Chapter 482: Survival on a Deserted Island (Part 6)

Fire was indeed a problem.

None of the three had any fondness for eating raw fish, so fire was absolutely indispensable. Of course, a pot was also an issue—but fortune favored them slightly. The bun-faced little maid had discovered, by the mountain stream, a naturally hollowed stone. It was irregularly square in shape, with a depression in the center about the size of a large bowl. It weighed roughly a catty or so. After Li Shu and the maid scrubbed it thoroughly in the stream, it could, for the time being, serve as a crude stone pot.

They had fish. They had a pot.

All they lacked was fire.

Unfortunately, the fire-strikers they once carried had long since been lost to the sea.

“Young Master~ what do we do without fire?” the bun-faced maid asked after cleaning the “stone pot,” gazing at Zhu Ping’an with wide, hopeful eyes—as though he might conjure flames out of thin air.

“We can… try drilling wood to make fire,” Zhu Ping’an said under the intense scrutiny of both Li Shu and the maid. His tone carried a trace of uncertainty.

As recorded in the ancient text Han Feizi · The Five Vermin: in antiquity, the people ate fruits and shellfish raw, which harmed their stomachs and caused many illnesses. Then a sage emerged, who drilled wood to produce fire and transformed raw flesh into cooked food, delighting the people and ruling the world under the title Suiren.

Drilling wood for fire—precisely what Zhu Ping’an had suggested.

His hesitation stemmed from a simple truth: though he knew the principle, he had never actually done it. Moreover, he had heard that drilling wood to create fire was a task of the highest difficulty—an S-level challenge, one might say. Many had tried, only to rub blisters into their palms without producing even a wisp of smoke. And after last night’s heavy rain, dry grass and dry wood would be scarce, adding yet another layer of difficulty.

“I’ll go with Hua’er to look for dry grass,” Li Shu said at once, her eyes lighting up. She too had heard of the method, though it had not occurred to her earlier.

The bun-faced maid, on the other hand, looked utterly blank. She had no idea what “drilling wood for fire” even meant. Still, since the Young Master said it could be done, then surely it could. With complete faith, she followed Li Shu to search nearby.

While the two young women gathered tinder, Zhu Ping’an searched for suitable wood. The three worked in quiet coordination.

That untimely rain had truly made things difficult. They searched for quite a while but found no properly dry grass or timber. Nearly everything had been soaked through the previous night. Even what wasn’t drenched was damp to the touch—unsuitable for coaxing sparks into flame.

After much effort, Li Shu and the maid managed to collect a small bundle of withered grass that retained only a faint trace of dampness. They had found it beneath a pile of rocks, where wind had blown fallen leaves and straw into a sheltered corner. Had the rocks not blocked some of the rain and wind, even this slightly moist bundle would have been impossible to find.

Still, it would not serve well as tinder. At best, it could act as fuel once a flame was already established. It was simply too damp.

They searched a bit longer without success. It seemed they would have to attempt ignition with this imperfect material.

As Zhu Ping’an carried the bundle back toward the stream with the two young women, he suddenly noticed a withered tree nearby. It was tall and sturdy, and about the height of a man above the ground there was a hollow in its trunk.

“Wait a moment,” he said.

Circling the tree, he observed the trunk and roots carefully. There were scattered droppings below—bird droppings, and quite regular in pattern. A faint smile touched his face. This suggested the hollow was a bird’s nest, not a den for bats or snakes or rats.

Setting down the grass, he tucked the long hem of his robe into his belt and wrapped his arms around the trunk, beginning to climb.

“Zhu Ping’an, be careful…” Li Shu called anxiously. A scholar who had read ten thousand books was not commonly known for climbing trees. What if he fell?

The bun-faced maid stood beneath the tree, craning her neck upward, echoing Li Shu’s worries.

In truth, there was no need for concern. As a boy, Zhu Ping’an had followed his father and elder brothers into the mountains. Climbing trees was second nature to him.

He ascended swiftly. The hollow was not far up. For safety’s sake, he perched on a sturdy branch beside it. He snapped off a smaller twig and cautiously inserted it into the hollow to probe within, checking for snakes or rodents.

After a thorough inspection confirmed it was safe, he reached in with his hand.

His fingers brushed against smooth, rounded objects.

He withdrew one.

“Bird eggs! Miss, they’re bird eggs!” the maid cried in delight, nearly hopping in place.

Li Shu paid her no mind. She stood below, head tilted upward, watching him with focused concern—lest that detestable toad slip and fall.

Forgive me, Zhu Ping’an murmured silently to the absent mother bird. Necessity leaves no choice.

Carefully, he placed the egg inside his robe.

There were six eggs in total. Zhu Ping’an took four and left two behind.

It was a habit formed in childhood—one instilled by his father’s simple wisdom: never drain the pond dry to catch fish. His father could not have articulated the phrase so elegantly, but the principle was the same—leave some behind.

Besides the eggs, Zhu Ping’an took half of the dry grass lining the nest. Sheltered from wind and rain, it was perfectly dry—ideal tinder. He left the other half for the bird.

When he climbed down, he retrieved the eggs from his robe and held them out toward Li Shu.

“Here. These will help restore your strength.”

Had she not fed him her blood by the sea, he might very well have perished.

“Who wants them…” Li Shu turned her head away, her face full of disdain—yet the faint curve at the corner of her lips betrayed her. So this foolish toad had risked climbing a tree for her sake.

Carrying the grass once more, Zhu Ping’an led them back toward the stream. Along the way, he spotted a banyan tree with sprawling roots. Beneath it lay a length of fallen wood—dry enough, and solid. Perfect for the base of a fire drill. He brought it along.

They arranged several stones into a simple stove. The stone pot was filled with fresh stream water. The maid found a thin shard of stone nearby; Zhu Ping’an shaped it roughly to serve as a makeshift knife.

Neither Li Shu nor the maid dared to gut the fish, so Zhu Ping’an took on the task. He slit open their bellies, cleaned them, and handed them to the maid for rinsing. Once cleaned, they were placed into the stone pot. The bird eggs were washed and added as well.

Everything was ready.

All that remained was fire.

Under the watchful eyes of Li Shu and the maid, Zhu Ping’an placed the piece of wood upon a flat stone. Using another stone, he carved a small depression into it. Around it, he arranged the dry grass taken from the nest. Then he fashioned a slender pointed stick to serve as the drill.

The ritual of drilling wood for fire had begun.