Volume One, Chapter Four: Clay Bullets

This thing, probably not even used by anyone at Farm No. 102 in the north, had been left untouched for so long and soaked through with water and dampness that it was already hollowed out by insects. When picked up, it split in two with just a little force.

Wang Dong picked up the broken half of the handle, glanced at it twice, and then brought it to his nose for a sniff, his face full of helplessness.

Damn it, why is this made of poplar?

For a slingshot’s wooden handle, in theory, any wood would do as long as it wasn’t paulownia; all could stand up to use for a while. But just as every person has a different face, every type of wood has its own characteristics.

Peach wood feels nice in the hand, birch is strong, oak shoots true, rosewood is impressive, and as for the rest—jujube, firethorn, pear, oak, cypress, elm, ginkgo, ash, mulberry, privet, locust, hackberry, beech, and so on—as long as it’s hardwood, it will work.

Poplar isn’t entirely out of the question—northeastern poplar is hardwood too—but it’s not resistant to insects or moisture. A little carelessness, let it sit a bit too long, and it falls apart.

Fortunately, the stethoscope tubing used for the string was still usable; he only needed to replace the handle.

Hoisting his axe, Wang Dong turned and walked straight into the forest.

There were three critical tasks at hand: the shelter, the fire pit, and the slingshot. The most important was the fire pit, because whether building a sturdy shelter or making a tough slingshot, both needed fire for drying.

And the best firewood, ironically, was the poplar he disdained the most.

Picking a flat patch of ground, Wang Dong cleared off all the dead grass and leaves and drew three circles on the bare earth.

One large, two smaller.

The outermost was for the shelter’s frame, the innermost for the main beam, and the middle for the fire pit and chimney.

He chose a fine pine log for the main beam and some birch poles for the frame. As for the roof of the shelter, he planned to use dry reeds and grass.

It took him three full hours to haul all the wood into the valley, and another hour to set up the main beam and lash on the birch poles.

With the sun nearly setting, Wang Dong no longer cared about tidying up. He gathered some dry grass, tossing the soft bunches inside as a mattress and spreading the tougher stalks over the birch poles for a makeshift covering, managing to cobble together a shelter.

This shelter was something between a conical hut and a lean-to. Call it a lean-to and it looked like a hut; call it a hut and it had a main beam—truly a mongrel structure.

But none of that mattered. This shelter would be enough for several days. It was only June; the real cold wouldn’t come until September, giving him over two months to gradually improve it.

With axe and spoon, he dug a fire pit around the main beam along the circles he’d drawn, brought in some stones, and finally managed to set up his pot. Fifteen minutes later, he sat hugging his enamel cup, shivering as he drank steaming hot water.

After a day of hard work, that first sip of hot water was pure bliss.

The cold, dense cornbread would be murder on his stomach, so Wang Dong tossed the bread into the pot, added half a bowl of rice, and cooked a pot of mixed porridge.

He finished the hot porridge with some soybean paste, laid out his bedding on the dry grass, covered himself with his jacket, used the axe as a pillow, and lay down.

He wanted to do more, but reason told him no.

He was alone on the mountain. For safety’s sake, he couldn’t stray far from the fire.

Besides, all he’d done today was hard labor, and he’d only eaten vegetarian food—without meat, it didn’t sustain him. It felt like he’d eaten his fill, but if he exerted himself any further, he’d soon be hungry again, even chilled to the bone.

Glancing at the remaining half-bag of rice, Wang Dong stuffed the whole bag into his arms.

This was all the staple food he had left. Even if a wild boar rooted him out, he couldn’t let it get the rice.

With no phone, Wang Dong spent two hours counting stars before finally dozing off. He awoke in the middle of the night with a full bladder, relieved himself, tossed two more logs on the fire, and managed to make it through to dawn.

He skipped breakfast, only boiling some hot water to trick his stomach before getting to his feet.

He couldn’t wait any longer; he had to fix the slingshot by noon and, with luck, bag some game by afternoon. Otherwise, he’d have to tough out another hungry night, unable to get anything done.

Surrounded by good wood, there was no need to search far. Right by the stream, he found a willow tree.

True, willow isn’t top-tier for slingshots, but for temporary use, it’s good enough. More importantly, it’s easy to find and full of forks—a single tree could yield a dozen good pieces.

He carefully removed the rubber tubing, picked a good fork, stripped the bark, smoothed it with his axe, then leaned it by the fire pit to dry while he returned to the creek.

He needed to make pellets.

A good slingshot depends half on the slingshot, half on the ammo.

He had no hope of finding iron shot, and stone pellets were useless—their irregular shape made them impossible to aim.

He could only use clay pellets.

But even clay pellets had their rules. Yellow clay wouldn’t do—those pellets would crumble before even hitting a target. Only sticky clay would hold up.

The most common place to find sticky clay was by the water.

Loose yellow clay would be washed away by the current, leaving behind layers of sticky, chocolate-like clay.

But finding it by the creek was a challenge, and it was too far to go to the Kelo River now. He had to make do with this nameless little stream.

Thankfully, downstream, Wang Dong finally found a big chunk of sticky clay.

He lugged it back to his shelter and dumped it by the creek, took a handful, shaped dozens of pellets, rolled them in ash, and baked them by the fire. Once they set, he tossed them directly into the fire pit.

He didn’t use yellow clay for this reason: yellow clay pellets had to be air-dried, and if fired, they would shatter and couldn’t even be picked up, whereas sticky clay pellets, dusted with ash and fired after setting, came out even tougher.

He cooked another pot of porridge, ate his fill, and as the fire died down, Wang Dong used a stick to scoop out the still-warm pellets and set them aside to cool. He picked up the dried willow fork and attached the rubber tubing.

By the time the afternoon sun began to tilt, the pellets were ready.

Well-fed, rested, and armed, Wang Dong stuffed the pellets in his pocket and set off for the hunt!

Clubbing roe deer, scooping up fish, wild pheasants flying straight into the pot—such was the reality of the Northern Wilderness in those days.

Wang Dong wasn’t planning to go after roe deer, since clay pellets weren’t powerful enough. He had to look for smaller prey.

Soon enough, he spotted two gray rabbits.

He crept closer, raised the slingshot, aimed with one eye, lightly squeezed the pellet... Whoosh! Crack!

One rabbit bolted, then tumbled to the ground. Wang Dong was overjoyed—but as he took a step forward, he froze!

The downed rabbit, whether by a last burst of life or some supernatural force, had clearly been hit but suddenly leapt up, limping away into the brush!