The First Wisp of Cooking Smoke

Chapter 8: The First Wisp of Smoke

The midday sun fell straight down, warming every inch of the small yard. Chen An straightened his aching back, propped the hoe against the ground, and wiped the sweat streaming down his forehead with his arm. Breaking ground in the garden was far harder than he'd imagined. The soil of the Primordial World was fertile, but the roots were tangled and stubbornly tough. Every swing of the hoe brought a churn of earth and the dull snap of roots breaking.

Sweat soaked through his simple clothes, sticking them unpleasantly to his skin. His throat burned with thirst, and his lips were slightly chapped from lack of water. He walked to the well, used the bottom of a broken clay pot—which he'd temporarily turned into a ladle—to scoop up half a pot of well water, tilted his head back, and gulped it down.

The cold well water slid down his throat, instantly quenching that scorching sensation. A sweet taste spread through him, and along with it, that faint warm current diffused again, slightly easing the ache in his muscles. He let out a long breath, a satisfied sigh escaping him. This well water was truly one of the most precious gifts heaven—or rather, the system—had bestowed on him.

But drinking water alone couldn't fully dispel his exhaustion, nor satisfy the deeper craving of his body. After several days of surviving on nothing but roasted beast meat and cold water, his stomach and intestines began to long for the comfort of hot food—especially the simplest bowl of hot water, the kind that could warm a person from the inside out.

He looked at the crude but intact stone stove in the kitchen, and an irresistible thought surfaced: make a fire, boil water.

This simple wish, at this moment, symbolized a leap—from the beast-like state of struggling to survive, back to a conscious, orderly human existence. Fire meant warmth, meant cooked food, meant the most primitive dawn of civilization.

Decision made, he moved at once.

First, he needed fuel. He went to the storage shed and picked out some fine twigs and thin wood shavings from the pile of relatively dry, flammable firewood he'd carefully selected, using them as kindling. Then he chose a few logs of moderate thickness that would burn steadily as the main fuel.

Next, the container. He picked up the only broken clay pot. Using it to boil water was obviously impractical—it would leak. But his gaze fell on the empty mineral water bottle. A bold idea came to him: could he use this plastic bottle to boil water?

He immediately dismissed the thought. Plastic would melt when heated, possibly releasing toxic substances. The risk was too great. For now, he had to make or find a heat-resistant container. He decided on the most primitive method—find a suitable stone.

He rummaged through the pile of rubble in the corner of the yard and finally found a flat piece of sandstone with a natural depression in the middle, somewhat like a large stone bowl. He struggled to carry it to the kitchen and rinsed it repeatedly with water. Rough as it was, it could serve as a temporary pot.

Everything was ready, except for lighting the fire.

He took a deep breath, pulled the plastic lighter from his pocket, and held it in his hand. The small lighter felt as heavy as a thousand pounds. It was proof of his origin from another world, and his only means of wielding the power of "fire" at this moment. He rubbed his thumb over the cool plastic shell, and a sense of near-sacred solemnity rose in his heart.

He crouched in front of the stove, carefully stuffing dry grass and fine twigs into the firebox, piling them into a loose, nest-like shape to ensure airflow. Then he arranged a few main logs around it, leaving enough space.

Everything was set. He checked the air vent again, confirming it was clear. Then, holding his breath, he pressed his thumb firmly on the lighter's switch.

Click!

A small, orange-yellow flame sprang up, flickering gently in the air. That faint glow, in this ancient Primordial courtyard, seemed so dazzling, so out of place, yet so full of hope.

Chen An carefully brought the flame to the edge of the dry grass nest. The parched blades caught fire instantly, emitting a faint crackling sound as a wisp of blue smoke rose. The fire spread quickly, igniting the twigs. The orange-red flames began to dance joyfully, greedily licking at the surrounding wood.

Success!

A surge of excitement filled Chen An. He quickly added a few larger logs to stoke the fire. Inside the stove, the flames blazed fiercely, radiating a warm and reassuring light that dispelled the cold and dampness of the kitchen.

He picked up the stone bowl, drew fresh water from the well, and carefully poured it into the bowl's depression. Then, with effort, he set the heavy stone bowl on the stove's stones, letting the flames heat the bottom.

Waiting for the water to boil became a long, expectant process. He sat on a stone by the stove, quietly watching the dancing flames and the soot gradually blackening the bottom of the stone bowl. The firelight reflected on his face, bringing a long-missed warmth and illuminating a faint but real glimmer in his eyes.

Time passed. The water in the stone bowl began to emit a faint hissing sound, and tiny bubbles appeared at the edges. Gradually, the bubbles grew more numerous and larger, until finally, the surface churned violently, and white steam rose in billows.

The water was boiling.

Chen An didn't rush to touch it. He just sat quietly, watching the hot steam fill the kitchen with a fresh—since there was no tea or any additive—and utterly pure scent. He breathed deeply, letting the warm moisture soothe his nose and lungs.

He found two thick pieces of bark to use as potholders, carefully lifted the scalding stone bowl off the stove, and set it on the ground to cool. He wasn't in a hurry to drink; instead, he savored the satisfaction of having created this "heat" with his own hands.

After a while, the water cooled to a drinkable temperature. He used the broken clay shard again to scoop some up, blew on it, and took a cautious sip.

The scalding hot water flowed down his esophagus, instantly warming his limbs and bones. An indescribable comfort and peace enveloped him. This wasn't just about rehydrating; it was like a ritual, a thorough soothing of body and mind. The fear, exhaustion, and loneliness of the past few days seemed to be smoothed over, just a little, by this mouthful of hot water.

He drank slowly, his gaze drifting unconsciously toward the kitchen door. A faint, nearly invisible wisp of cooking smoke rose from the vent, blending into the pure, warm air above the yard, filtered by the Absolute Safe Zone.

This wisp of smoke was so faint, so insignificant in the vast, perilous Primordial World.

But for Chen An, it was the first spark of civilization he had kindled in this desolate place, the first signal of a home. It meant that in this absolutely safe patch of land, a person had begun his life. Though the road ahead remained uncertain and survival still difficult, at least at this moment, watching that slowly rising wisp of smoke, Chen An felt, for the first time, a genuine trace of long-lost peace of mind.

Yet Chen An did not know that in this land governed by ancient laws, any trace of something not born of nature might draw attention from the unseen. Just as that insignificant wisp of smoke merged into the sky, at a place extremely far away, atop a mist-shrouded, immortal mountain, an ancient being sat in closed-eyed meditation, surrounded by the rhythm of the Dao. His brow, which had seemed unchanged for ten thousand years, twitched almost imperceptibly.

(End of Chapter 8)