Making Inventions

He cried and cried, then laughed.

Wang Xingyu lay in bed and raised a hand to wipe his face. The back of his hand came away wet. He stared at the damp patch for a while, then suddenly grinned.

"How pathetic."

In other people's transmigration novels, the protagonists calmly assessed their situation and laid out grand plans right from the start. He, on the other hand, had cried twice on his first day after transmigrating.

The more he thought about it, the more embarrassed he felt, yet he couldn't help wanting to laugh. He rolled over to face the wall. Its packed earth was pitted and uneven, and moonlight slipped through the crack in the door, casting thin shadows across the hollows.

Forget it. He'd already cried. Tomorrow, he'd start living properly.

He closed his eyes. The half bowl of porridge still gave off a faint warmth in his stomach. And there was Tang San, who was still a child.

Thinking about these things, Wang Xingyu slowly fell asleep.

The next day, hunger woke him again.

This was probably the most constant feeling he'd had since transmigrating. He fished out the wild yam he'd dug up yesterday from the clay jar, hesitated, then broke off half and stuffed it into his mouth, putting the other half back.

He pushed open the door. The morning fog was thick.

Morning in Holy Soul Village was gray and hazy. The roosters hadn't crowed, and no cooking smoke had risen. He followed the loess road toward the back of the village, hoping he could dig up more today. Halfway there, he saw a small blue dot approaching from another direction in the distance.

Tang San.

They met at a fork in the road and glanced at each other.

"Going up the mountain?" Wang Xingyu asked.

"Mm."

So they walked together. As yesterday, Tang San walked in front, his steps short but steady. Wang Xingyu followed behind, his mind turning.

When he'd read Douluo Continent in his previous life, he'd thought some of its settings were pretty ridiculous.

Take Tang San's first Soul Skill-Entanglement.

Wasn't Blue Silver Grass itself a vine? Vines naturally entwined things, wrapping around tree trunks and climbing walls. That was a plant's instinct. Yet Tang San had to absorb the Soul Ring of a hundred-year-old Mandala Snake to gain a skill called "Entanglement"?

A grass that couldn't entwine things on its own, but actually needed to absorb a Soul Ring to do it?

The more Wang Xingyu thought about it, the more absurd it seemed.

And honestly, if he really had to choose, Ten-Year Solitary Bamboo had no other flaws apart from its low age. It was better than a Mandala Snake.

Forget it. No point thinking about it.

Wang Xingyu shook those forum arguments out of his head and started considering another, more pressing problem.

Hunger.

Hungry every day.

Old Jack could help him for a while, but not forever. Besides, the Martial Soul Awakening ceremony was just a year away. If he awakened a Martial Soul, he'd have to go to Nuoding City. In the original story, Nuoding Junior Soul Master Academy had a library containing basic knowledge about all kinds of Martial Souls. That information was far too important to his understanding of this world.

But going to Nuoding City required money.

The question was, how could he earn it?

Make an invention? That was something transmigrators often did. Wang Xingyu squatted on the ground, pondering as he dug for yams.

Cement: he knew the basic principle, but didn't know how to fire a kiln. Papermaking: the process was complicated, and he couldn't remember all of it. Glass: he didn't even know what the raw materials looked like. However he thought about it, his knowledge was half-baked. There wasn't a single thing he could put into practice right away.

Find something valuable in the mountains and sell it? He couldn't identify all the medicinal herbs, mushrooms and wood ear fungi wouldn't fetch much, and every piece of pine kindling he picked up meant one less to find. It was all hard-earned money. He wouldn't starve, but he wouldn't get rich either.

Offer services? Write letters for people? No more than three people in the village could read. Give people advice? Who would believe a five-year-old?

Wang Xingyu pulled a yam out of the soil and weighed it in his hand.

Forget it. Making an invention was still a more reliable option. At least he wouldn't have to ask anyone for help. There was one thing that used ordinary techniques but was practical, and its materials were easy to find. If he succeeded, he could turn his fortunes around.

He stood, brushed off the dirt, and walked over to Tang San.

"Tang San."

Tang San looked up.

"I have an idea. It can make money."

Tang San looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"I need to find a few things. Does your family have any unwanted grease residue? The stuff left at the bottom after rendering fat. Even rancid stuff will do. And plant ash from the stove."

Tang San thought for a moment.

"Butcher Zhang has grease residue. He feeds the stuff left after rendering fat to his dog. Every household has plant ash."

"Where does Butcher Zhang live?"

Tang San tipped his chin toward the west end of the village.

"The house farthest west. It's the one with pork hanging out front."

With that, he squatted down and went back to digging up his wild greens.

Wang Xingyu stood there watching him for a moment, making sure Tang San had no intention of accompanying him.

All right, then.

Tang San had to dig up wild greens to fill his own stomach. It was good enough that he'd given directions.

"Thanks."

Without looking up, Tang San gave a grunt of acknowledgment.

Wang Xingyu turned and headed toward the west end of the village. Halfway there, he looked back. The blue-haired child was squatting on the hillside, putting some kind of grass into his bamboo basket, his small, thin figure motionless from behind.

Wang Xingyu looked away and strode toward Butcher Zhang's house.

Butcher Zhang was a middle-aged man with a fleshy, fierce-looking face. He was squatting by the entrance, sharpening a knife. Half a pig hung in the courtyard, and a yellow dog lay on the ground, gnawing on a dark lump of grease residue.

"Uncle Zhang." Wang Xingyu stood at the courtyard gate.

Butcher Zhang looked up and glanced at him.

"What is it?"

"I was hoping you could give me some grease residue you don't want. The stuff left at the bottom after rendering fat-the rancid kind you're going to throw away."

Butcher Zhang looked him over and recognized him.

"The Wang family's boy from the east end of the village?"

"Mm."

Without a word, Butcher Zhang stood and went inside. After a while, he came out carrying a chipped clay bowl. A layer of blackish-yellow grease residue covered the bottom, already smelling a little rancid.

"The leftovers from yesterday. I was going to feed them to the dog. If you want them, take them."

Wang Xingyu accepted the bowl with both hands.

"Thank you, Uncle Zhang."

Butcher Zhang waved a hand, then squatted back down and continued sharpening his knife. The yellow dog looked up at Wang Xingyu, probably unhappy that he'd taken its food. Wang Xingyu hurried away with the bowl.

Plant ash was easy. Every household in the village had a stove, with as much ash in the firebox as anyone could want. He spoke to a household by the road, and they told him to take whatever he liked. He carried some back in the front of his shirt and dumped the gray dust outside his dilapidated house.

He still needed one more thing-quicklime. That took a little more effort; he got a small piece from Old Man Sun, who built houses.

Everything was piled outside the door. Wang Xingyu squatted on the ground, looking at the bowl of grease residue, the pile of plant ash, and the small piece of quicklime, his heart beating a little fast.

He didn't know the exact recipe, the proportions, the temperature, or how long he needed to stir.

But he knew this thing could be made.

If it didn't work once, he'd try twice. If twice didn't work, he'd try three times. The grease residue was stuff someone else didn't want, the plant ash had been scraped out of a stove, and the quicklime was left over from building a house. Even if he ruined them, he wouldn't mind.

He soaked the plant ash in water, stirred it, and waited for it to settle.

Sunlight fell outside the dilapidated house, and the blackish-yellow grease residue in the bowl glistened with a layer of oil.

Wang Xingyu stared at the bowl of grease residue, then suddenly smiled.

When he'd been writing his thesis in his previous life, his adviser had said that the worst thing in research wasn't failing to produce results, but not daring to start.

Now he had started.