Scrape, rasp. Scrape, rasp.
Only the regular sound of friction moved through the silence. The wool brush in Han-gyeol's hand swept gently over the surface of the white porcelain.
His touch was as careful as if he were caressing a sleeping child's face, or brushing dust from a freshly opened petal. Yet the concentration carried at his fingertips was as sharp as a blade.
The first thing he needed to strip away was fifty years of time.
Food residue had burned onto it as though it truly had been used as a dog's bowl. Old dust had coated it in a corner of the storeroom, along with grease of unknown origin. They were like thick layers of dead skin clogging the vessel's pores.
Han-gyeol did not rush. He slowly removed the larger foreign matter adhering to the surface first.
'The surface tension is weakening. It's time to use chemicals.'
Simple washing with water had its limits. He needed chemical assistance to extract the contamination buried deep within the pores.
Han-gyeol set down the brush and went to the chemical shelf.
Dozens of chemical bottles lined the shelves. Acetone, ethanol, hydrogen peroxide, ammonia solution...... An ordinary restorer would have been paralyzed by indecision. What kind of contaminant was it? What condition was the glaze in? Would the wrong chemical discolor it?
But Han-gyeol had no need for such doubts.
The moment he looked at the bottles, blue letters appeared in the air.
[Contamination Analysis: Organic matter 60%, oil 30%, iron oxide 10%]
[Recommended Cleaning Solution: Ethanol + acetone mixture]
[Optimal Mixing Ratio: ???]
The words did not end there. The instant Han-gyeol picked up a beaker, an intuitive number flashed through his mind like lightning.
'Seven to three.'
It was the textbook ratio. But Han-gyeol paused. The air in the workshop felt cold against his fingertips. The temperature had fallen as the night deepened.
'No. The room is at 18 degrees now. Considering the solution's volatility.......'
Han-gyeol's instincts as a craftsman supplemented the information provided by the system.
'Six point five to three point five.'
That was the answer. At lower temperatures, he needed to reduce the proportion of ethanol slightly and increase the acetone to improve penetration.
Han-gyeol mixed the solution without hesitation.
Trickle.
The clear liquids mingled in the beaker and gave off a peculiar odor. The harsh chemical smell stung his nose, but to Han-gyeol it smelled more fragrant than any perfume. It was like the water of life that would save a dying artifact.
He soaked a cotton swab in the mixed solution and lightly touched it to the bottle's rim, where the contamination was worst.
It made no hiss—, but Han-gyeol could see it.
The blackened, solidified grease met the solution, decomposed in an instant, and melted away.
"Good."
A faint smile spread across Han-gyeol's lips.
He began cleaning in earnest. He wrapped the entire bottle in cotton soaked with the solution, then sealed plastic film over it. It was a kind of 'poultice method,' giving the chemicals time to dissolve the contamination without evaporating.
Tick, tock.
Only the wall clock filled the workshop. Han-gyeol sat in front of the bottle and waited, barely daring to breathe.
Ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes.
'Now.'
He carefully removed the plastic film. Then he peeled away the cotton.
At that moment, Han-gyeol nearly cried out without realizing it.
"Ha......."
Beneath the cotton, now stained yellow with grime, milky-white flesh had emerged as if by magic.
White porcelain.
It was not merely white. Even beneath the cold fluorescent light, its warm, milky shade remained undiminished. After enduring the humiliation of being treated as a dog's bowl for fifty years, the bottle had finally washed its face and revealed its naturally elegant features.
Han-gyeol almost lost himself in its beauty, but quickly regained his composure.
He had only given it a bath. The real work began now.
Han-gyeol's gaze moved to the upper part of the bottle, the rim (mouth) that had been hideously broken away.
Thirty percent of its full shape was missing. If he had the broken pieces, he could simply reattach them, but they had long since vanished.
In other words, he needed to create something from nothing.
An ordinary restoration studio would have used a synthetic resin such as 'epoxy putty.' It was easy to work with, hardened firmly, and took color well.
