Chapter 17: Milk Porridge and Aluminum Sulfate
Morning arrived on the cliff with the same quiet confidence it always carried, the kind that never needed to announce itself because the world here did not operate on urgency, and the first light of the sun stretched slowly across the courtyard of Atelier Vimutti, catching on dew that clung to the grass near the edge and turning each drop into a faint, fleeting glimmer before the warmth began to dissolve it.
The sound of the waterfall continued in the background, steady and unchanging, like a breath that the mountain itself had settled into long ago, and the air carried that familiar mixture of damp earth, clean water, and faint plant residue that lingered after a night of resting dye pots.
Khun Ming woke to that scent.
It was subtle, but distinct enough that he could identify it immediately without opening his eyes, because wet fiber, cooled minerals, and the trace of marigold pigment all combined into something that only existed in a working dye courtyard, and he had spent enough mornings in this place to recognize it as easily as most people recognized sunlight.
He remained lying still for a moment, staring at the bamboo ceiling above him while letting his thoughts settle naturally into place, not forcing himself awake but allowing awareness to return at its own pace, and in that quiet interval, he listened.
Soft breathing.
Steady.
Not strained.
That was good.
The golden dog was already awake, sitting near the doorway with its tail resting calmly against the floor, its attention directed outward as the light slowly shifted across the courtyard.
Beside the wall, the large tiger lay on the woven mat, her breathing even and noticeably stronger than it had been two days before, the subtle rise and fall of her body carrying none of the earlier irregular tension.
Khun Ming pushed himself upright and stretched his shoulders slowly, working out the stiffness from sleep with small, practiced movements before rubbing his eyes once and exhaling lightly.
"Well," he said quietly, more as a transition into the day than a declaration, "today is a working day, and since someone in town has ordered five full bolts of yellow cloth, we cannot afford to spend the morning standing around appreciating the scenery, even if the scenery is objectively quite pleasant."
The dog's tail wagged once in quiet agreement.
"Yes, I understand that you personally do not share responsibility for fulfilling textile orders," Khun Ming continued as he swung his legs off the bed and reached for his robe. "However, you are still part of this household, which means you will at least participate in the process by listening to me explain it, which I consider a reasonable compromise."
The dog blinked, accepting this role without objection.
Khun Ming adjusted his lotus-fiber robe and stepped outside, where the courtyard greeted him with that same calm order it always maintained, the dye station still, the pots quiet, the tools resting exactly where they had been left.
Five bolts of cleaned cloth hung neatly from the wooden rack near the fence, their surfaces slightly darkened from soaking overnight, the fibers softened and ready for treatment, while several skeins of yarn rested nearby, their strands loose and prepared for the next stage.
Khun Ming nodded thoughtfully as he observed them.
"That is a promising start," he said, not with excitement, but with quiet approval.
He crouched beside the clay jars lined along the wall and opened one, revealing the pale crystalline mineral he had gathered the day before from the cliffside cave, its translucent structure catching the morning light faintly.
Alum.
He picked up a chunk and turned it in his hand, examining it briefly.
"Potassium aluminum sulfate," he said aloud, his tone thoughtful but steady. "KAl(SO₄)₂·12H₂O."
The dog tilted its head slightly.
"Yes," Khun Ming said, noticing the reaction. "That is the full chemical composition of alum, and while I do not expect you to memorize it, stating it occasionally helps reinforce proper understanding, which reduces the likelihood of mistakes during later stages."
He carried the mineral to the wooden mortar and placed it inside, then began grinding it slowly, the crystal breaking apart with a dry, brittle sound that echoed faintly in the quiet courtyard.
"Alum has been used as a mordant for centuries," he continued while working the pestle, "because aluminum ions form coordination bonds with many natural dye molecules, particularly flavonoids such as those found in marigold, which allows the pigment to attach more securely to plant-based fibers."
The powder formed gradually beneath his hand.
"As the alum dissolves into water, the aluminum ions disperse through the solution and bind to the cellulose structure of the cloth," he went on. "When the pigment is introduced later, it connects to those ions, creating a stable structure that resists washing and environmental degradation."
The dog watched, its attention steady.
Inside the cottage, Hu Xinyan slowly opened her eyes.
The mortal dyer had begun speaking again.
She listened without moving.
