148: Xiaoyao Order

The spring market at the foot of Mount Longhu had just opened, and the muddy ground was still damp from the rain; one step down and half a shoe sole would sink in.

The peddling cries were sparse, with a few old farmers squatting in front of stalls sorting through aged seeds, and the wisps of cooking smoke were sparse, like threads snapped by the wind.

Yet, in the most inconspicuous corner of the market—once the central location of the Myriad Laws Street Stall—an old woman wrapped in a gray cloth headscarf squatted beside a cold stove, her movements so slow they were almost devout.

She pulled half a bag of black ash from her bosom, her fingertips trembling slightly, yet she steadily sprinkled it into the stove chamber.

Someone passing by asked with a laugh, "Old lady, burning paper? What era is this, and you're still playing with that stuff?"

The old woman did not answer; she simply covered the pot, sat cross-legged, and gazed at the empty stove opening, as if waiting for an acquaintance to return home.

"I heard it can self-ignite," she finally spoke, her voice dry but unquestionable.

Laughter erupted all around.

Who didn't know that three years ago, that spot was where a Daoist set up a Myriad Laws Street Stall?

Selling some yellow paper and mung beans; it sounded mysterious.

Later, there were incidents of Heaven Fire, mountain tremors, and ten thousand people kneeling; the authorities issued a ban, even renovated the ground three times over, so what could possibly be left?

But no one noticed that when the bag of black ash hit the ground, a trace of imperceptible warmth welled up from the gaps in the blue bricks at the bottom of the stove, as if a sleeping Bloodline had been gently awakened.

Three quarters of an hour passed.

The crowd had long since dispersed, and even the hawker selling candied fruit had packed up his pot.

The old woman remained motionless, not even blinking.

Suddenly—the heart of the stove gave a jump.

Golden light appeared, flickering three times like a heartbeat.

Silently, flames surged up, shaped like a pair of cupped hands, burning quietly without smoke or scorching anything, merely casting the entire iron pot into a glazed, iridescent hue.

"The Fire... it ignited by itself!"

Someone screamed and stumbled backward over a shoulder pole. A few chickens flapped their wings, flying onto the roof of the shed, clucking chaotically.

The old woman smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes piling up, but her gaze was cast toward the shallow gully at the market entrance—where there had once been a small stream, and three years ago, a Daoist had pushed an empty bamboo basket into the flowing water, saying, "I do not take money, nor do I leave my name."

Now the stream had diverted, leaving only dry rock crevices, but at this moment, deep within those gaps, a trace of warmth was slowly seeping out, like someone breathing gently underground.

"You didn't take money back then," she murmured, "this time, I don't intend to take it either."

The firelight illuminated her profile, flickering on and off.

No one knew that the handful of black ash was something she had picked up from the East Sea beach thousands of miles away—strange crystals that condensed on the coastal reefs after a volcanic eruption, which the locals called "Heaven Fire Tears."

Meanwhile, in a fishing port further south, the night tide was rising.

Zhang Xuanyi squatted barefoot outside a shack on the pier, holding half a bucket of well water, his shadow stretched thin and long by the mast light.

He wore a faded blue cloth shirt with frayed cuffs, looking exactly like an old fisherman who had been mending nets for ten years.

But his eyes were not on the fishing net; they were fixed on the mast light of a distant fishing boat.

Those lights should have been steady, but at this moment they were flickering, with a strange rhythm; every time they flashed, the light and shadow swept across the sea like a bird spreading its wings.

This was the "Fire" speaking.

He rose calmly and walked toward the well with the bucket; when he passed an old boat waiting to be dismantled, his footsteps paused.

Deep within the boat's keel was embedded a rusty copper piece; its surface was covered in web-like cracks, but inside, golden threads swam, brightening and dimming with the tide, like some kind of ancient pulse.

It was a remnant artifact of Cui Wujiu.

The former Fire Pulse Walker, whose obsession burned his body, finally dispersed into heaven and earth.

But his "artifact" did not die; instead, it followed the veins of the earth's fire and traveled all the way here.

