Ming Yuan teapot

At three in the morning, a lone light burned in the workshop of Zhou Mingyuan, an elderly potter. On the workbench, a newly finished Han Tile teapot glowed with a blue-gray luster. Its flattened body resembled a Han Dynasty roof tile, and its spout stood straight and sturdy—his proudest work in fifty years.

"Master Zhou, lend me the pot."

A man in a black jacket emerged from the shadows, a tattoo peeking from his sleeve. Zhou tightened his grip on his carving knife. "A Han Tile teapot demands unbroken energy flow. It’s not for your hands." The man sneered. Suddenly, a blast erupted outside the window, and Zhou was blinded by smoke.

When he coughed his way to the bench, the Han Tile teapot was gone.

Three days later, Detective Lin Feng found the teapot in a suburban warehouse. Carved inside the lid was the character "Wu" — identical to one on a bronze mirror seized in a relic smuggling case three years prior.

"Master Zhou, do you recognize this?" Lin slid over a photo. The old man’s hand trembled, his gaze drifting to an old wooden box in the corner. Under the box lay a yellowed paper inscribed with seven characters: "Zi, Chou, Yin, Mao, Chen, Si, Wu".

"These are my master’s codes," the old man said, voice shaking. "Each character corresponds to a person. Wu is the fifth..."

Before he finished, gunshots rang from the warehouse. When Lin arrived, the suspect lay in a pool of blood, clutching the Han Tile teapot. There was a crack on the body of the teapot, revealing half of the incomplete picture inside.

"They weren’t after the pot—they wanted this." Lin stared at the coordinates on the chart, pointing directly to the city museum.

That night, museum surveillance caught a familiar figure. Zhou Mingyuan, holding the repaired Han Tile teapot, lingered before a display case. Lin suddenly understood: the old man had known the secret all along. He’d hidden the chart in the clay, using special pottery earth to make the writing appear after firing.

"They killed my master back then," the old man said, handing the pot to Lin. "This Han Tile was the first pot he taught me to make."

Moonlight spilled through the window onto the teapot. The repaired crack now looked like a scar, bearing half of the unfinished character "Wu". Lin recalled the suspect’s last words—"Almost..." They’d never known: the full chart was split among seven teapots. And Zhou Mingyuan held the other six characters.

Han Wa teapot, 120cc, Purple clay