114: Wordless Monument

The wind from Lingnan carried a humid, fishy scent, blowing across the overgrown hills.

The allied army of thirty-six small and medium sects stood in formation like iron, banners fluttering, talismans drifting, incense burners burning brightly, presenting a solemn and 肅殺 atmosphere.

The official road outside Nuanju New City had been blockaded, prohibiting civilians from entering or exiting.

A newly erected stone stele stood at the city gate, inscribed with four large characters—"Fire Ban for Public Peace."

Zhang Xuanyi arrived unhurriedly.

He wore a faded daoist robe, carrying a bamboo pole over his shoulder, from which hung a tattered cloth stall. It was empty, with only a few sunflower seed shells spinning in the wind.

He leaned against an old banyan tree, pulled out a handful of raw sunflower seeds from his sleeve, and began to crack them one by one.

Crack, crack, crack.

The sound was crisp, like a rhythmic beat.

In front, the leading daoist, holding a jade tablet, was solemnly proclaiming the "Net Fire Alliance Covenant": "Anyone who privately transmits fire seeds, destroys steles, or defies the rituals shall be deemed a heretic, to be universally punished! This is the Tianshi Mansion's ancestral instruction, a covenant shared by all sects, with Votive Power as witness!"

As his voice fell, the assembled cultivators shouted in unison: "Obey the covenant!"

The roar shook the wilderness, even startling the distant forest birds into scattering.

Zhang Xuanyi, however, smiled.

He spat out a sunflower seed shell, flicked it with his fingertip, and the shell shot into the air like a dart.

Immediately after, a second, a third... dozens of sunflower seed shells rose, swirling and tracing intricate arcs in the sky.

No one noticed that on the back of each shell, a line of faint glowing text quietly appeared—

"The Kunlun Ancestor walked deep in the valley at night, striking stones with bones to make fire, without heavenly decree."

"The first sect master of Qingcheng drew lightning with bare hands, burning forests to open mountains. When did he ever ask for an imperial decree?"

"The Maoshan immortal went three days without food, rubbing wood a hundred times to get a spark, his ten fingers stained with blood..."

These were all fragments of the secret founding legends of various sects, hidden deep within their ancient texts, known only to the sect elders.

But now, they appeared on sunflower seed shells, dancing in the wind, each character like a needle, piercing into the eyes of every cultivator.

"You... look!" a young disciple stammered, pointing to the sky.

Everyone looked up, their expressions changing drastically.

Zhang Xuanyi slowly straightened up, dusted off his robe, and suddenly looked up with a laugh: "I ask you—when your patriarchs rubbed wood to make fire back then, did they have a jade tablet approval? Did they have the nod from above? Did they wait for anyone's permission?"

No one answered.

The wind suddenly stilled.

He raised his hand and a soft whistle sounded from his mouth.

Whoosh—

A short, sharp whistle, like tearing silk.

In an instant, hundreds of birds perched in the forest suddenly startled, flapping their wings and soaring into the sky.

At the same time, the floating sunflower seed shells all ignited with a cyan flame—not red, not yellow, but that deep, translucent cyan fire, as if it came from the soul flame deep within the earth.

Flames rose, illuminating the night sky.

Even more bizarrely, within each cluster of cyan flame, ethereal figures appeared: an old daoist rubbing wood with bare hands, a swordsman striking stones to make fire, a farmer kneeling to blow on kindling... all were the moments when the ancestors of each sect personally ignited fire!

"That's... our sect's founding ancestor!" someone cried out.

"Impossible! How can this image be so clear?!"

"They... all lit it themselves... no one granted it..."

A commotion began to stir within the formation.

Some people's sword-holding hands began to tremble, some looked down at their own palms, as if realizing for the first time—fire, the spark, should have been struck by themselves.

Zhang Xuanyi stood with his hands behind his back, his gaze sweeping across the entire scene, his voice not loud, but each word like a hammer:

"Is fire a word written by your father? Or is it a spark you struck with your own hands?"

One sentence, like a knife cleaving through chaos.

The allied army's formation wavered slightly. Several disciples from smaller sects had quietly retreated a step, blending into the crowd.

Just then, a dull roar came from the north, seemingly distant yet close, and the heavens and earth trembled slightly.

In the sky towards Seventeen City, a faint red glow emerged, as if the earth had opened its eyes.

At the same moment, in a conference room of the Anomaly Management Bureau in a certain southern province, Su Qingzhu was bending over, wiping the floor.

She wore a mask and rubber gloves, looking like an ordinary cleaner, but a miniature receiver was hidden in her ear.

"We must control the 'Wordless Stele' narrative," an official whispered. "Restart the 'Orthodox Fire Granting Ceremony' and reclaim the right to interpret fire. We cannot let the public believe that fire is something that can be self-taught."

