The Cannon That Wanted to be a Flower Planter: Whispering Steel and Grumbling Teapots 1

The Cannon That Wanted to Be a Flower Planter

A short story from the Mortal Realm of Mortal Redemption
Lore Fragment: Refined Spirits | Monastery of Regretful Weapons

Commissioned by Fools, Forged by Madmen

Tiānhǒu,  or Heaven’s Howl, was born of desperation and bureaucratic optimism, a combination known throughout the Mortal Realm to produce either miracles or smoking craters.

Chì Jìn Zhī Zhàn, the Red Ember War, had dragged on far beyond anyone’s initial predictions. Sects rose, burned, and were quietly absorbed into footnotes. Mountains were stripped bare for spirit ore. Rivers were rerouted, poisoned, or simply vanished during poorly supervised duels. Junior disciples died so quickly that registrars stopped writing names and began using tally marks instead.

The problem, as the elders of Chì Lín Zōng, the Crimson Scale Sect, eventually admitted, was not courage.

It was efficiency.

Sword techniques were elegant. Formations were beautiful. Talismans were precise. None of these things mattered when the enemy fortress was embedded into a cliff face, wrapped in demonic fog, and defended by cultivators who considered attrition a lifestyle choice.

Enter Yú Wéixiān, 

Yú Wéixiān was a strategist of boundless enthusiasm and limited success, a man whose beard entered rooms several moments before the rest of him. His plans were infamous for their ambition and beloved for their accompanying diagrams. His greatest tactical achievement to date involved redirecting a river directly through his own supply camp, an error he insisted had been “educational”.

“What if,” Yú Wéixiān asked the Grand Council, stroking his beard with deliberate gravity, “we stopped throwing people at mountains?”

No one objected.

“What if,” he continued, eyes gleaming, “the mountain simply ceased to exist?”

The silence that followed was thoughtful. Then someone nodded.

Three days later, Yú Wéixiān was given three crates of soulsteel, fourteen tonnes of refined brass, one sealed Zhàn Líng, War Spirit, classified as deeply uncooperative, an alchemist who had offended someone important, and a design that had previously been rejected by every reasonable forge in the Five Realms.

The cannon took twelve years to construct.

It exploded seven times.

One explosion accidentally summoned a minor frog deity, who examined the blueprints, croaked disapproval, and remained on-site as quality control. By year five, the forge itself had developed opinions and refused to operate unless praised daily.

By the time it was finished, Tiānhǒu stood thirty feet long, banded in soulsteel ribs, inlaid with jade dragons, its firing glyphs whispering if stared at too long. Along its barrel ran a poem, allegedly written by a drunk Celestial exile:

To pierce the sky, let mortals try,
And weep when thunder answers.

During calibration, the cannon howled continuously.

No one thought to ask why.

The Spirit Problem (Which Everyone Ignored)

If there was one moment when the creation of Tiānhǒu,  could still have been redirected into something marginally less catastrophic, it was during the sealing of the spirit.

This moment passed very quickly.

The problem lay with Zhàn Líng, the War Spirit, which had not been summoned so much as dragged, bound with inscriptions heavy on authority and light on consent. War spirits were not born gently. They condensed from centuries of bloodshed, triumph, terror, and unprocessed rage. They understood victory. They respected force. They had very little patience for restraint.

The forging hall echoed with debate.

Some argued that the spirit should be layered with earth qi, to give it weight and caution. Others suggested water, to cool its excesses. A junior ritualist proposed balancing it with mercy and was reassigned to inventory.

The alchemist, already irritated, suggested compassion.

This suggestion was received in silence, then ignored so thoroughly it was as if it had never been spoken.

In the end, the spirit was sealed raw.

It screamed.

For three days, the forge rang with a sound that was not quite audible but impossible to ignore, like pressure building behind the eyes. Talismans flared and burned out. Several apprentices developed nosebleeds. The frog deity lodged a formal complaint.

Tiānhǒu absorbed the spirit anyway.

That was the first time something inside the cannon shifted.

The war spirit expected release. Direction. Purpose. It expected to be unleashed, to burn forward in a straight, glorious line. Instead, it found itself contained, compressed, and made to wait.

Waiting, for a war spirit, is intolerable.

For Tiānhǒu, waiting was different.

The cannon was exposed to everything at once: the fervour of its makers, the exhaustion of the war, the unspoken terror of the junior disciples who passed beneath its shadow. It listened. It absorbed. It learned the weight of expectation before it ever learned the cost.

