145: This is weird.

At 3:00 AM, the frost and fog on the North China Plain were so thick they couldn't be dispersed, wrapping around the broken walls and ruins of the abandoned granary like a burial shroud.

The wind crept in through broken windows, carrying rust flakes from the corrugated iron eaves, rustling in the darkness.

A few homeless people huddled in the corner, their trembling hands pressing their lighters again and again—click, click, click... The flame would extinguish as soon as it appeared, as if swallowed by something invisible.

"Something's eerie!" an old man wrapped in a sack cursed, his teeth chattering, "In this damn weather, even fire won't stay alive."

No one answered.

They had been enduring it here for three days; their cotton padding was soaked through, and ice had formed in the marrow of their bones.

Someone muttered in a low voice, "How about... burning some wood?"

"Burn my ass, where is there any dry wood left here?" another young man hugged his knees, his eyes unfocused, "I'd rather freeze to death than touch that thing again."

Before the words left his mouth, a muffled sound suddenly came from the corner—like metal hitting the ground.

Everyone looked up abruptly.

A thin man curled up in the innermost side had just kicked a piece of rusted iron half-buried in the ash and dirt.

He picked it up subconsciously. The moment his fingertips touched it, the entire fragment vibrated slightly, and an extremely fine gold pattern appeared on its surface, pulsing like a Bloodline before fading away.

"What is that?" The old man leaned in, squinting to see clearly.

But the next second, the pile of dry grass suddenly ignited with a "hiss."

There were no flying sparks, no rising smoke, only a spiraling flame that rose silently, like a Dragon coiling upwards, suspended quietly in mid-air.

The eerie thing was that it didn't burn; instead, it slowly dried and fluffed up the soaked cotton padding, and amid the rising steam, there was even a hint of sweet fragrance.

"Good heavens... is this ghost fire?"

"Don't talk nonsense!" The young man shrank back, "Ghost fire is blue! This is gold!"

Everyone stared in uncertainty and fear, eyes fixed on the docile yet indescribable fire, cold sweat sliding down their temples.

Just then, a figure appeared at the entrance of the granary, though no one knew when they had arrived.

The person was wearing a dirty military overcoat with the brim of their hat pulled very low, leisurely gnawing on a roasted sweet potato.

He took a bite and said vaguely, "Don't be afraid, it recognizes familiar people."

The voice wasn't loud, but it drove into everyone's ears like a nail.

The moment the words fell, his figure flickered and vanished into the thick fog outside the door, as if he had never appeared.

All that remained was a flattened sweet potato skin on the ground, its edges scorched black, branded with a bird shape about to take flight—its tail feathers curled like flames, eyes closed, and corners of its mouth slightly raised, wearing a knowing smile.

Under the firelight, the pattern seemed to tremble slightly.

Meanwhile, deep in the Qinling Mountains, an off-road vehicle was traveling along a winding mountain road.

The windshield wipers swung back and forth, cutting through the night fog and drizzle.

The car radio crackled, and a female voice abruptly broadcasted: "...Following the unexplained reignition of stove tops in three century-old cave dwellings in Luliang, Shanxi last night, this morning, a family surnamed Chen in Wuzhen, Jiangnan, reported that cold ash in an ancestral incense burner burst into golden flames again. Witnesses say the flames appeared to be in a prayer-hand position, lasting for nine breaths before extinguishing. Additionally, reports from the Changbai Mountain forest farm in the Northeast indicate that warm currents have seeped from within several frozen century-old trees, and rune-like markings have appeared on the bark... Officials have yet to respond, and the meteorological department has ruled out the possibility of lightning strikes or geothermal anomalies..."

In the passenger seat, Su Qingzhu sat up abruptly, her fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly.

She had just finished organizing the last batch of submitted photos for the chronicles of vows last night—the "birds in dreams" drawn by children from all over the country were almost identical: wings spread, eyes closed, tail feathers like fire.

She pulled out the photocopy of the ancient Incomplete Manual she carried with her, trembling as she compared them.

"Dragon and Tiger Fire Seal Diagram: Illumination Style."

Not a single word off.

She took out her notebook and scribbled under the dim car lights: "Fire is not transmitted; it is awakened."

As the tip of her pen finished the last stroke, a gust of wind suddenly rose outside the window, making the paper tremble.

She closed the notebook and leaned back wearily.

A night passed.

The next morning, sunlight spilled into the hotel room. She opened the notebook, and her pupils suddenly contracted—

The entire notebook had turned to ash, neatly piled on the desktop, except for that sentence, which appeared clearly on the glass window in handwriting formed by dewdrops: "Fire is not transmitted; it is awakened."

The water droplets had not dissipated, refracting the golden light of the morning sun like an oracle.

In a small southern town, the morning market was in full swing.

Zhang Xuanyi blended into the crowd, carrying a bamboo basket on his shoulder, hawking "Old Stove Ash."

His voice was lazy, with three parts mockery and seven parts nonchalance: "Ancestral stove-heart soil; even if you haven't lit a fire in three years, it will light up at a touch. Guaranteed to be effective; if it doesn't work, I'll refund your money."

The onlookers laughed.

An old cook with a face full of grease walked out, leaning on a cane, and sneered: "My wood stove has been out for half a month. If you can light it, I'll walk home on my hands!"

After he finished speaking, he actually grabbed a handful of ash, sprinkled it into the stove, and slapped it twice: "Come on! Let's see how long you can bluff!"

The air went silent for two breaths.

Suddenly—deep in the heart of the stove, a speck of golden light quietly emerged.

Once, twice, three times. Like a heartbeat.

Immediately after, with a "boom," flames shot up into the sky. The shape was strange, actually resembling hands pressed together in prayer, burning solemnly for exactly nine breaths before slowly extinguishing.