Her body still carried the lingering ache of tribulation lightning, but the pain had diminished enough that it no longer dominated her awareness, and the strange calm within the cottage continued to ease the instability in her meridians, smoothing what should have remained chaotic.
She lifted her head slightly.
Outside, Khun Ming finished grinding the alum and poured the powder into a clay pot filled with clean stream water, stirring it gently as the solution turned faintly cloudy.
"That should produce approximately a five percent mordant solution," he said after a moment of observation. "Strong enough for cotton fibers without introducing unnecessary stiffness, which is an important balance to maintain."
He stirred once more.
Then paused.
His stomach made its presence known with a low, unmistakable sound.
He blinked.
"Ah."
The dog's ears lifted immediately.
Khun Ming exhaled softly.
"I suppose even responsible dyers require breakfast," he said, sounding neither surprised nor concerned, just accepting the interruption as part of the process.
He stood and walked toward the kitchen corner of the cottage, moving through the space with that same efficient familiarity that defined his work, every step purposeful, every motion minimal.
Hu Xinyan watched him carefully.
There was no wasted movement.
No hesitation.
He selected a clay pot, filled it with water, and measured a handful of rice, rinsing it thoroughly before adding it to the pot.
"Milk porridge," he said thoughtfully. "That remains one of the most reliable options when anticipating a full day of physical work."
The dog moved closer, clearly interested.
"Yes, I am aware that you are interested in the food," Khun Ming said while pouring the rice into the pot. "However, this particular meal is not especially suitable for you, as its composition does not align well with your dietary needs."
The dog wagged its tail anyway.
Khun Ming added milk from a small jug and stirred gently.
"The combination of carbohydrates and moderate protein provides sustained energy," he continued, his tone calm. "Which is useful when the work requires consistent attention rather than short bursts of effort."
Hu Xinyan blinked.
He was explaining breakfast.
Again.
Steam rose softly from the pot as the rice softened, and the scent of warm milk spread through the cottage, subtle but comforting.
He added a pinch of salt, then glanced toward the tiger.
"You are awake again," he said.
Hu Xinyan met his gaze.
"That is good," he continued. "Your breathing is noticeably stronger today, which suggests that your condition is improving at a steady rate."
He carried a bowl of water toward her and placed it within reach.
"You should drink if you are able," he added. "Hydration supports recovery, particularly after electrical trauma."
Hu Xinyan remained silent, but her gaze followed him as he returned to the stove.
The porridge thickened gradually.
He stirred it with consistent patience.
"Many people assume porridge is simple to prepare," he said, "but that assumption often results in uneven texture or burning, because maintaining the correct temperature and stirring frequency is necessary for proper consistency."
The dog sat beside him, listening.
Khun Ming scooped the finished porridge into a bowl and stepped outside, sitting on the wooden step where the morning sunlight had begun to warm the ground.
He ate slowly, without rushing, each motion unremarkable but steady.
After finishing half the bowl, he glanced toward the tiger again.
"You are recovering faster than I initially expected," he said conversationally.
Hu Xinyan blinked slowly.
"You were able to sit upright yesterday, and today you appear alert enough to observe my entire breakfast preparation," he continued. "That indicates your nervous system is stabilizing."
She stared at him.
Khun Ming shrugged lightly.
"That is beneficial for you," he added, "because transporting a full-grown tiger through the forest is not a task I would prefer to repeat."
The dog wagged its tail, clearly entertained.
Khun Ming finished the last spoonful, stood, and brushed his hands together lightly.
"Now," he said, "since breakfast is complete, we should proceed with the mordant bath."
He walked back to the cloth rack, lifting one of the soaked bolts and squeezing excess water from the fibers, feeling the texture shift beneath his hands.
"Pre-soaking ensures even absorption," he explained. "If dry cloth is introduced directly into the mordant solution, the outer layers absorb more quickly than the inner fibers, which results in uneven dyeing."
Water streamed onto the ground as he twisted the fabric gently.
Then he carried it to the clay pot of alum solution.
"Today we will begin with two bolts," he said. "The order requires five, but consistent results depend on careful pacing rather than speed."
He lowered the cloth into the solution, pressing it beneath the surface until it was fully submerged.
Hu Xinyan watched.
The air in the courtyard shifted again.
Subtle.
But undeniable.
The golden dog glanced briefly toward the dye pot.