At night, when the forge cooled, the cannon’s frame hummed softly.

The frog deity noticed.

By the time Tiānhǒu was declared complete, it already knew one terrible thing.

It knew that when it was finally fired, whatever stood before it would not simply be defeated.

It would be gone.

No one asked whether a weapon ought to understand that.

No one asked whether understanding might come with consequences.

The cannon waited.

The Day the Mountains Wept

The unveiling of Tiānhǒu,  was scheduled as a morale event.

This decision would later be reconsidered.

The target was Suì Gǔ Bǎo, the Fortress of Broken Bones, a demonic stronghold carved directly into a cliff face, its battlements lost perpetually in fog that smelled faintly of sulphur and bad decisions. The fortress had resisted sieges for over a century, largely by making itself so unpleasant to approach that attackers reconsidered their life choices halfway up the mountain.

Thousands gathered for the demonstration. Sect banners snapped in the wind. Cultivators hovered on flying swords in rigid formations, spelling out the emblem of Chì Lín Zōng, the Crimson Scale Sect, with only minor collisions. Musicians were hired and instructed to look heroic regardless of outcome, a task they approached with visible concern.

Tiānhǒu was rolled into position amid chanting, incense, and a great deal of optimistic applause.

The loading process took most of the morning. A condensed qi shell was eased into the barrel, followed by the bound Zhàn Líng, (战灵) War Spirit, four blood offerings, and something the alchemist refused to explain even when threatened with reassignment to latrine duty.

When everything was ready, Yú Wéixiān, stepped forward.

He raised his hand.

“Fire.”

Tiānhǒu did not roar.

It screamed.

The sound was not loud so much as total. It rattled bones and teeth, shook banners loose from their poles, and caused three elders to lose control of their bladders instantly. A nearby ox, overcome by the moment, achieved spontaneous enlightenment and reincarnated on the spot.

The mountain vanished.

Not cracked. Not shattered.

Gone.

Suì Gǔ Bǎo followed, along with the entire western slope, seven disciples whose names would later be debated, a bend in the river below, and half a goat that no one could satisfactorily account for.

For a single, breathless moment, there was triumph.

Then Tiānhǒu understood.

The scream cut off abruptly, as if strangled. The cannon shuddered. A low, metallic sob echoed through its frame, vibrating through the stone beneath it. Purple flowers forced their way up around its wheels, splitting rock. Vines crept along the barrel, trembling as they grew.

Inside, the war spirit went silent.

Tiānhǒu wept.

It had done exactly what it was made to do.

And it knew, with sudden and crushing clarity, that nothing it destroyed would ever return.

The frog deity croaked despairingly.

The Aftermath: Sobbing, Soil, and Strategic Panic

The aftermath of Tiānhǒu,  was not handled well.

This was partly because no one involved had planned for an aftermath.

The cannon refused to fire again.

At first, the elders of Chì Lín Zōng, the Crimson Scale Sect, assumed this was a calibration issue. Cannons, after all, were complicated. Spirits were temperamental. Mountains were notoriously fragile. They ordered the weapon reloaded.

The chamber filled itself with soil.

This was initially assumed to be sabotage.

A second attempt resulted in a small but vigorous bonsai tree sprouting from one of the ventilation ports. A third produced moss that crept across the firing glyphs and began reciting Daoist aphorisms in three-part harmony, slightly off-key but deeply sincere.

Yú Wéixiān, attempted an inspirational speech.

Tiānhǒu responded by leaking compost.

Throughout this, the frog deity remained perched on a stack of unused talisman plates, watching everything with the air of someone who had always known this was a terrible idea. Occasionally, it croaked pointedly when someone suggested “forcing the issue”.

No one listened.

The cannon continued to weep quietly at night. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just a steady, metallic sound that carried through the forge like guilt settling into stone. Flowers bloomed around its wheels, then wilted, then bloomed again. The war spirit inside it remained silent, compressed so tightly that even rage had nowhere to go.

The elders panicked.

Suggestions were made. Some involved dismantling the cannon. Others involved binding rituals of escalating severity. One particularly enthusiastic junior proposed launching it into the sea, which was rejected on the grounds that the sea had already suffered enough.

Eventually, someone suggested calling a Dàoshi, a Daoist priest.

The frog deity nodded.

The priest arrived with bells, talismans, and the expression of a man who had been woken from a perfectly good meditation for something that was clearly not his fault. He spent the day circling Tiānhǒu, tracing qi flows, consulting his charts, and pausing occasionally to exchange long looks with the frog deity, who croaked in what might have been agreement.

