Chapter Title: Reborn Too Skilled
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Prologue
1.
1592, the year of Imjin.
Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who had unified Japan during the Warring States period, invaded Joseon.
Japan, whose pottery production techniques were still underdeveloped, kidnapped a massive number of Joseon's potters.
The number of potters thus abducted reached 30,000.
2.
On a certain day in 1592, the year of Imjin, at the Royal Kiln Institution in Gwangju, Gyeonggi Province—a national organization that supplied pottery to the royal family.
Japanese forces raided it suddenly, brutally plundering the pottery and potters.
They were especially targeting Myeonggap, Joseon's foremost Master Potter.
Though of lowly cheonmin birth, his fame had long reached Japan and Ming China.
The Japanese troops dubbed their mission the "Master Potter Hunt."
3.
That day, behind the Royal Kiln Institution, at Geumbong Mountain.
"Ugh... Hngh..."
Myeonggap lay collapsed at the bottom of a cliff, groaning.
His entire body was filthy with dirt and blood, and a metallic tang of blood pooled in his mouth.
"Cough... Urk! Ugh, ugh!"
Broken ribs pierced his lungs.
The excruciating pain, like lightning strikes, nearly made him pass out.
When word came that Japanese troops were storming the Royal Kiln Institution, he had fled to Geumbong Mountain.
But a potter's feet could never outrun a soldier's.
Unluckily, he encountered them at the cliff's edge, slipped, and tumbled down.
The Japanese were probably searching for him even now.
'Don't find me... Damn it, please don't find me...!'
But.
Thud, thud...
As if mocking his desperate wish, leisurely footsteps approached.
Myeonggap squeezed his eyes shut in despair.
"Oh ho. So here you were? Took us a while to find you."
Awkward Joseon speech.
It was the Japanese captain he had faced at the cliff.
The fact that they had sent an elite unit fluent in Joseon speech was proof of how seriously the Japanese shogunate was taking the "Master Potter Hunt."
Snap.
The Japanese captain squatted down in front of Myeonggap.
He prodded his head lightly with the flat of his blade.
"Tsk. You're about to croak. The lord's gonna chew me out when we get back."
A flicker of amusement crossed their irritated faces.
Since the mission had failed anyway, they decided to toy with the dying Joseon man.
"Feeling wronged? Well, I suppose you would. They say you're Joseon's top potter at just forty. That your wares have some mystical vibe to them. Even the Ming Emperor's table had your bowls—impressive, huh? No wonder our lord, who loves tea ceremony, was so enchanted by your teacups. Haha, what the hell's so special about a damn rice bowl anyway."
Myeonggap wanted to smash that blabbering face with his fist.
But reality allowed only his fingertips to tremble.
"Beg for your life. Like a dog. Who knows? We might call a doctor to patch you up. Then you come to Japan with us. How about it?"
"..."
Myeonggap laboriously lifted his head and glared at the Japanese soldier.
Are you insane?
Would I be insane enough to go to your country?
Thieves who steal other lands would hardly leave others' skills alone.
They'd suck every technique dry, then work him like a slave.
But even if he wanted to go, he couldn't.
Gurgle.
Sticky blood trickled from his mouth.
His head spun, his body numb.
His insides burned hot, yet his skin felt the icy chill of lying in snow.
This wasn't good.
His dazed mind flashed through his past life.
Orphaned young, starting as a laborer in Namwon's kiln workshop.
At fifteen, becoming the Royal Kiln Institution's youngest potter thanks to his prodigious talent.
Surpassing the Master Potter in his thirties.
Ascending to youngest Master Potter at forty.
He had weathered every storm—storms at sea, fires, aerial battles—to achieve it all.
Thus, at forty, he had a mind unshaken.
'...A life's lantern, huh. Guess I'm really dying.'
His chest burned as if bursting, blood tears flowing from his heart.
Born cheonmin, he had honed his craft to the bone.
Others called him genius easily, but his hands had blistered and nails torn dozens of times.
