118: Fire Illuminating the Road

The night wind rolled with embers, sweeping over the broken monuments and ruined tiles of the place where it was first ignited.

When Zhang Xuanyi returned, treading on scorched earth, dawn was just breaking.

Three years ago, he had ignited the first mortal fire here, burning through the Alien's monopoly on "Qi", and burning down the shrines within the high walls and deep courtyards.

Now, revisiting the old place, it was no longer a barren village in ruins—a magnificent "Fire Lesson Main Academy" had risen from the ground, with blue bricks and gray tiles, and flying eaves that carried a hint of the Tianshi Mansion's legacy, yet lacked its sternness.

The stone tablet at the entrance was wordless, carved only with a circle of flowing fire patterns that flickered like a pulse.

He did not go in.

Until a voice came from inside: "Sir, you have returned?"

It was a child, about seven or eight years old, with eyes covered by white cloth, being helped toward the main hall of the academy.

The child suddenly stopped, tilted their face up, as if they could "see" something.

"The picture on the wall... was it really painted with fire?"

No one answered. The child asked stubbornly: "Sir, what does fire look like?"

Zhang Xuanyi stood in the shadow under the veranda, his throat moving.

He walked over, crouched down, and gently pulled the child's hand.

He did not take them to touch a candle flame, nor did he let them touch the scorching stone edge of the fire pit.

Instead, he pressed that small hand against his own chest.

"It doesn't have eyes," he said, his voice as low as falling snow, "but it knows warmth and cold."

The child was stunned.

A moment later, the corners of their mouth slowly curled up, as if they had truly "seen" something for the first time.

Zhang Xuanyi did not speak again.

He turned and walked into the old site of the fire pit, which was now enclosed as an altar-like open space, with the central fire seed never extinguished, remotely supplied by the fire veins of the Seventeen City.

He took out the last few sheets of photocopy yellow paper from the bottom of his backpack—yellowed, with scorched edges, still bearing the crooked exorcism talismans he had casually drawn back then.

These "Magical Artifacts" that had once made the Old Ancestor of Quanxing kneel to beg for a purchase and caused the Under Heaven Society's top brass to negotiate overnight, were now as light as withered leaves.

He crouched down, pried open a hidden brick at the bottom of the fire pit, folded the yellow paper into a small square, and buried it inside.

Then, he whispered the command that the System had finally responded to after years of silence:

"Terminal program, initiate."

In an instant, the world fell silent.

The fire pits of the Seventeen City trembled simultaneously, the flames contracting inward, condensing into a bean-sized speck of red light, and then expanding with a roar!

Thirty-six thousand people around the globe who had once held street-stall Magical Artifacts—whether it was a bodyguard who had escaped assassination thanks to heavenly eye mung beans, or a martial arts student who had won their first battle in life with fist soul candy—suddenly felt their palms burn, as if touched lightly by an invisible fire.

No images, no words.

Only a momentary warmth, like a sigh, and like a farewell.

The System had dissipated.

The man who had accompanied him from a street peddler to someone who could change fate and set the trend had fulfilled its mission.

Zhang Xuanyi stood up, patted the dust off his Daoist robe, shouldered his bag, and walked out of the Fire Lesson Main Academy step by step.

The mountain road in the early morning was quiet and deserted.

He walked past the spot where he used to set up his stall; the stone was still there, only worn smooth by tourists.

By the roadside, in the grass, someone had inserted a burning stick of incense, with thin wisps of blue smoke rising straight up.

He smiled, and continued forward.

But just as his figure was about to vanish into the mountain forest, a faint light flickered behind him.

One lamp, two lamps, thirty-six lamps...

The windows of the Fire Lesson Main Academy lit up, followed by the old locust tree at the village entrance, then the hillside fields, the creek bridge, and the stone steps—countless small flames ignited out of thin air, not high, not fierce, but firmly spreading along the ground, as if the entire mountain village was seeing him off.

The firelight connected into one piece, reflecting red on half of the mountain wall.

