With this little bit of meat, there isn’t even enough to fill the bellies of a hundred or so beastmen.

Lang An kept stirring with his spoon, suddenly realizing that cooking actually took effort. In the past, they’d just cut the meat into chunks, divide it up, and let the beastmen grill it themselves. He gritted his teeth and kept stirring.

Three pots nearby were bubbling away; the meat broth had come to a boil. The beastmen hadn’t been particularly interested in the bones with so little meat on them, but the aroma was just as enticing.

Lang Yan glanced over at another campfire, where a few beastmen were frowning and talking about the clay cooking pot. Lin Qiu looked up, and their eyes met.

Suddenly remembering the yams they’d dug up that afternoon, he waved at Lang Yan.

Lang Yan stood up and came over immediately. 

Lin Qiu sat cross-legged in front of the fire and said, looking up, “The yams we brought back this afternoon—peel them, cut them into finger-length pieces, and simmer them in the bone broth. It tastes great, and even the cubs can eat it.”

Lang Yan nodded.

“Use a leaf as a barrier—don’t let your hands touch the broth, or it’ll make you itch.”

Lang Yan: “Okay.”

Lin Qiu was used to calling Lang Yan by his name. The beastmen pressed their thick paw pads against the ground, enduring the agonizing craving that was tearing at their hearts and lungs, their attention briefly diverted.

“King, Qiu?”

“Why does Qiu run off the moment you call ‘King’?” 

“Is the King really that well-behaved?”

The moment he met Lang Yan’s gaze, the beastman closed his eyes and covered his ears. The King was clearly very fierce!

“An, peel the yams that Qiu and the others dug up, cut them into pieces, and toss them into the clay cooking pot. Don’t let the juice get on your hands.”

Lang An glanced at Lang Yu and Lang Dian, then immediately led a few sub-beastmen over.

“Yam?” Lang Bei, who was also watching the clay cooking pot, saw Lang Yu leading the beastmen toward the pile of long, itchy roots not far away. “King, should we gather those next time?”

Lang Yan: “Not for now—they’re hard to dig up.”

The gathering team must prioritize plants needed to meet the tribe’s needs first; digging up yams takes too much time. It’s fine for the idle beastmen to go dig some, but the gathering team should skip it.

Lang Bing, Lang Kim, and the other young beastmen formed a circle outside, their heads pressed together.

“Bing, you guys can go dig.”

Lang Bing: “We’re here to gather medicinal herbs.” 

Lang Kim: “Oh, we’ll go dig then.”

Lang Rong: “You need to practice catching prey.” 

Lang Bing and Lang Kim both turned to look at Lang Rong.

Lang Rong was different from the other two—one led the junior gathering team, the other led the junior hunting team, while he was the only one running back and forth between both. Lang Rong: “How am I supposed to dig as a beastman?”

Lang Bing and Lang Kim exchanged a glance, then lay back down.

Lang Kim looked at the several large clay cooking pots by the campfire, steaming with a delicious aroma, and swallowed hard. “Once we’ve rested, let’s go dig together.”