Yet even if he made things his whole life, he had so much more he wanted to create.
It felt like heaven's mandate, his fate.
He had even forgone marriage.
Fearing a wife and child might distract him from pottery.
They say the Buddha, upon enlightenment, named his son Rahula—obstacle—before renouncing the world.
Even the Buddha who grasped all truths hesitated before his child for the greater cause.
Thus, Myeonggap had sealed off even that possibility.
And now, to end like this?
Vain. Utterly vain and regrettable.
He could never forgive the Japanese bastard before him, even in death.
Still, he held back his tears.
I am Myeonggap.
Joseon's greatest craftsman and artist.
I won't show these snake-like scum an unsightly end.
Yes. My breath will give out soon anyway.
Even now, consciousness flickered.
Let heaven take his soul, not men.
No need to fear these vermin now.
Besides.
By his nature, he had to speak his piece, dead or not.
"...You like... tea ceremony?"
A hoarse, trembling rasp escaped.
With a heavy exhale, Myeonggap murmured low.
"Then make your own damn teacups and drink from them, you pirate bastards."
The Japanese captain's face twisted in rage.
Clang—he gripped his sword.
But that blade never met Myeonggap.
As if mocking them, his breath simply ceased cleanly.
4.
Master Potter Myeonggap was swiftly forgotten in history.
The 30,000 abducted potters laid the foundation for Japan's pottery industry.
500 years later.
Japanese pottery held the highest prestige in the world art scene.
5.
Winter 2023, at a pottery workshop in Gyeonggi Province.
"!!!"
Myeonggap opened his eyes again.
In the body of an unfamiliar twenty-year-old youth.
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1.
1.
I drifted for over 500 years.
It felt like eons, yet like the blink of an eye.
And when I finally opened my eyes.
I had become a menial laborer in a pottery studio.
One with a traditional wood-fired kiln, no less.
This laborer's identity: twenty-year-old Lee Hee-so.
At first, I thought it was heaven's blessing.
A fresh young body, in a pottery workshop.
I figured I could easily chase the dreams left unfinished in my past life...
But the problem was Lee Hee-so's rotten luck.
Hee-so was an orphan who had lived in an orphanage until last year.
Timid and depressive personality.
Rock-bottom grades, no notable talents.
Things got worse last winter.
On a field trip from the orphanage to some vocational exhibit hall.
Hee-so listlessly holed up in some random experience booth.
Turned out it was the "Pottery Making Experience Booth," and a man in hanbok approached.
'Wow, you've got real knack for this? Wanna learn from big bro? If you become my apprentice, I'll feed and house you.'
The name tag on his chest.
[Apprentice Successor – Park Bong-gon]
Gullible fool. Falling for that friendly smile hook, line, and sinker.
Hee-so didn't even know what "Apprentice Successor" meant and jumped at it.
He had vague hopes of finding a way to survive,
and for the first time, someone acknowledged him.
Only after coming to this workshop did Hee-so realize.
Park Bong-gon needed not an apprentice, but a disposable slave.
He seized Hee-so's independence stipend under pretext of food costs,
made him do grunt work without paying a dime.
One meal a day was a blessing; he slept in the shed.
Skills? He wasn't even allowed to watch pottery being thrown.
After a year of torment, Hee-so collapsed from malnutrition and overwork in front of the kiln days ago, freezing to death in the dawn chill.
A pitiful, wretched life.
If he'd been my apprentice, I'd have sat him by the warm kiln to thaw his hands.
Well... truth be told, I'm grateful.
For letting me borrow this body.
Anyway, I'd holed up in the shed for days, feigning illness.
Needed time to accept this shocking reality.
Thankfully, Lee Hee-so's memories and info were vivid; I chewed them over greedily.
He'd lived like a weed anyway.
Adapting and changing? I was confident above all.
Today, I finally stepped out to work.
