The Beast Clan had never shaped soil into anything meant to last.
Stone was carved. Bone was hollowed. Wood was burned and split. But soil—soft, unreliable, easily washed away by rain—was something no one trusted.
That was exactly why Lin Yue wanted to try.
He stood near the central fire that evening, hands clasped behind his back, eyes calm but bright. "I've seen it done before," he said. "In another place. Soil can become bowls. Plates. Things we use every day."
An elder scoffed. "Soil turns to mud."
"It hardens," Lin Yue replied patiently. "If it's shaped and fired properly."
Low murmurs spread through the clan. New ideas always made people uneasy.
Lin Yue didn't argue. Instead, he turned slightly and looked toward Feng Lihan, who stood apart, wings folded, watching everything with sharp focus.
"Feng Lihan," Lin Yue said softly, "I have an idea."
Feng Lihan met his gaze. "Say it."
"We try once," Lin Yue said. "If it fails, we stop. But if it works, I'll teach everyone."
Feng Lihan was silent for a moment.
Then a lazy voice slipped into the pause.
"I want to help."
Mo Shan.
He leaned against a stone pillar, arms crossed, golden eyes half-lidded with interest. "Shaping soil takes patience," he added. "Snakes have plenty of that."
"No," Feng Lihan said immediately.
The single word was cold and firm.
Mo Shan raised an eyebrow. "You didn't let him answer."
Lin Yue turned, surprised—and then smiled.
"Okay," Lin Yue said easily. "You can help."
The fire cracked sharply.
Feng Lihan's head snapped toward him. "Lin Yue."
Lin Yue blinked. "Is it bad to have more help?"
Mo Shan's lips curved faintly. "I'll follow your instructions."
Feng Lihan's wings twitched once before stilling. "Do not interfere," he said, eyes fixed on Mo Shan.
"I won't," Mo Shan replied. "I'll only assist."
Lin Yue clasped his hands together, pleased. "Then tomorrow," he said, "we look for soil.
They found it near the riverbank at dawn.
Lin Yue knelt first, fingers pressing into the damp soil. "This kind works," he said. "It's smooth, not gritty."
Mo Shan crouched beside him. "Like this?"
"Yes," Lin Yue nodded. "Slowly. Don't force it."
Feng Lihan stood behind them, arms crossed, watching every movement—how close Mo Shan knelt, how carefully he followed Lin Yue's voice.
Lin Yue spoke as he worked, recalling what he had once seen on a glowing screen from another world: kneading the soil, removing air, shaping patiently.
His first attempt sagged. The sides bent inward.
Mo Shan steadied the base without touching Lin Yue's hands. "It listens when you slow down," he said quietly.
Lin Yue laughed softly. "You're right."
That sound made Feng Lihan's jaw tighten.
At last, a bowl took shape—uneven, thick-rimmed, imperfect.
Lin Yue stared at it, eyes shining. "It worked."
The clan watched from a distance, silent and uncertain.
Feng Lihan said nothing. But his gaze never left Lin Yue—or the presence beside him.
Mo Shan wiped the soil from his palms, smiling faintly.
Not because of the bowl.
But because kindness, once again, had chosen him without fear.