But Han-gyeol shook his head.
'Synthetic resin won't do. It discolors over time, and more importantly, it has a different rate of contraction from the porcelain.'
This was an object worth nearly 100 million won. He could not restore its full value by patching it with cheap plastic.
He needed real clay.
Han-gyeol rose and headed for the materials storeroom in one corner of the workshop. Searching the dusty shelves, he found an old sack his grandfather had treasured in life.
[True Name: 30-Year-Old Kaolin]
[Condition: Excellent. Fine particles and exceptional viscosity.]
His grandfather had saved this clay, saying he would use it one day if he encountered a precious piece of white porcelain. Han-gyeol took out a small amount.
Squish, squish.
The clay felt sticky and smooth in his hands.
Once it reached the right consistency, Han-gyeol carried it back to the bottle.
The true contest began now.
He had to sculpt the missing neck. But he did not know its original shape. There were no photographs or plans. An ordinary restorer would have consulted photographs of other white porcelain from the same period and made it from 'imagination.'
But Han-gyeol had its 'memory.'
He closed his eyes. He recalled the vision he had seen when he first held the bottle.
The moment the mother on the refugee road placed the bottle in her bundle.
'Wait. Stop.'
The image in his mind froze. Han-gyeol consciously enlarged it. The intact white porcelain bottle in the mother's hand, before it had broken.
Its smooth curve, the slight flare of its mouth, and the height of its foot appeared as clearly as though the vessel itself stood before him.
'I saw it.'
Han-gyeol's eyes flew open. He had to move before the perfect shape lingering on his retinas faded.
He applied a thin layer of lacquer to the broken surface to serve as an adhesive, then began attaching the prepared clay over it.
He focused every nerve on his fingertips.
With a sensitivity so acute that it felt as though his fingerprints would wear away, he pushed up the clay, shaped it, and carved it down.
Whirr—.
That was when it happened. As his immersion reached its peak, the tinnitus rang in his head once more. Then his vision began to change in a strange way.
As though a camera lens had zoomed in, the broken seam of the bottle appeared magnified dozens of times. Tiny ridges and air pockets invisible to the naked eye opened before him like vast craters.
Then a red line appeared over them.
[Guideline Generated]
[Margin of Error: 0.05 mm]
It marked the 'perfect line' Han-gyeol needed to create.
If his clay protruded even slightly beyond the red line, it flashed red in warning. If the clay receded inside it, the line turned blue.
'I have to match it.'
Han-gyeol even stopped breathing. If his breathing faltered, his fingertips would tremble.
He picked up a carving knife. He shaved away 0.1 mm of clay, then added back 0.01 mm, continuing until the red and blue lines vanished and only a transparent white line remained.
Scritch, scritch.
Only the faint sound of clay being carved echoed through the workshop. Cold sweat ran from Han-gyeol's forehead and dampened his eyebrows, but he did not even think to wipe it away.
His eyes stung. He could not spare even the time it took to blink.
What lay before him was no mere lump of clay.
It was the perfect curve raised on a potter's wheel by an unknown artisan in Joseon three hundred years ago. Han-gyeol was recreating it in a workshop on the outskirts of twenty-first-century Seoul.
How much time had passed?
At some point, Han-gyeol's hands had stopped.
Every red guideline before his eyes had disappeared.
"Hoo......."
Only then did Han-gyeol release the breath he had been holding. Hot air surged from deep within his lungs.
He stepped back from the workbench and examined the result.
The neck that had been broken away now rose smoothly as though nothing had ever happened. The seam between the original body and the newly made section was utterly invisible to the naked eye. Its curve and proportions were perfect.
But the work was not over yet.
The shape had been restored, but it still lacked the finishing touch that would bring the dragon to life.
This white porcelain was called the 'White Porcelain Bottle with Iron-Painted Cord Design.'
The 'iron-painted (iron pigment)' design on the neck, drawn as though a cord had been tied around it, was the bottle's defining identity.