"Hey!! Fuck, what the hell is this? It's all warped!!! You shitty bastards, hey! Lee Hee-so!! Kim Du-sik!!! Get over here!!!!"
True to expectations, Park Bong-gon raging by the kiln.
Kim Du-sik, mixing clay with a shovel, came scurrying first.
"Y-yes, Teacher."
For reference, Du-sik was Hee-so's orphanage junior,
another poor sap duped by Park Bong-gon.
Big build and pudgy fat, that's his trait.
I followed Du-sik casually.
By the kiln, white porcelain pieces with crumpled shapes littered the ground.
"I told you to watch the temperature, didn't I? Huh?! Can't even fire the kiln right, melting them all? What're you gonna do? How do you take responsibility!"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I-I checked properly, why did this happen?"
While Du-sik groveled apologies,
I picked up a rolling white porcelain and examined it.
Ash settled whitely on the belly, crumpled like a tongue.
"Agh! H-hot-!"
At the scared yelp, I looked up.
Park Bong-gon had grabbed Du-sik by the nape, shoving him toward the kiln mouth.
"Ugh— this pig bastard'd be more useful as pork stew. Toss him in today?"
"P-please forgive me. I'm sorry!"
Some crazies exist across eras; universal truth.
I'd kept quiet not wanting Park Bong-gon's crap tasks.
But save Du-sik first.
"This isn't the fire's fault."
"What, you punk?"
"The base sagging is 'cause the bottom thickness couldn't support the top. Clay shrinks naturally in the kiln; if the center of gravity's off, of course it warps."
"...Hey. You teaching me right now?"
Park Bong-gon shoved Du-sik aside and strode to me.
"Answer. You teaching me?"
"Just talking to myself."
"Hah, sick a few days and you watched pottery hotbaris on NewTube? Laborer punk mouthing off to an Apprentice Successor? Top and bottom thickness? You think I didn't calculate that when firing-."
Crash-.
No need to hear more; I smashed his white porcelain on the floor.
Du-sik gasped, covering his mouth.
"Crazy. This dogshit wants to get kicked out-."
Park Bong-gon went berserk, grabbing my collar.
I shoved my ugly mug's cross-section at him, split vertically.
Park Bong-gon blanked momentarily, released me, and inspected the shard.
"No way... I calculated everything right, why?"
Why?
You threw during heavy snow, right?
Should've accounted for the snow's humidity then.
Pottery's clay mixed with water.
More moisture means thicker, heavier ware.
Into the kiln like that, bottom couldn't hold top.
Basic to adjust water; widen top-bottom thickness difference more.
Seems Park Bong-gon ain't used to this "traditional" setup.
Or just skill-deficient.
Park Bong-gon urgently grabbed my sleeve.
"How'd you know this?"
"Picked it up from some hotbaris somewhere."
"You playing word games-!"
"..."
"...Fine. Hey. Exhibition's soon; gotta fire these right. Spill everything you saw on NewTube. Why'd this happen?"
"What does a menial know? As if I'd teach an Apprentice Successor."
I echoed his words, lips stretched in a grin.
Tell you? Am I crazy?
My teachings too precious for a lowlife like you.
Potters boast among themselves, but one ignorant of the Way doing pottery?
I excused myself for some air.
Go bang your head alone.
Man, this Hee-so barely smiled; cheeks stiff.
Face is decent, I liked it, but this sucks.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Truth was, "air" meant nowhere to go.
Just stood at the gate, surveying the neighborhood.
Snowy field untouched by footprints.
Winding ridges far off.
Real boonies, nothing here.
"Ugh, cold."
That's it.
Why I couldn't bolt from this kiln shop.
500 years later, this biting winter still hurts.
Run out bare now? Perfect for freezing.
Suddenly, plaque on gate pillar caught my eye.
[Home of Intangible Cultural Heritage Holder
Gyeonggi Province Important Intangible Cultural Heritage No. 36
Holder: Kim Sil-seop, White Porcelain Master]
True owner of this workshop and mansion.