Inside the sword, nothing moved, yet something observed.
Outside, Khun Ming adjusted the cloth within the solution and nodded once, satisfied.
"Yes," he said quietly.
"That should work perfectly."
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By the time Khun Ming finished preparing the alum bath, the sun had already climbed high enough to reach the far corner of the courtyard, and the angle of the light told him without needing to check that the morning had settled into that steady middle phase where work progressed best, neither too cool nor too warm, just balanced enough that nothing needed to be rushed.
The cliff wind moved consistently through the bamboo fence, brushing lightly against the hanging cloth and stirring the edges just enough to remind him that the drying conditions later would be favorable, which he noted quietly as part of his ongoing mental checklist, because in his experience, small environmental advantages were worth recognizing early.
He stood beside the clay pot where the first two bolts of cloth had been soaking, rolled up his sleeves with an absent, habitual motion, and dipped his hands into the solution to feel the texture of the fabric directly, because relying only on sight was rarely sufficient when consistency mattered.
"Now that the cloth has absorbed the mordant properly," he said, his tone calm and reflective as he worked his fingers through the fibers, "the next stage is introducing the dye bath itself, which is where the process becomes slightly more sensitive to timing, although not in a way that requires unnecessary concern."
The golden dog remained near the doorway, watching with quiet patience, its presence steady enough that Khun Ming no longer questioned whether it understood anything, only that it listened.
Hu Xinyan had shifted closer to the entrance again, her body still resting but positioned so she could observe the courtyard clearly, her attention fixed on him with a focus that had gradually replaced the earlier confusion.
Khun Ming lifted the first bolt from the mordant bath, and the cloth emerged heavy with absorbed liquid, droplets falling steadily back into the pot as he supported the weight evenly between both hands.
He squeezed the excess solution out carefully, not forcefully, but enough to prevent dilution when transferring it to the dye bath.
"Some dyers prefer to rinse the cloth after mordanting," he continued conversationally, "but doing so in this case would reduce the concentration of binding ions already attached to the fiber, which would make the dye less effective, and that would be counterproductive."
He carried the bolt to the iron pot where the marigold bath had been resting at a stable temperature, and before lowering the fabric, he stirred the liquid once with the wooden paddle, ensuring the pigment distribution remained even.
Steam rose in soft curls.
The surface shifted slightly.
Then he lowered the cloth into the bath.
The moment the fabric touched the liquid, the golden tone rippled outward, subtle but noticeable, as if the bath acknowledged the addition.
Hu Xinyan felt it immediately.
Not as pressure.
Not as force.
But as a smoothing.
The already stable atmosphere of the courtyard settled even further, like a surface of water that had just been gently leveled.
Khun Ming pressed the cloth beneath the surface with the paddle, guiding it carefully until no portion remained floating.
"When dyeing large bolts," he said calmly, "the most important factor is even saturation. If the cloth folds or floats unevenly, the pigment accumulates inconsistently, and correcting that later is far more troublesome than preventing it at the beginning."
He rotated the paddle slowly, allowing the fabric to move in a steady current within the pot, the motion controlled and continuous rather than abrupt.
The cloth shifted like something alive.
Hu Xinyan watched, her golden eyes narrowing slightly as she tracked both the physical movement and the subtle change beneath it.
Khun Ming leaned forward slightly, observing the surface.
"The dye bath should remain warm," he continued, "but never reach a full boil, because excessive heat damages the pigment structure and reduces the longevity of the color."
He reached down and adjusted the firewood, removing a small piece and shifting another to the side, reducing the intensity of the flame without extinguishing it.
"That should maintain the temperature at a suitable level," he added, as if confirming a simple adjustment rather than demonstrating something precise.
Hu Xinyan blinked.
There were no instruments.
No tools.
Yet the control was exact.
Khun Ming stirred again.
"The color produced by marigold is particularly pleasant because of how the pigments reflect light," he said thoughtfully. "However, those pigments are delicate, which means the environment of the dye bath must remain stable if the result is to last."
The dog's tail moved once.
"Yes, that is also why the tannin reinforcement was prepared earlier," Khun Ming replied, nodding slightly. "It provides additional support for the pigment attachment."
Hu Xinyan's ears twitched faintly.
The explanation was simple.
But the effect was not.
