A second crack split the vessel seam. Yan heard it over the voices and the scrape of chairs. He had backed almost to the side arch when he saw how many people remained between the demonstration table and the exit.
“Side arch!” he shouted. “Leave the main doors clear!”
The furnace casing shivered. A tremor ran through the table, rattling the sample jars. One rolled off the edge and broke on the floor. The crowd surged toward the main doors anyway. Someone shouted that the front way was shorter. A clerk pushed past a junior disciple, who stumbled into the disposal cart.
Qinghe stepped into the aisle and raised both hands. “Stop. One line. The side arch is open.”
Her voice did not carry as far as Yan’s, but people nearest her obeyed. Steward Lu had moved close to the main doors with his tablet. He stared at the crowd, then at the furnace hall.
“The service passage is still clear,” he said. “Can we use that way?”
“No,” Yan called. “The valve’s failed.”
Lu looked to Qinghe. She nodded once. “The side arch. Move the uninjured first, and leave the tools.”
Bai had been counting apprentices outside. He returned to the threshold and pointed the two youngest toward Qinghe. “Follow her. If the person in front stops, you stop too.”
The side arch opened onto the narrow courtyard path. A low stone step crossed the threshold. One apprentice stumbled and caught the frame, stopping the line behind him. Qinghe steadied him by the elbow and made the next person wait until his foot was clear.
“Go on,” she said. “You’re not hurt.”
“I dropped my slate.”
“Leave it.”
He went, cheeks flushed. The next three crossed in order. Bai counted them by name, not number, and corrected one boy who tried to circle back for his robe. The boy glared but kept walking.
Yan saw the jar cart blocking the main doors. It had tipped when the crowd pressed toward it, and two wheels were wedged against a floor seam. If the side arch jammed, the main exit would be no help. He stepped to the cart.
Qinghe caught his sleeve. “Your arm—”
“My left side.”
The upper-arm stitches pulled if he reached too high. His right forearm was still bandaged, and the bruise at his shoulder ached when he twisted. He turned so his uninjured side faced the cart, tested the handle, and found it heavier than it looked. The cracked jars still inside shifted with a clinking weight.
“Don’t shove it toward the door,” Steward Lu called. “The floor slopes.”
“I know.” Yan lowered his stance. The first pull only tightened the wheel against the seam. The cart’s lower rail groaned. He slid one hand beneath the frame and tested the weight before committing.
Ashen Marrow ran through him in one practiced breath. Its old marrow strain turned into a clean, strengthening warmth. His bones took the load without pain. The cart did not become light. Its trapped wheel scraped against stone, and the jars knocked together as he lifted one end.
“Keep the aisle open,” Yan said.
Lu stepped aside and drew the clerks back. Bai caught the cart’s opposite handle. “Which way?”
“Toward the wall, then roll it.”
They shifted together. The wedged wheel climbed over the seam with a hard jerk. Yan’s left shoulder took most of the weight; the old bruise throbbed from the external strain, but his healing cut stayed tucked under his sleeve. Bai leaned back and dragged the cart far enough to clear the doorway.
A jar fell from the top shelf and burst. Glass scattered across the aisle. A junior disciple who had been trying to pass the cart cried out and clutched his palm. Blood ran between his fingers.
“Hold still,” Qinghe said, stopping the line. She took a clean strip from her sleeve pouch and wrapped the hand firmly. “Keep it above your waist. Don’t touch the glass.”
The disciple grimaced. “It’s cut deep.”
“It is a cut. We’ll wash it outside.” She tied the cloth and sent him forward with Bai. “Walk slowly.”
Yan kicked the larger shards away from the route. He used the heel of his boot to push the smaller pieces toward the wall, then grabbed the broom from the corner and swept the remaining slivers beneath a shelf. It was not enough to make the floor clean, but it cleared the width of the exit.
“Next group,” Qinghe called.
The line moved. Steward Lu stood by the arch and called names from his inspection list. The clerk who had tried to turn back for a ledger stopped when Lu held out a hand.
“The slate stays,” Lu said.
“It contains the batch figures.”
“Then we will remember them as figures.”
The clerk crossed empty-handed. Qinghe checked him off the count. Bai took the apprentice’s ink box from the demonstration table and carried it outside without letting anyone return for it. Once the clerk reached the yard, he handed it over. The man thanked him, then went to the infirmary apprentice to check the bleeding hand.
The crack in the vessel lengthened. Heat came in a sudden wave down the hall, carrying the smell of scorched oil. People flinched and pressed toward the arch. Qinghe spread her arms across the narrow entrance.
“One at a time!”
Yan stood between the remaining crowd and the central aisle. “If you push, the person ahead falls. Keep moving in the order you’re in.”
A woman in a clerk’s apron pulled a younger apprentice in front of her. “Go. I’ll follow.”
The child took three small steps, then stopped at the threshold. Bai bent and offered his hand. “Look at me. One step over, then the next.”
She crossed. He did not lift her or hurry her. Qinghe checked her name and sent her toward the courtyard wall, where the others could gather away from the furnace windows.
Steward Lu called the last names. “Fen?”
“Here,” Fen answered from beside Qinghe. She held the bent wrench but did not try to carry it through the exit.
“Leave it,” Yan said.
Fen put it down against the wall. “I was going to return it to the tool room.”
“Let the tool room wait.”
A worker started for the central aisle, thinking he could slip behind the jar cart to get outside faster. Yan blocked him with one arm. “The side arch.”
The worker met Yan’s gaze, then turned. No one else tried it.
The last clerk crossed the arch. Lu followed, carrying the inspection tablet. He checked the names against the people in the courtyard and found one missing apprentice. Qinghe repeated the count. Bai did it from the gate. The numbers matched for everyone but the child who had been standing near the demonstration table.
“She came out ahead of me,” Bai said. “The little one with the blue cuff.”
Qinghe looked back through the arch. “No, I counted her outside.”
Yan scanned the courtyard. The child stood beside the infirmary wall, holding a damp sleeve over her mouth. Beyond the threshold, the hall was nearly empty. The vessel gave a sharp report, and another shelf fell across the aisle.
A young apprentice remained inside, frozen near the center of the hall, staring at the furnace glow. His back was turned to the open side arch.
Yan saw him and turned back before Qinghe could reach his arm.