Intangible Cultural Heritage Kim Sil-seop.
Currently on year-long pottery research trip to China.
Park Bong-gon just borrowing (yet bullying us—hypocrite).
Anyway, a dog in a schoolhouse three years recites poetry.
Hee-so knew basics of the scene.
"Apprentice Successor" means roughly disciple of Intangible Cultural Heritage.
And "Intangible Cultural Heritage White Porcelain Master"...
Korea's top white porcelain potter.
Glad, but bittersweet.
"Top, huh. Then settle somewhere better."
Holed up in this lonely, remote spot.
In "my day," Royal Kiln Institution basked in world's gaze.
Not just royal supply.
Pottery was cutting-edge trend, noble art, Joseon's pride.
But Hee-so's pottery image? Like natural monument.
Grateful just to preserve... Ah, pride stung.
I get it. Reasons aplenty.
Circumstances unavoidable.
Still.
Shouldn't the "top" be different?
True "top" dives into world, plays spectacularly.
I steeled myself.
Yeah.
Let spring breeze blow gentle.
Leave here, live vibrantly with my skills.
No class divides now. What's the problem?
And who knows? Might even marry this life.
I chuckled idly at the fancy.
Then, the plaque's seal script felt too solemn.
"Ahem."
Suppressed laugh.
Tap, tap.
Brushed snow off plaque.
Wiped moisture from "Kim Sil-seop" with sleeve.
Fellow potter? Feels kinship.
"Come before spring wind. Curious what you're like."
I reentered through the gate.
Decided to check the studio Hee-so never entered.
Studio: small annex by kiln shop.
Entered, inhaled deep clay-water scent.
"Snuuuff..."
Ah, nostalgic smell.
Thought gone forever; nose tingles.
Floor cluttered with half-done messy white wares.
Center: iron pillar like wooden post.
Instinct knew: potter's wheel.
Approached, sat entranced.
But bigger, taller than mine.
Where's the foot pedal?
Should pedal to spin wheel.
This? Smooth cylinder.
"What, this a wheel?"
Examined cylinder; something protruded.
? Press it?
Click.
Whirr-.
Good lord!
Wheel spins itself!
500 years, tech advanced this far.
Pottery not obsolete; I felt thrilled.
What they call this?
Hee-so's memory had term.
Ah, right.
"Tech-nol-o-gy."
Amazing technology.
Now body itched to make something. Couldn't hold back.
"Clay. Where's the clay?"
Clay stored separately; not visible.
But up on railing: vinyl-wrapped white bricks.
Pulled some; label read.
[Fairy Brand Fine Clay]
Embarrassing fairy drawings on wrap.
Kids' stuff, but clay's clay.
Peeled several, poured water from canteen, soaked plenty.
Kneaded; hard dough softened.
Familiar moist, pliant feel after ages.
Thud.
Slammed clay on wheel top forcefully.
And.
Whirr-.
Started wheel.
First, knead gently up-down like child's flesh.
Palm warmth, moisture, yielding viscosity.
All align perfectly.
Then.
Schlurp-.
Pulled clay up in one go, centering round.
Swoosh-.
Stood, boldly swelled belly fat.
One hand inside, gauging wall thickness.
Top thin, bottom thick.
Hands move sans calculation.
Next: rim, the mouth.
Many potters struggle with mouths.
Might not match body.
But easy for me.
My hands knew from start.
What size mouth, how.
Perfect remaining clay.
Flicked it outward slightly.
Amount spot-on, no excess or shortage.
Done.
Nothing more needed.
White porcelain aesthetic: this crisp perfection.
Thus, I threw a large white moon jar.
Hum-.
Stopped wheel.
"Ahh— feel alive-!"
Stretched hugely.
Stiff body loosened.
Yeah, this work's my life's joy.
Then.
"Hey. You, what the...?"
Turned at voice.
There: wide-eyed Park Bong-gon and Kim Du-sik.