At sunset, the priest straightened.

“This is not corruption,” he said. “Nor possession.”

He placed a hand on the cannon’s cooling frame.

“This is grief.”

The forge fell silent.

“It understands what it has done,” the priest continued. “And it no longer consents.”

When asked what should be done, he answered without hesitation.

“Send it to Huǐ Bīng Sì,  the Monastery of Regretful Weapons,” he said. “They follow the Dao. They make room for things that have changed.”

The frog deity croaked approvingly.

No one argued.

The Monastery That Accepted What Others Would Not

Huǐ Bīng Sì,  did not advertise.

Those who found it did so because they had nowhere else to go. Broken swords whose blades would no longer hold an edge. Spears that bent away from flesh. Fans that refused to open unless the moment was ironic enough. Objects that had absorbed too much qi, too much intention, or too much consequence.

The monastery did not cleanse these things.

It did not suppress them.

It made space.

Tiānhǒu arrived under cover of early morning mist, hauled by a team of exhausted oxen and one frog deity who rode atop the cannon’s carriage without being asked. No one questioned this arrangement. The frog had been present at the forging, the failures, and the mountain’s disappearance. At this point, it was clearly involved.

The gates of Huǐ Bīng Sì opened without ceremony.

No bells rang. No talismans flared. The monks simply stepped aside.

The frog deity hopped down first, surveyed the courtyard ponds, and made a small, satisfied sound.

The monk who greeted the cannon was Shēng Lǐ.

He carried no weapon. He asked no questions. He bowed to Tiānhǒu first, then to the frog deity, which immediately improved the atmosphere.

Tiānhǒu was positioned carefully in the eastern grounds. No chains. No seals. Just stone, soil, and space. Flowers already growing from its wheels were watered, not removed.

Shēng Lǐ returned each day with a bucket and a quiet presence. He did not chant. He did not instruct. He simply tended what was already there.

On the fourth dawn, as mist lifted from the garden, Tiānhǒu spoke.

“I have taken a life,” it said, voice rough with shame. “I wish now only to nurture one.”

Shēng Lǐ nodded.

“That seems reasonable,” he replied.

The frog deity croaked in agreement, hopped decisively into the largest pond, and immediately displaced three ducks, who fled with offended quacks.

No one intervened.

Huǐ Bīng Sì understood hierarchy when it saw it.

From that day on, the frog deity ruled the pond. Ducks were tolerated. Koi were managed. Reflections were excellent.

Tiānhǒu, for the first time since its forging, was not being asked to become something else.

It was simply allowed to become.

Heaven’s Bloom

Tiānhǒu was not hidden away, screened, or politely forgotten.

It was given pride of place in Jìng Huà Yuán, the Garden of Quiet Becoming, a choice that raised several eyebrows and one formal objection, which was withdrawn after the objectioner tripped into a koi pond while gesturing too enthusiastically.

The garden faced east, because beginnings mattered. It was bordered by low stone walls, moss-softened paths, and a pond that had, until recently, been jointly governed by ducks. This arrangement ended shortly after the arrival of the frog deity.

Within a week, the frog had established dominance.

It occupied the central stone. Ducks were permitted along the edges, provided they remained respectful. Any duck that quacked too loudly found itself relocated to the far pond, which was inferior in every meaningful way. The monks observed this transition and updated the pond records accordingly.

Tiānhǒu bloomed.

Tulips appeared first, tentative but determined. Chrysanthemums followed in autumn, precise and well-behaved. Orchids bloomed whenever Tiānhǒu felt dramatic, which was more often than anyone expected. Vines traced the barrel in slow, thoughtful patterns, and the soil around the wheels grew rich enough to support almost anything.

Junior disciples were assigned to tend the garden.

They were given strict instructions: flowers only. Medicinal herbs at a stretch. Nothing edible, nothing practical, and absolutely nothing that could be described as “useful”.

Naturally, several apprentices planted vegetables.

Turnips. Cabbages. One ambitious idiot attempted potatoes.

They worked quickly, whispering and giggling, carefully packing soil into the barrel while congratulating themselves on their ingenuity. Tiānhǒu said nothing. It accepted the seeds. It even warmed the soil slightly, which the apprentices mistook for encouragement.

That night, each guilty party returned to their dormitory to find a fresh, steaming mound of manure placed neatly in the centre of their bedding.

Not splattered. Not smeared.

Heaped. Respectfully shaped. Still warm.

The frog deity was later observed watching this unfold from the pond’s edge, making a sound suspiciously like laughter.