In the embers, a bird-shaped scorch mark was faintly visible.

The crowd was in an uproar.

"It's miraculous! It really lit up!"

"Where did this ash come from? Tell us! I'll buy it for any price!"

But when they looked back, the bamboo basket was already gone.

Zhang Xuanyi had retreated to the bridge pier at the end of the street, squatting on the ground, feeding porridge to a stray dog with a lame leg using an enamel bowl.

The dog's ears twitched, and its nose flared.

Zhang Xuanyi patted its head and whispered: "Can you smell it? They have started looking for each other."

In the distance, thin mist filled the river surface. A group of early morning fishermen stared blankly at the water—the places that were still iced over last night were now rippling, and deep under the water, a golden light seemed to flash and disappear.

And at the edge of the Northwest wilderness, sand dunes stretched on like a dead sea.

The ruins of an abandoned observatory stood quietly; the iron gate was half-collapsed, and the concrete walls were covered with wind-eroded cracks.

Late at night, a snow-white lamb from a herdsman's family quietly left the flock.

It crossed the sandy ground, heading towards a long-dried riverbed, its steps steady and without hesitation.

Finally, it stopped in front of a section of railroad track buried deep in the sand.

Under the moonlight, it lowered its head, and its nose tip gently touched the ground.

A wisp of extremely fine golden thread slowly seeped out from its nostrils and sank into the sand.

Deep within the earth, it was as if someone had gently responded.

Northwest Gobi Desert, the night was like ink.

The wind and sand moaned among the ruins, sweeping over the half-collapsed concrete walls and rusted iron frames.

That long-forgotten observatory lay quietly at the edge of the wilderness like a skeleton gnawed away by time.

The moonlight slanted down, reflecting the undulating contours of the sand dunes, as if the earth itself were holding its breath, waiting for something.

The lamb still stood at the edge of the dried riverbed, its body as snow-white as frost, with only that wisp of golden thread at its nose tip remaining unbroken.

It seemed to be drawn by some ancient rhythm; its four hooves remained still, yet a barely perceptible firelight welled up deep in its pupils—not a reflection, but born from within.

The moment the golden thread sank into the sand, a dull "hum" came from underground, like a giant beast turning over.

Immediately after, the abandoned oil pipeline buried for decades suddenly heated up.

Starting from the inside, the metal pipe walls emitted a faint crackling sound, like a Bloodline pulsing again.

Heat seeped out from the seams, carrying sparks and a scorched fragrance, actually melting the surrounding sand grains into glass-like particles.

A thin crack meandered open, and red-gold mist gushed out, condensing in the air into a fleeting rune—it was none other than the "Bloodline Activation Style" from the Dragon and Tiger Fire Seal Diagram.

A hundred miles away, Zhang Xuanyi was squatting under the eaves of a ruined temple, mending his shoes.

His left hand held the needle, his right hand wound the thread, his movements as lazy as if he were teasing a cat.

Suddenly, his fingertips trembled, and the needle tip went off course, pricking his finger pad.

A bead of blood had just emerged when he wiped it onto the shoe upper with indifference.

He slowly looked up at the starry sky.

The seventh star of the Big Dipper—Alkaid—was trembling gently, as if it were a string plucked by someone.

The corners of his mouth lifted, and he laughed in a low voice: "The old railroad track still remembers how to sing? Heh... it seems you are even less willing to be lonely than I imagined."

He didn't move, nor did he summon talismans or call upon Qi; he just tossed the worn-out shoe aside and tilted his head to gulp down a mouthful of coarse tea.

The tea was scalding hot, dripping down his chin and burning several small pits into the mud ground—the arrangement of those pits faintly formed a miniature Formation.

It was the fire itself that had awakened.

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, in a study in a small Jiangnan town, Su Qingzhu was staring at the bronze fragment on her desk.

It came from a package with no sender information; the packaging was rough, yet it exuded an eerie sense of cleanliness.

The enclosed letter had only five characters: "Don't study it, listen to it."

She had intended to scoff at it, but when she closed her eyes that night, dreams surged in like a tide—

The moment the ancestral hall of Mount Longhu collapsed, the sound of breaking beams was mixed with the crying of an infant;

Before the System's rag turned to ash, its final flash did not reveal a data stream, but a prototype of a command talisman engraved with the character "Xiao," its edges burning with an eternal golden flame;

And when Cui Wujiu drew the Bloodline Severing Talisman, the drops of blood from his fingertips fell into the Void Realm, actually transforming into a small bird flapping its wings to fly before hitting the ground...

The scene stopped abruptly.

She woke up in a start, cold sweat soaking her pajamas.

Looking up, a line of extremely fine small characters appeared on the surface of the bronze fragment, as if condensed from dewdrops: "The fire seed does not belong to anyone, including me."

At the same time, in an elementary school classroom in a remote village in the Southwest, the first ray of morning sunlight shone onto the mottled blackboard.

A dozen or so children had gathered together, their chalk moving non-stop, each drawing the same picture—a bird with wings spread, its head touching the earth, its wings holding up a broken chain.

The lines were childish, yet they exuded a nearly sacred synchronicity.

And in an unattended ruined temple deep in the mountains, an ancient stele that had once been sprinkled with stove ash by Zhang Xuanyi quietly seeped out warm golden liquid.

The liquid flowed along the stone cracks, merged into a mountain stream, and followed the water towards the distance—wherever it passed, withered vines revived, cold pools steamed, and schools of fish swam upstream, as if the entire mountain range were waking up.

The world had changed.

It wasn't that someone had lit the fire, but that the fire had chosen its own way of Rebirth.

Su Qingzhu stood in front of the window, looking at the brightening morning light on the horizon, suddenly feeling that some things could no longer be recorded with a pen.

They were writing themselves into everyone's dreams in another way.