Zhang Xuanyi squatted down, his fingertips lightly touching the bottom of the boat, and whispered, "Old friend, you have traveled further than I."

He did not take it, nor did he destroy it; he simply straightened up and deliberately splashed the half-bucket of water onto the muddy ground.

Water splashed everywhere, and mud spattered.

Yet at that very instant, golden threads appeared in the water, spreading rapidly like a spider web, and in the blink of an eye, seeped into the ground, heading in a straight line—pointing toward an abandoned substation deep inland.

That was the place where the Pseudo-Three Caverns True Qi Liquid first went out of control three years ago.

It was also the coordinate where the first cluster of "self-igniting fire" was born.

He gazed in the direction where the water marks disappeared, the corners of his mouth slightly raised: "The Fire is no longer looking for me... but it remembers the way."

Meanwhile, in the North China wasteland.

Su Qingzhu walked along an abandoned railway platform with the homeless boy she had adopted; the wind passed through the broken tracks, emitting a whistling sound like a sob.

The graffiti wall had collapsed for the most part, with only a half-section of a brick pillar standing alone, like a tombstone for an era.

The boy kicked gravel out of boredom, then suddenly bent down to pick up a broken brick, unconsciously tracing an arc with his fingernail.

In an instant, golden liquid seeped from the brick surface, viscous as blood, outlining half an ancient seal character on the cross-section—it was the remnant of the character "Xiaoyao" from the Xiaoyao Token.

Su Qingzhu's heart gave a violent jolt; she grabbed the brick, and as her fingertips touched the golden mark, a searing heat transmitted through, as if she were holding incense ash that hadn't yet cooled.

"Did you see anything?" she asked urgently.

The boy tossed it into the grass: "It burns."

That night, she stayed at a farmhouse.

In her dream, her father was standing in front of the stove in his police uniform, his back to her, holding a plastic pencil stub, which he gently placed on the edge of the stove eye.

"Don't record it anymore," he said, "go burn it."

She woke up with a start, cold sweat soaking her back.

Beside her pillow, a small pinch of stove ash had appeared at some unknown time, fine as powder, with a faded plastic pencil stub embedded in the middle—it was the very piece of evidence she had found in the ruins of the platform, which had later gone missing.

Outside the window, the moonlight was ghastly pale.

And at the bottom of the East Sea, in that volcanic crater that had been silent for a thousand years, the fissure was slowly widening, and a wisp of golden light rose from the earth's core, like a newly awakened pupil.

The Fire was no longer in the hands of one person.

It was hidden in children's drawings, in the old woman's ash, in the textures of broken bricks, and between the sounds of the tides in the fishing port.

It no longer waited for Talismans to ignite it, nor did it rely on spirit coins to drive it.

It chose its own hosts, found its own paths, and grew on its own.

Just like weeds piercing through stone, just like seeds breaking through the soil.

Just like an era about to descend, knocking gently in the silence.

On the seventeenth night after Qingming, the plateau wind scraped across the mountain pass like a knife; the firewood in the post station's fire pit crackled, sparks flying like a rain of stars, only to be pressed back into the ashes by the cold air hanging from the eaves.

Zhang Xuanyi sat cross-legged on a prayer mat, his fingertips stained with stove ash, unconsciously drawing a Talisman on the stone floor—not the orthodox Three Pure Ones Talisman of the Tianshi Mansion, nor the photocopy yellow paper version produced by the System, but a crooked "Fire" character, almost like a child's doodle.

The old man guarding the temple squinted at him: "You Daoist, you don't chant scriptures, you don't meditate, yet you're closest to the dust and ash."

Zhang Xuanyi smiled and added a pine branch to the fire pit: "Fire recognizes people, not scriptures. How long do you think it can spread?"

"How could it still spread?" the old man shook his head, "Who still worships the Kitchen God now? In the city, they use induction cookers, and in the countryside, they burn liquefied gas. The fire is about to go out."