And thousands of miles away in the city, Su Qingzhu was standing in front of the live broadcast desk of the national documentary channel.

Before her was the finished edit of the final chapter of "The Path Lit by Fire".

In the footage, one hundred and eight ordinary people had fire burning in their palms: a sanitation worker swept snow with a broom, the flames turning ice into mist; a village teacher wrote characters on the blackboard with fire patterns, and a mute student spoke and read poetry for the first time; an old veteran walked the Long March route with a cane, and every time he reached an old battlefield, the fire in his palm would automatically light up, as if conversing with the spirits of the fallen...

In the final scene of the film, she stood before the wordless monument, tore up her reporter's ID, and let the wind take it.

"I will no longer write about fire," she said, "I am walking on the path lit by fire."

Three hundred television stations nationwide broadcast it simultaneously.

The next morning, one hundred thousand people took to the streets, holding fire in their palms, walking to work.

Long queues formed at subway entrances, not because of congestion, but because people did not want to drive—they wanted to use their own fire to light up a stretch of the road.

A traffic police officer took off his whistle, revealed the spark in his palm, and guided an ambulance trapped in the snow.

City traffic was paralyzed, yet no one complained.

Someone smiled and said: "Is this a traffic jam? This is a prairie fire."

Meanwhile, deep in the Qinling Mountains, Cui Wujiu knelt outside the Forbidden Ground of Mount Longhu.

He was not qualified to enter. He had been a traitor, an outcast, a sinner expelled from the sect.

But the blue flame in his hand was the last trace of true fire condensed from the Power Of Will of the 72nd Generation Celestial Master.

He slowly peeled the flame away from his heart—it hurt enough to almost suffocate him, as if digging out his own lifeblood.

That cluster of fire hovered in his palm, no longer scorching, but instead warm and moist like jade, seemingly having a rhythmic breath.

He lowered his head and gently placed the fire seed into the stone crack beneath the wall of the Ancestral Master's memorial tablets.

The mountain-guarding Disciple rushed over to stop him, intending to remove it.

But no matter what Magical Artifact was used or what incantation was cast, the fire seed remained unmoved, as if it had taken root.

Late on the third night, the entire wall of memorial tablets suddenly glowed spontaneously.

The names of the 72nd Generation Celestial Master appeared one by one, then quietly dissipated, as if completing a collective exit.

In the end, only a line of flowing fire characters remained on the wall, burning like blood:

"Those who come after, do not need to remember me."

Outside the mountains, Zhang Xuanyi, carrying his bag, walked alone on the ancient plateau path.

The wind grew colder, the clouds pressed down.

He could have bypassed the snow-covered mountain pass to avoid the coming blizzard.

But he stopped.

From his backpack, he took out a charred wooden stick—it was the tool he had used to ignite the first fire, long since carbonized and broken, with only half left.

He looked at the mountain pass ahead, where dark clouds were churning, and remained silent for a long time.

Then, he lifted his foot and stepped onto the snow line.

When the stick tip touched the snow, he slowly made the first mark.

The wind roared on the snow line, like ten thousand horses galloping, rolling ice shards that smashed down on him.

Above the pass, dark clouds pressed down, heaven and earth were in Chaos, and a convoy of a dozen trucks and off-road vehicles was trapped dead in the middle of the mountain road by the blizzard, their engines having long since stalled, metal parts covered in thick frost, and some people knocking on windows to call for help, their voices instantly swallowed by the wind and snow.

Zhang Xuanyi stood on the leeward rock ridge, his Daoist robe fluttering, his backpack slightly tilted.

He could have bypassed it—his thirty years of cultivation intuition told him the southern foothills trail was still open.

But he did not move.

He looked at the group of shivering figures in the cars, drivers pounding on the glass, mothers holding their children tight, and the elderly with purple lips and fading eyes.

This scene was so much like that rainy night three years ago: Quanxing besieged the Alien apprentices, the fire pit went out, and no one dared to ignite the first fire.