The painting had vanished along with the broken neck. The newly restored white neck was clean, but the interrupted design left it feeling incomplete.
Han-gyeol picked up a brush. This time, it was a detail brush (fine brush).
He ground iron oxide pigment on an inkstone. A dark, rusty-red liquid formed.
He needed to continue the broken cord design with it.
This was not simply a matter of drawing a line.
He had to reproduce the speed of the potter's brush three hundred years ago, the amount of pigment it held, the pressure (brush pressure) with which it had been pressed, and the rhythm with which it had lifted.
If all of those failed to match, only the newly painted section would stand out. That would not be restoration. It would be graffiti.
Han-gyeol loaded the tip of the brush with pigment and placed it at the point where the interrupted painting began.
'I have to feel it.'
He closed his eyes.
He entered the memory again. This time, he did not see the mother on the refugee road. He went further back, to before the vessel had been fired in the kiln.
He smelled clay. He smelled the acrid smoke of burning firewood.
Then he saw the back of a man in coarse hemp clothes.
A potter of Joseon.
Humming as though caught up in the moment, the man swept his brush. There was no hesitation and no show of technique. He painted with apparent indifference, as if tossing the brush itself.
Unrestrained freedom.
That was the charm of iron-painted white porcelain.
Han-gyeol matched his breathing to the potter's.
Thump, thump.
His heartbeat synchronized with the rhythm of the potter's brush.
Han-gyeol's eyes flew open.
His gaze had settled into a depth like an abyss. In this moment, he was not Han-gyeol. He had crossed three hundred years of time and become the potter holding the brush.
'Here I go.'
Han-gyeol moved his wrist.
One stroke (a single sweep).
It was a single movement.
The brush tip glided over the surface of the bottle. There was no hesitation or tremor. Its path was as natural as wind passing through and swaying a tree branch.
A dark red line appeared across the white porcelain.
It joined perfectly with the original cord design where it had been severed. Its thickness, shading, and even the sense of speed left by the passing brush matched.
Even under a microscope, no one would have known where the original painting ended and Han-gyeol's work began.
The cord had been reconnected.
Interrupted time had been reconnected.
Han-gyeol set down the brush.
Only then did the fatigue pressing down on his entire body surge over him like a tidal wave. Every joint in his fingers throbbed, and his lower back felt ready to break.
He staggered to the window. When he drew back the curtain, the bluish light of dawn seeped in from outside. He had worked through the entire night.
"Ha ha......."
Han-gyeol gave a hollow laugh. His body felt as heavy as lead, but his mind was clearer than ever.
He returned to the workbench and looked at the result he had brought back to life over the course of the night.
The dawn glow entered the workshop and illuminated the workbench.
There stood the white porcelain bottle.
It was no longer the broken vessel that had lain buried in the dirt until yesterday.
Across its subtle milky-white surface, the dark red cord design danced with bold vigor.
It was elegant yet powerful, simple yet full of dignity. Had it looked like this when it first emerged from the kiln three hundred years ago?
An information window appeared before Han-gyeol once more.
[True Name: White Porcelain Bottle with Iron-Painted Cord Design]
[Condition: Perfectly restored. (Restoration Rate: 99.9%)]
[Current Value: 85,000,000 won + α]
[Special Notes: Imbued with the restorer's 'soul (spirit),' it emits an aura greater than the original.]
Eighty-five million won.
The number had not changed. But to Han-gyeol, this piece of white porcelain meant more than money.
It was the first life he had revived with his own hands.
And proof that Lee Family Workshop could rise again.
Han-gyeol gently stroked the white porcelain. The cold ceramic seemed to hold a trace of warmth.
"You worked hard. Now...... rest well."
The words were addressed both to the bottle and to himself after his all-night struggle.
Han-gyeol sank deep into the chair. He smiled faintly as sleep washed over him.
Today, the empty place his grandfather had left felt a little less cold.