Before the words fell, the pine branch that had just been added suddenly snapped in the middle with a "click," the break as smooth as if cut by a blade; a golden light burst from the fissure, instantly condensing into the phantom of a miniature bronze pillar an inch high, the pillar's body covered in ancient patterns, with several points of golden light inside flickering like a heartbeat, the rhythm actually faintly synchronized with some kind of pulsation from the distant mountain ridge.

Zhang Xuanyi's pupils contracted sharply.

That was the Origin mark of the myriad laws street vendor system.

But it shouldn't exist anymore.

Three years ago, he had personally sunk the tattered street stall into the earth veins of Mount Longhu, the spirit coins returned to the void, and the strange treasures sealed away.

The System had exited along with the naturalization of the "Xiaoyao Dao Fire," like an old servant who had completed his task and retired, quietly hiding into the breath of heaven and earth.

But now, it had returned—yet it was no longer attached to him, nor did it need transactions, upgrades, or tasks.

It was independent.

It was the Fire itself that had learned to think.

He watched the phantom pulsing, suddenly chuckled, raised his hand to gently brush away the doodled "Fire" character on the ground, and whispered: "Old partner, you finally understand one thing—the stall owner was never me."

He blew out the oil lamp; only the faint glow of the fire pit remained in the room, illuminating his profile.

Outside the window, the distant mountains were like ink; an extremely thin golden line quietly lit up, winding out from the hinterland of the plateau, like a Bloodline reviving, piercing through the wasteland, pointing straight into the depths of the Southwest.

The light was not dazzling, but it carried an unstoppable rhythm, as if the earth were slowly opening its eyes.

Meanwhile, inside a ministerial-level conference hall in North China, thick bulletproof glass isolated the clamor of the outside world.

Su Qingzhu sat in a corner in a plain suit, her fingertips rubbing the small cloth bag she carried with her—inside was a small pinch of stove ash and a faded plastic pencil stub.

The Ministry of Education had convened top psychologists, sociologists, and officials from the secret Paranormal Research Bureau for a closed-door discussion on "Abnormal Cognitive Phenomena in Children," with the focus of the debate being the recent collective drawing of "spreading-wing firebird" patterns by primary school students in many parts of the country, and the unguided chanting of the same bizarre nursery rhyme: "The Fire wants to go home."

"Collective psychological suggestion," a white-haired expert tapped the table, "Modern information spreads too fast; a single short video can trigger a wave of imitation."

"We cannot rule out infiltration by overseas spiritual pollution projects," the security consultant added coldly, "I suggest a comprehensive screening of the family backgrounds of the children involved and the isolation of key targets."

The atmosphere in the conference room was oppressive, like the dead silence before a storm.

Just at this moment, the big screen played a surveillance video: in a primary school classroom in a mountain village in the Northwest, a dozen children sat in a circle, eyes closed, chanting in unison, their voices childish yet eerily synchronized: "The Fire wants to go home... The Fire wants to go home..."

The moment the chanting ended, a thin fissure silently cracked open on the ground, and warm golden mist poured out, condensing into a phantom firebird that circled with wings spread for seven breaths before dissipating into nothingness, leaving no trace.

"The village must be sealed off, and an observation zone established," someone immediately proposed, "This kind of energy manifestation is definitely not a natural phenomenon."

The whole room agreed.

Su Qingzhu remained silent until the moderator announced the start of the voting procedure.

She suddenly stood up, poured that pinch of stove ash from the cloth bag, gently placed it into the teacup in front of her, unscrewed a bottle of mineral water to mix it evenly, and carried the cup toward the long table in the center of the conference.

Everyone watched in astonishment.

She pushed the teacup under the projector; her voice was not loud, yet it penetrated the entire room: "You want to study the Fire? First, learn to make it recognize you."

The air solidified.

The next instant, the projector screen suddenly flickered and automatically rebooted, the image switching—it was no longer the surveillance video, but a massive composite image made from children's drawings collected from all over the country.

The brushstrokes were childish and the colors chaotic, but when all the fragments fell into place, four large ancient seal characters appeared, with golden light flowing: Xiaoyao Token.