The pencil lead beneath his fingertips is finer than a fingernail. As the blade glides, shavings drift down like dust. With nothing more than a single pencil, a carving knife, and his eyes, Li Mingjun — born in 1998 in Laishui County, Baoding, Hebei — has spent nearly a decade crafting astonishing worlds in miniature upon the tip of pencil lead.
From the iconic characters of Ne Zha to the Hua Pagoda at Qinghua Temple, a landmark featured in Black Myth: Wukong, span a remarkable range. With tens of thousands of precise cuts to each measured breath, this self-taught young man has brought this traditional art of micro-carving into fresh relevance among Gen Z.
It all began with a simple thought: "I want to sharpen a pencil in a different way." That impulse was Li's first brush with the art of micro-carving.
In high school, as a fine arts student, he sharpened hundreds of pencils each day, the repetition forever urging him toward invention. One day, holding a pencil, he wondered: "Could I make something of it?" His first attempt was a tiny heart carved into the lead. To his surprise, it turned out beautifully.
That small sense of accomplishment was like a seed, taking root over the following eight years. From tentative experiments between high school classes to a collection now numbering in the hundreds, Li has never studied under a master, relying solely on himself, teasing out each detail by hand.
Today, his work has evolved far beyond simple shapes. The eaves and dougong of the Hua Pagoda stand elegantly atop the pencil lead. Ne Zha, smaller than half a grain of rice, vividly embodies a bold and rebellious spirit. Even the fine spirals of a screw thread are rendered with clear, layered precision.
From the high school spark of "sharpening a pencil differently" to a decade of devotion, more than a hundred creations have sprung from this focus. Lively animals, delicate instruments, iconic characters from anime, all brought to life within a space no larger than a fingertip.
Carving on the pencil lead demands more than skill but one's very temperament. "First, I construct a three-dimensional model in my mind, then sketch it on paper to deepen the impression," Li explains. His creative process resembles a finely tuned operation: steady and deliberate when shaping the form, even more so when carving the details. Just as Li says, "Each cut requires a calm mind; only after steadying my breath do I make a precise stroke."
The most wearing moments come at the very end, when a nearly finished piece suddenly breaks. "I once sat staring at the fragments for half an hour, unable to say a word." But he never lets frustration take over. "I adjust my mind and start again," he says.
In time, he learned to slow his pace. To improve the success rate, he devised what he calls the breath-carving method: each cut made only on the steady rhythm of an exhale, leaving him with less than two hours each day in which he can truly carve at his best.
With his rise to online fame came skepticism, comments like "You must have nothing better to do" or "Your family must be rich." Li responds with a faint smile: "Gossip never stops, but it loses its power if you don't pay attention to it." He believes that if it harms no one, passion is the strongest shield against outside distractions.
Li now plans to use social media platforms to introduce this "art of carving with steady breath and blade" to a broader audience.
In an era obsessed with speed and scale, Li deliberately chooses a different path, carefully carving and refining within the tiny confines of a pencil tip.
His carving blade not only recreates Ne Zha's defiance and the intricate elegance of the Hua Pagoda, but also carves a quiet manifesto of a young man pushing back against impatience; the true perseverance is holding one's breath, cut by cut, for a passion that remains unseen.
(Reporter: Li Yingyin; Cameraperson: Li Lingyin & interviewee; Editor: Frank; Translator: Zheng Xiaoyi; English Editor: Darius)
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