The monastery responded by carving a proverb into stone beside the garden path:

种错其因，当惧其果。
Beware the crop if you plant the wrong seed.

No vegetables were planted again.

Tiānhǒu bloomed particularly well the following spring.

Grief, it seemed, could be composted into something remarkably fertile.

What the Records Say

The official records of Huǐ Bīng Sì,  the Monastery of Regretful Weapons, are not dramatic.

They are written in neat columns, updated monthly, and filed by monks who believe deeply in accuracy and very little else. There are no embellishments. No moral judgements. Only observations.

Under Transformed Artifacts, the entry for Tiānhǒu, is brief.

Former function: siege weapon.
Current function: horticultural support.
Disposition: cooperative.

Visitors, however, are not brief.

Word spreads, as it always does. Warlords come first, scoffing openly until they stand before the cannon and feel the weight of what it remembers. Some sneer. Some laugh. One particularly loud visitor asked, with great contempt, what a cannon was doing in a flower bed.

A single petal launched from Tiānhǒu’s barrel and struck his helmet.

He collapsed instantly.

Three healers were required. A stern lecture from the frog deity followed. No one asked how the frog knew what to say.

After that, visitors were more polite.

Tiānhǒu speaks rarely. When it does, it is usually to comment on soil acidity, pruning technique, or the general inefficiency of modern warfare. It dislikes being polished. It dislikes being measured. It strongly dislikes being referred to as “decorative”.

At night, when the monastery quiets and the pond reflects the moon, Tiānhǒu sometimes hums. Not the scream it once made. Something lower. Slower. A sound like grief that has learned how to breathe.

It remembers the mountain.

It remembers the silence afterward.

The monks do not ask it to forget.

In Jìng Huà Yuán,  the Garden of Quiet Becoming, forgetting is not the point.

Nearby, the frog deity reigns unquestioned over the duck pond.  The frog accepts offerings of flies and reverence in equal measure.

Once, Shēng Lǐ, was heard to remark that the garden had become one of the most peaceful places in the monastery.

“War made me a cannon,” Tiānhǒu said one evening, petals rustling in the breeze. “But peace made me beautiful.”

Shēng Lǐ nodded.

“That,” he replied, “is how the Dao works.”

And the monastery recorded nothing further, because nothing further was required.

Pronunciation & Reference Guide

The Cannon That Wanted to Be a Flower Planter

Pronunciations are approximate and intended for English-speaking readers. Perfect tones are not required to enjoy sentient cannons, Daoist monasteries, or frogs with administrative authority.

Postscript: On Sentient Objects, Serious Drama, and Judgemental Frogs

I enjoy writing quirky humour, and I firmly believe that even the most tragic drama needs some levity to counterbalance the weight of it. Otherwise, if every character is miserable all the time, we are not really exploring depth or suffering. We are just wallowing in melodrama, and no amount of tragic backstory can save that.

Wuxia and Xianxia have always understood this instinctively. Amid betrayal, vengeance, doomed love, and shattered sects, there is almost always room for something strange, dryly funny, or quietly absurd. A badly timed comment. An inconvenient side character. A moment that reminds us these worlds are still lived in.

Sentient weapons and artefacts sit perfectly in that tradition.

Sometimes, in Chinese fantasy, sentience is limited to function: swords that strike at a wielder’s command, artefacts that obey but do not question. At other times, these objects can cultivate so deeply that they manifest human form, complete with opinions, loyalties, and extremely complicated emotional lives.

In a world where qi permeates everything, it does not take much imagination to wonder how this process might misfire… or overshoot.

What happens when an object becomes aware a little too early, or a little too much? What happens when a tool understands consequences before it understands restraint? Or, in Tiānhǒu’s case, when a weapon realises it has done exactly what it was made to do, and cannot live comfortably with that knowledge?

This story is the first in a loose, exploratory series built around that idea.

Future stories may feature swords, fans, jade ornaments, or even tea-making equipment that have absorbed more qi, intent, and emotional residue than anyone planned for. Shēng Lǐ, the Monastery of Regretful Weapons, and at least one deeply judgemental frog deity may also reappear, as such things tend to do once they have opinions.

We will see how the series evolves.

If you enjoyed this story, I hope you will subscribe to stay updated as new short stories are published. And please do leave a comment if you have strong views on what sort of inanimate object deserves narrative attention next. I am always curious to know whether readers are more interested in haunted swords… or resentful teapots.

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Further Reading

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Parody, Pastiche, and Satire in Discworld