"Zhang Xuanyi has become a symbol; he cannot be allowed to continue."

"At the next assembly, directly deploy suppression forces."

She silently noted every word. After the meeting, she discreetly embedded a miniature recorder into the bottom of a teacup and gently placed it on the desk of a young reporter at the end of the corridor.

Three days later, a long article titled "Why Do We Need to Be Ignited?" swept across the entire internet.

The article cited a blurry image from three years ago: Zhang Xuanyi squatting by the ruins, smiling as he handed a bottle of fist soul syrup to a child with a face full of coal dust.

"Drink this, and if you want to practice boxing, you can unleash the intent of a grandmaster."

The accompanying text was just one question:

"If fire can be self-taught, who still needs a Celestial Master?"

Seventeen City gathered again.

This time, people no longer erected steles.

They sat in a circle on the ground, rubbing wood with both hands, vigorously creating friction.

Sparks flew, and cyan flames danced.

In the live broadcast, the rhythm of the flames actually synchronized with human heartbeats.

Meanwhile, in the northern wilderness, Cui Wujiu knelt before a collapsed daoist temple.

He held a thread of Votive Power in his hand, the other end disappearing into the ground.

Following the thread, he unearthed the thousand-year-old Fire-Bearing Bronze Cauldron.

The cauldron was filled with incense ash, and a wisp of purple flame hung in the center, faintly unextinguished—that was the "Kindling Spirit," condensed from the residual Votive Power of the 72nd Generation Celestial Master, hailed as the "Source of Orthodox Fire."

Several old daoists were performing a "Lineage Continuation Ceremony." On the altar were the birth characters of virgin boys and girls, and blood bowls filled with vital essence.

"By nurturing it with pure yin and pure yang, we awaken the Kindling Spirit and re-establish the world's fire order!"

Cui Wujiu said nothing.

He merely silently took out a photocopy yellow paper, pasted it onto the cauldron wall, and softly chanted a spell.

Moments later, the 72nd Generation Celestial Master's handwritten confession appeared on the paper—the handwriting was vigorous, filled with overwhelming sorrow: "We, in guarding fire, became rigid; in protecting orthodoxy, became shackled, misleading all living beings, our sin is immeasurable!"

As the news spread, nearby villages were in an uproar.

Villagers angrily smashed offerings, rushed into the daoist temple, shouting, "Return our right to fire!"

The ceremony was interrupted, and the Kindling Spirit vibrated violently.

At that instant, Cui Wujiu leaped from the altar, clapped a ball of fire-starting mud into his palm, and forcefully pressed it into the cauldron's belly!

"What you worship is not fire," he said coldly, "it's debt."

Boom—!!!

The bronze cauldron exploded, and purple flames scattered.

But before they could rise into the sky, they were completely devoured by the wildfires that had been lurking around for a long time.

Cyan flames soared into the sky, as if the earth itself was breathing.

A thousand miles away, on the Lingnan hills.

Zhang Xuanyi looked at the restless hearts in the allied army's camp, a slight smile on his lips.

He packed up his stall, slowly walked forward, passed through the panicked guards, and headed straight for the central command tent.

No one dared to stop him.

He lifted the curtain and entered, not fighting, not reasoning, and not speaking.

He merely pulled out a dark iron pot from his embrace, set it over the camp's brazier, poured in water, and started the fire.

A sweet aroma gradually rose from the bottom of the pot—it was a taste etched in countless people's memories.

Someone recognized it, their pupils constricting: "That's... fist soul syrup?!"

Outside the tent, a thin figure hid behind a flagpole, peeking out.

It was a child. Chapter 114: Who Ignites the Fire, Who Stays Silent (Continued)

The syrup in the iron pot bubbled, its sweet aroma like silk, entwining with every breath.

The taste was too familiar—it wasn't the agarwood burned in temples, nor the ambergris lit during grand sect ceremonies, but the song a child hummed while gnawing on burnt bread in the ruins, the warmth of a peasant woman rubbing her hands and blowing on a baked sweet potato on a cold winter night, a wisp of heat squeezed from the bones of countless ordinary people who had once resisted darkness with their flesh and blood.

Zhang Xuanyi squatted by the brazier, slowly stirring with a wooden spoon, his eyes like knives, scraping inch by inch over the stiff figures inside the tent.

Several elders' faces were ashen, their hands on talismans, yet they hesitated to act.

They knew that what was boiling in this pot was not syrup, but the bones of "orthodoxy."

"This... this is a forbidden item!" someone finally shrieked. "fist soul syrup, unauthorized by a granted talisman, is a perverse transmission of true intent, and must be burned!"

Zhang Xuanyi looked up and smiled: "Then you come and burn it."

