Chief Armaments Master of the Ming Dynasty

Three days after the yamen runners left, it began to snow heavily at night.

The snowflakes, as fine as goose feathers, fell densely, quickly covering the post station in a desolate white.

Lin Fan was awakened by a very faint, deliberately slowed footstep.

It wasn't a rat, it was a person.

He held his breath, opened his eyes in the darkness, and listened intently.

The footsteps stopped outside the door of his small, dilapidated shack, a very light tapping sound on the wooden planks.

"Lin Fan." It was Li Zicheng's low voice.

Lin Fan felt a chill run down his spine. He quietly got up, reached for the door, pushed aside the wooden bar blocking the door, and opened it a crack.

The cold wind, carrying snowflakes, immediately rushed in.

Li Zicheng slipped in sideways and closed the door behind him.

He didn't light a lamp; in the darkness, only the soft breathing of the two of them and the howling of the wind and snow outside could be heard.

"Put on your clothes and come with me," Li Zicheng said succinctly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Without asking any further questions, Lin Fan quickly wrapped himself in the tattered postman's uniform and followed Li Zicheng silently into the snowstorm.

Li Zicheng did not go to the front yard, but instead went around to a secluded corner behind the post station where firewood was piled up.

There were two blurry lines of footprints on the snow, leading to the locked old warehouse.

The warehouse door was ajar, and the lock was missing.

Li Zicheng pushed the door open and went in, Lin Fan followed closely behind, closing the door behind him.

The warehouse had no windows and was pitch black, with only a little light reflecting off the snow coming through the doorway, barely outlining the shape of the piled-up clutter and a small open space in the center.

The air was filled with dust, a musty smell, and a faint, unique odor that Lin Fan was familiar with—a mixture of sulfur and saltpeter.

In the darkness, Li Zicheng lit half a candle, the faint light illuminating his broad face and the objects on the ground.

A small, rough earthenware basin contained some grayish-white, damp, hardened lumps, which were damp coarse saltpeter.

There was also a broken earthenware pot next to it, containing yellowish-white sulfur blocks, which were also of poor quality.

There were also a few broken bowls, a wooden stick, and a small bucket of water.

"These," Li Zicheng pointed to the things on the ground with a candle, the flame flickering, his eyes appearing particularly deep in the light and shadow, "I've heard the old folks who traveled the world say that sulfur and saltpeter, if mixed properly, make gunpowder that can split mountains and crack rocks. If mixed improperly, it's a minor matter if it doesn't ignite, the real danger is losing your life."

He paused, his gaze fixed on Lin Fan's face. "You said you could do it. Now, show me."

It wasn't an inquiry, nor a discussion; it was an order, and also a test.

In the dead of night, amidst wind and snow, with an uncertain future, in this abandoned warehouse where dangerous raw materials are hidden.

Lin Fan's heart pounded heavily in his chest.

He knew this moment would come sooner or later, but he didn't expect it to happen under these circumstances.

There was no preparation, no decent tools, and the raw materials were of poor quality and severely damp.

But he did not back down, nor could he back down.

Li Zicheng picked him up from the roadside and gave him a way to live. Now, it's time to prove that this life is "useful".

Moreover, that pile of raw materials itself represents a possibility, a faint force that might be grasped in this desperate world.

"I need fire," Lin Fan said, his voice a little dry in the cold air, but he tried his best to keep his tone steady. "A steady fire, preferably one that can be controlled. I also need a finer sieve, or a dense cotton cloth. I also need some charcoal, made from hardwood, ground into a fine powder. I also need time; these things have gotten damp and need to be treated first."

Li Zicheng listened quietly, his expression unchanged in the firelight.

"I have charcoal, but no sieve. I have a few old clothes; we can tear them up and use them. Fire," he turned and dragged a small, mud-covered, tattered tin bucket from a pile of rubble in the corner. Inside were some charcoal ash and unburnt lumps of coal. "Use this. Time," he looked up at Lin Fan, "I'll give you one night. I need to see something before dawn. Remember, keep it quiet."

He didn't ask how to do it specifically, but only set the conditions and time limits.

Lin Fan took a deep breath, the cold air carrying the smell of dust and sulfur filling his lungs.

He nodded, squatted down, and began to examine the damp raw materials.

The brain works at lightning speed, combining limited resources with the chemical knowledge in the mind.

Purifying saltpeter requires dissolving, filtering, and recrystallizing. Since there are no suitable containers or filter media available, we have to use the most primitive methods…

Sulfur purification is relatively simple, but impurities still need to be removed...

The grinding and proportioning of charcoal are key...

"I'll deal with the saltpeter first," Lin Fan said, and began to work.

He carefully crushed the hardened coarse saltpeter lumps with a broken bowl, put them into an earthenware basin, added a small amount of water, and stirred them with a wooden stick.

The water quickly became murky.

He took off his tattered jacket, revealing an even thinner, barely clean, undergarment underneath.

He forcefully tore a relatively clean strip of cloth from the hem of his undergarment.

Li Zicheng watched his movements without saying anything, but simply moved closer.

Lin Fan used the torn strips of cloth to cover the mouth of another broken bowl, making a makeshift filter.

Slowly pour the turbid liquid containing dissolved saltpeter onto it for initial filtration.

The filtrate was still cloudy, but much better than before.

This is a slow process that requires patience and meticulous operation.

Li Zicheng stood silently to the side the whole time.

He didn't say a word, but Lin Fan could feel that his gaze followed his every move, scrutinizing him and carrying a cold expectation.

The snow fell silently outside the warehouse, piling up thicker and thicker, as if to bury the entire Yinchuan Post Station, along with the tiny hopes of those struggling to survive inside.

……

Inside the broken tin bucket, the embers of the charcoal fire glowed a dark red, and weak, unstable heat emanated from the bucket walls.

The warehouse was bitterly cold; breath turned to frost. Only around the edge of the barrels was the air slightly distorted.

Lin Fan knelt on the cold ground, completely focused.

The saltpeter solution filtered through the coarse cloth appeared as a cloudy pale yellow in the broken earthenware basin. He carefully placed the basin over the tin bucket, using its meager heat to slowly heat it up.

Water vapor rises, carrying the unique, slightly astringent scent of saltpeter, and condenses into white mist in the cold air.

He had to control the temperature; it couldn't be too high, causing the saltpeter to decompose, nor too low, making evaporation too slow.

Li Zicheng leaned against the pile of miscellaneous items. The candles had long since gone out, and only the dim light from the charcoal fire in the bucket remained in the storeroom, barely outlining the contours of the objects and the blurry figures of the two men.

He remained silent, like a sculpture blending into the darkness. Only when he occasionally adjusted his posture did the slight rustling of his clothes and the sharp, unwavering gaze in the dim light, fixed on Lin Fan's every move, reveal his presence.

Time passed slowly amidst the cold and focused concentration.

The howling wind and snow outside came and went, making the warehouse exceptionally quiet, with only the soft gurgling of the liquid in the basin and the occasional soft sounds of Lin Fan moving the utensils and grinding the materials.