Chapter 133: The Tool Shed, A Total Trap

The examiners outside stood with their hands tucked into their sleeves, their gazes fixed upon the woodworking and bamboo-crafting sheds with expressions that were impossible to decipher.

Within the straw-weaving shed, Wang Ge had completely cast off her restlessness, becoming entirely immersed in the rhythmic motions of hooking, twisting, folding, and braiding. The dense and seemingly chaotic stalks of rush were actually being woven with a highly orderly technique, repeating in set sequences every few steps.

Her right hand folded a stalk toward her body, while her left hand pressed it down. The next stalk was folded at a right angle toward her left hand. After her left hand grasped one, she pushed the nearest one away. Every few repetitions, she had to tidy the stalks that had become unruly, straightening any that had been bent under pressure before continuing. Each diamond-shaped pattern was solid, no larger than half her middle fingernail. Where these diamonds intersected, they formed voids of identical size.

By the time she finished a full circle of the incense basket, she had completed dozens of these small diamonds, repeating the process of folding, lifting, pressing, and adjusting hundreds of times over.

Night fell. Lanterns were hung on every wooden post in the production area, and the number of patrolling officials increased significantly. They wheeled in several water-spraying cabinets; the commotion was so great that Wang Ge paused her weaving. Upon seeing the design of these cabinets, she was filled with suspicion. Had this era invented such a device early, or had it evolved from the piston pumps she had crafted previously? If it were the latter, the craftsmen of this era were truly ingenious. If it evolved further, would it eventually become a flame-throwing oil cabinet? However, sealing such a device remained a significant challenge.

Once the noise subsided, she began to close the rim of the incense basket, finishing with the most difficult petal-shaped weave.

Outside the crafting sheds, examinees were already running back and forth, hearts heavy with anxiety. This portion of the journeyman craftsman exam was far more difficult than the apprentice level. There was no lighting outside, and they had to rely on the moonlight, gasping for breath as they ran. Were it not for the fear of patrolling officials lurking nearby, they would have certainly cursed aloud to vent their frustration.

These individuals had all walked through the woodworking shed but, finding no suitable models, were rushing back to the starting point to switch to the straw-weaving or bamboo-crafting sheds. It wasn't that they were being picky; at this stage of the competition, who could afford to be? But the first model, a "leaf blade" for a waterwheel, was a combination piece—one had to craft one hundred of them. That was clearly not an option. The second was also a combination piece—the "wooden chain bone" for the same waterwheel, in sets of ten. That was even more tedious. They moved on. The third set was a collection of measuring tools—heaping, leveling, and measuring scoops, all requiring intricate mortise-and-tenon joints. The fourth set was the most heinous: fifty "wooden terminals" for straightening arrow shafts. It wasn't until they were halfway through that they finally saw a single model: a meticulously carved wild goose. With only three days for the entire exam, could they afford to spend it all carving a single goose? No, they had to move faster and switch to the bamboo shed.

The bamboo-crafting shed also saw examinees fleeing. One runner, moving with desperate speed, overtook a candidate from the woodworking shed. He was panting, his face streaked with tears. Having scored best in the previous round, he had been assigned to the bamboo shed first, confident in his skills. Little did he know that almost every model in the bamboo shed was a combination piece! He regretted not choosing the first set—a set of counting rods, two hundred and seventy-one of them. He had dismissed it without a second thought. The second set? Two sets of counting rods. Would he be a fool to choose that? The third set? Three sets. He stomped his feet in frustration, sobbing as he ran. As he exited the shed, he could smell the evening meal being prepared in the rest area—it smelled like meat broth. He stomped his feet again, furious at the waste of time.

Back in the straw-weaving shed, Wang Ge had finished her work and presented the model and the finished object to the craftsman official.

"Diamond-pattern needlework basket," the official announced.

Wang Ge realized it wasn't an incense basket after all, but a container for needles and thread. Lined with fine silk, it was indeed a beautiful and elegant object. The official inspected the exterior, checking if the base had been started with the required four-stalk weave, counting the rings of the diamond pattern, and finally examining the rim.

"Pass, bamboo permit."

Wang Ge had already unhooked her identification tag and handed it over.

"Candidate passed," the official noted, recording her place of origin and name.

Wang Ge took back her tag, bowed, and moved on. The next few stations were empty until she reached a large pile of straw rope. It was the most primitive, coarse, two-strand style. Aside from a few bundles of straw, there were no other materials. Seeing that the rope was covered in prickly straw fibers, she quickly raised her hand.

A patrolling official was only a yard away. "What is it, candidate?"

"I wish to ask the minimum standard for replicating this rope. Is it enough that the overall thickness is consistent, or must the number of stalks I add at each interval be exactly the same as the original?"

"If the overall thickness does not vary by more than a fraction, it counts as a pass."

Wang Ge immediately set to work. A loud, rhythmic drumming echoed—the "Fame Drum."

"Wuzhi Township, Wang Ge, pass."

"County Town South Lane, Lu... pass."

Wang Ge felt fortunate for her quick decision. The models ahead were either too difficult or already taken. She gathered the straw and materials, choosing a spot closest to a lantern. She could smell the food now—perhaps it really was meat broth. She didn't rush, though; she began twisting the rope.

She opened a bundle of straw, pressed a few stalks to her nose to mask the scent of the meal, and began. Two-strand straw rope, though coarse, was incredibly useful. Every farming family knew how to twist it. She used three stalks per strand, overlapping them by an inch or two. She twisted them clockwise, using not just her palms but her fingers as well. As she twisted, she added new stalks, ensuring the joints were aligned.

*Crackle, rustle...*

*Crackle, rustle...*

Every twist produced that sound. After a foot, she tied the end with a stalk to keep it from unraveling. After three feet, she held the rope between her knees, allowing her to pull the finished portion behind her body. If it piled up in front of her, it would get in the way and affect the quality.

*Crackle, rustle...*

Her hands had been tempered by years of poverty and daily practice in straw weaving. Once, they had been covered in countless small cuts; looking at them in the light used to make her shudder. Later, calluses formed, broke, healed, and thickened again. Now, her hands were not only knobby but covered in fine, dark-stained fissures that even the hot springs of Feiliu Peak could not fully cleanse.

But what did that matter? These dark lines and rough patches were the badges of honor for a straw-weaving artisan.