He didn't move, just gently lifted the pot lid, and a blazing cyan flame "whooshed" up, illuminating the entire military tent as if it were daytime.

Within the flames, hundreds of ethereal figures vaguely appeared: a barefoot youth smashing a stone stele with a punch, an old farmer wielding a stick to repel a fierce beast, a young girl gritting her teeth and throwing a punch to light a beacon tower... all nameless individuals, all igniting the first punch, the first fire, in their own way.

Outside the tent, the thin figure hiding behind the flagpole slowly moved closer.

It was a child with a dusty face, ragged clothes, and fingers purple from the cold.

He stared at the boiling syrup in the pot, his throat bobbing as if trying to swallow his saliva.

Zhang Xuanyi scooped out a spoonful, poured it into a paper cup, gently blew on it, and handed it over.

"Hold it in your mouth," he said, his voice not loud, yet it suppressed the commotion of the entire scene, "and throw the punch you want to throw."

The child tremblingly took it, and as his tongue touched the sweet liquid, his whole body suddenly shuddered!

The next moment, he staggered to his feet, assumed a crooked horse stance, raised both fists, and unleashed a punch—

Boom!!!

The air exploded, and the punch's force trailed a long, thin fiery tail, like a meteor streaking across the night sky!

The surrounding soldiers fell back in uproar, the sound of weapons being drawn rising and falling.

But no one dared to step forward.

Though crude, that punch carried a primitive and pure power, like a heartbeat from deep within the earth, making people's organs ache.

An old soldier with frosted temples suddenly knelt down.

He looked at the child's tender yet stubborn back, tears streaming down his face, and murmured: "My grandpa... my grandpa said... Eight Extremities Fist was originally a crude style for protecting villages and fending off bandits... what secret heart methods were there? Anyone can practice it, as long as they dare to strike..."

Before his words finished, more than ten figures had quietly left their seats in the camp.

They shed their embroidered talisman robes, discarded their jade slips and magical artifacts, only carrying dry rations and waterskins, and slipped out under the cover of night.

No one spoke, but a fire burned in each person's heart—it was the resentment suppressed for too long, the anger against "those not of our kind shall not learn techniques," and even more, the yearning for "everyone can self-ignite."

They dispersed in all directions, carrying with them a martial art so simple it was almost a joke—the "Self-Ignition Art."

No meridian guidance, no spell blessings, only one incantation: "If the heart is not cold, the fire will not die."

But among the common folk, it spread like wildfire across the plains.

Meanwhile, at the peak of the Qinling Mountains in the northern border.

Cui Wujiu sat cross-legged on the edge of a ten-thousand-foot cliff, the cold wind cutting his face like a knife.

In his palm rested a bean-sized speck of light—that was the last trace of "Kindling Seed" he had recovered from the exploded bronze cauldron, said to be condensed from the Votive Power of the 72nd Generation Celestial Master, hailed as the "Source of All Orthodox Fire."

He once thought this was a shackle, a totem of the old order.

But now, he no longer hesitated.

With trembling fingers, he slowly pressed the fire seed to his chest.

There was no searing pain, no explosion, only a bottomless warmth that spread throughout his body along his blood vessels.

In an instant, intricate flame patterns appeared on his skin, like ancient earth veins reviving beneath his flesh.

When his eyes opened, his pupils were gone, replaced by two deep cyan flames that illuminated the long night.

He whispered, his voice like an earthquake:

"They used to say, fire must be passed on."

"I said, fire must burn."

"Now I know—"

He looked up towards the south, as if seeing through thousands of mountains and rivers, seeing the iron pot boiling syrup, seeing the child's first punch.

"Fire, must live."

As his voice fell, the "Wordless Stele" in the center of Seventeen City suddenly trembled!

Countless handprints, like cracks, appeared on the stele's surface—small, large, incomplete, bloody, all pointing in the same direction: the Primordial Ignition Sites in the south.

And on the Lingnan hills, morning mist was just beginning to rise.

Zhang Xuanyi stood up, put away the iron pot, picked up his empty bamboo pole, and turned to leave.

Behind him, the camp was dead silent; no one shouted orders to blockade, nor did anyone chant "Obey the covenant."

He walked through the wild grass, stepped over broken stones, his pace gradually slowing.

When he reached his old spot where he used to set up his stall, he stopped.

That was where he used to hang his tattered cloth and sell yellow paper.

Now, the ground was level, the wall base freshly painted, and dozens of youths were leaning against the crumbling walls, rubbing wood with their heads bowed.

Sparks flickered, some dying out, some igniting.

He watched quietly, saying nothing, just silently sitting down.

Then, he pulled out the last few yellowed photocopy yellow paper from his embrace.