The Record of Casting Gods

A purple-gold thunder struck the military mechanics of the 21st century into the Shang Dynasty three thousand years ago. When Lu Zhou woke up, blood was still oozing from the whiplash on his back, and his hands and feet were cut into his flesh by hemp ropes. He was lying in a smoky copper-casting workshop, surrounded by several huddled bodies - whether dead or alive. The foreman's whip was barbed, hanging in the air. He survived. Use junior high school physics knowledge to rekindle the dying fire. From then on, this slave, who did not even have a name, began to quietly do strange things in the workshop - adjusting the air inlet, improving the refractory clay, and grinding arrowheads into a triangular shape. No one understood the words he said, but the fire in the furnace was indeed brighter, the copper water became purer, and the penetrating power of the arrowheads doubled. The foreman began leaving whole grain cakes for him. The slaves called him "Brother." The slave girl in the corner who was responsible for counting materials would always quietly hand him a piece of ground stone or a handful of dried hemostatic grass at night. There is also a woman, the daughter of a laborer. She came more and more often, bringing a food box with her every time, standing aside and watching him quietly as he worked, and occasionally asking a few words softly. Her smile was gentle and her eyes were bright. She looked at him as if she was looking at a special person. Lu Zhou didn't know that the improvement ideas he casually mentioned were being written down on a thin piece of linen paper one by one. He didn't know why the slave girl who handed him the stone tablets always asked him softly at night: Do you believe her? The firelight shone on everyone's face. Some people have calculations hidden in their eyes, some people have worries hidden in their eyes, and some people only have the fire in front of them and the thought of living.