"Fire is not a miracle," he said softly, "It is life."

He pulled that half of the charred wooden stick from the bottom of his backpack—carbonized like bone, crisscrossed with cracks, it had once ignited the light in the hearts of thousands.

He crouched down, inserted the stick tip into the accumulated snow, clasped his hands together, and began to rub.

Once, sparks splashed out, and were instantly extinguished.

Twice, three soft sounds, a speck of red light jumped up half an inch.

Three times... five times... by the ninth time, a flame finally trembled and ignited, like a newborn's breath.

He did not stop. One mark, two marks, until thirty-six marks.

Every time he inserted it, a cluster of flames struggled to stand up in the snow; every time he rubbed, his palms burned as if they were about to have a layer of skin peeled off.

His fingers were already chapped and bleeding, but his movements did not lag for even a moment.

Thirty-six fire pits, arranged like stars, connected into an arc-shaped barrier in the blizzard, heat waves steaming up, melting snow into mist, forcibly tearing open a path through the frozen mountain road.

In the distance, the trapped people were dumbfounded.

"Hurry! Do as he does!" a young driver shouted, digging out a spare wooden-handled wrench and a dry cloth from the car, learning to rub.

Then came the second, the third... more and more people joined in, even if it meant using metal pieces to scrape stones, just to elicit a spark.

Three hours later, the snow line retreated three zhang, and the road reappeared.

People stepped on the wet mud and walked out of the carriages, embracing and weeping.

Some held the embers and knelt to kowtow, some shouted "The immortals have manifested," and more ran toward that silent figure.

"Sir! Who are you?!"

Zhang Xuanyi stood up, patted the residual snow off his shoulders, and the corners of his mouth curled slightly.

He did not answer, but only raised his hand, pointing deep into the night sky.

The Milky Way stretched across, stars flowing, and under the extremely cold and clear sky, a brilliant band of light meandered like a dragon or snake.

"Look," his voice was as light as the wind, "doesn't that band of light look like the character 'Fire'?"

The crowd looked up, stunned and speechless.

The starlight was silent, reflecting in their eyes, and it seemed as if a faint light had ignited there too.

No one recognized who he was.

But everyone remembered: the man who taught them to rub wood to take fire, his back stooped as he left, yet he was like a cluster of embers that refused to extinguish, slowly sinking into the end of the wind and snow.

Dawn broke, and the clouds parted on the peak of Mount Longhu.

The main gate of the Tianshi Mansion hall opened slowly with a creak, and the copper rings that had been sealed for a hundred years swayed gently.

The hall was empty, the incense burner cold, only on the sandalwood chair symbolizing the Sect Head's position, a charred wooden stick lay quietly.

Suddenly.

A spark quietly ignited from the tip of the stick, soundless, yet unhurriedly spreading along the carpet.

The flame was clean and bright, burning away the dust on the beams and pillars, licking over the gold paint of the plaque, yet without damaging a single brick or tile.

It did not devour, only purified, as if completing a long-overdue ritual.

When the first ray of sunlight pierced through the glazed tiles on the roof, the entire hall had turned into a huge fire pit—the walls glowed with warmth, reflecting thousands of figures: children crouching on the ground rubbing wood, elders passing fire to strangers, couples pressing their palms together, sparks jumping like heartbeats.

And thousands of miles away on the edge of the Northwest wilderness, on a small loess road, a figure carrying an iron pot walked alone.

The bottom of the pot had residual ashes, shaking gently with each step.

Night fell, and he found an abandoned kiln cave, sitting down wearily.

He took out the iron pot, placed it on the cold stove, scooped up a handful of sand, mixed it into the last bit of fire pit ash, and stirred slowly.

He hummed a tune that lacked a melody, fragmented like a dream:

"One rub, the cold ends, two rubs, the night brightens... thirty-six turns, fire is born from the heart..."

Suddenly—

In the ashes at the bottom of the pot, that imperceptible spark gently blinked.