"It may appear unusual to someone unfamiliar with dyeing," Khun Ming went on, "but the process is similar to constructing something stable. The fiber forms the base, the mordant acts as the connector, and the pigment becomes the visible result."
He rotated the cloth again.
The yellow deepened gradually.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
But steadily.
Hu Xinyan watched the transformation with growing focus, her earlier confusion giving way to something more structured, because the change was undeniable even without understanding the mechanism behind it.
Khun Ming lifted a small section of the cloth with the paddle and examined it briefly.
"Very promising," he murmured.
He lowered it again.
Time passed.
Not quickly.
Not slowly.
Just steadily, marked by the sound of water, the movement of steam, and the consistent rhythm of stirring.
Inside the cottage, the Seven Jewels Sword remained leaning against the wall, its surface quiet, unremarkable, yet within it, the sealed presences observed without interference, their awareness layered and calm, as if this process required no commentary.
Outside, Khun Ming continued working, adjusting the fire once more, stirring at regular intervals, maintaining that same controlled pace that never seemed to change.
After nearly an hour, he lifted the bolt from the bath.
The cloth emerged transformed.
Not harsh.
Not bright in a way that demanded attention.
But warm.
Balanced.
Like sunlight resting on autumn leaves.
Hu Xinyan's gaze sharpened.
The color was… stable.
Khun Ming examined the fabric carefully, running his fingers along the surface to confirm the penetration.
"Good," he said with quiet approval. "The pigment has entered the fibers evenly, which should produce a consistent result after drying."
He carried the bolt to the stream behind the cottage, kneeling beside the flowing water as he lowered the cloth into it, working it gently between his hands.
"This step removes excess pigment that did not bond properly," he explained. "If left in place, it would transfer during use, which is not desirable."
The water shifted to a faint yellow.
Then gradually cleared.
He rinsed until no color remained in the runoff.
"That should be sufficient," he said.
He returned to the courtyard and hung the bolt on the rack, where the sunlight caught the fabric immediately, illuminating the tone in a way that made it appear almost alive.
Hu Xinyan stared.
Khun Ming stepped back slightly, observing the result with quiet satisfaction.
"That is the intended shade," he said.
He turned without lingering and returned to the second bolt.
The process repeated.
The same rhythm.
The same timing.
The same attention.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing skipped.
Hu Xinyan watched closely, noting every motion, every adjustment, every pause, because this time she was no longer trying to understand what he was doing, but how.
The second cloth entered the bath.
The liquid shifted again.
The atmosphere smoothed.
Khun Ming stirred.
"When working with natural dyes," he said, "consistency is essential. If the second batch is handled differently from the first, even small variations will produce noticeable differences in the final color."
The dog wandered briefly toward the drying rack and sniffed the first bolt.
"Please do not interfere with the finished product," Khun Ming said calmly without turning. "It has already been processed."
The dog wagged its tail and returned.
Hu Xinyan nearly narrowed her eyes in disbelief.
This man maintained absolute consistency in craft while casually speaking to a creature that could likely flatten mountains.
Time passed again.
The second bolt deepened in color.
When Khun Ming lifted it from the bath, the shade matched the first with almost no visible difference.
He nodded slightly.
"That is a very good match," he said.
He rinsed it in the stream, just as before, working through each step without deviation, then returned and hung it beside the first.
The two fabrics moved gently in the breeze.
Their colors aligned.
Not identical in a rigid sense.
But harmonious.
Khun Ming stepped back and crossed his arms loosely, observing both pieces with a quiet, thoughtful expression.
"Well," he said after a moment, "that concludes the first stage of the order, and the remaining three bolts can be completed tomorrow under similar conditions, assuming the weather remains cooperative."
The golden dog sat beside him.
Hu Xinyan remained near the doorway, her gaze steady, her thoughts no longer scattered but settling into a clearer pattern.
This place was not normal.
But it was not chaotic either.
It followed rules.
Not the rules of cultivation she knew.
But something… parallel.
Something quieter.
Something grounded.
The courtyard remained peaceful.
Steam faded.
Cloth swayed.
And as the afternoon light softened gradually toward evening, the work settled back into stillness, exactly as it always did, because no matter what strange things arrived at the cliff, the dye vat remained the center everything returned to, and that quiet continuity shaped the world more steadily than any display of power ever could.
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Chapter 17 complete.