150: Dadao squatted at the stove door

Spring thunder rolled over the ruins of Mount Longhu, startling a flock of cold crows.

A thin crack split the sky, and lightning flickered like silver snakes among the clouds, casting a bronze-like cold sheen over the ruins of the Ancestral Hall.

Zhang Xuanyi walked over the gravel, his footsteps so light, as if afraid to disturb the ley lines that had slept for three hundred years.

He brought no incense, burned no Talisman, and did not even change his Daoist robe—it was still that old, washed-out cloth garment, with an empty, shriveled cloth bag hanging at his waist, containing only a tattered piece of rag that had long since cooled.

That was the final trace left by the myriad laws street vendor system, which once held the power to generate myriad treasures, but now it was light as nothing, not even stirred by the wind.

He sat down before the broken bronze pillar, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes, as if he were just an old friend returning home to rest.

This pillar had suppressed the fire vein a thousand years ago, its Seal had loosened a hundred years later, it was destroyed by the Old Ancestor of Quanxing thirty years ago, and relit by him with spirit coins seven years ago.

It had witnessed greed, fear, ambition, and redemption, and had swallowed the Power Of Will that countless people sought but could not obtain.

And now, it stood silently, covered in cracks like a dried-up riverbed, waiting for an uninvited rain.

Zhang Xuanyi opened his eyes and gently covered the top of the pillar with the rag.

No incantations, no rituals, not even a trace of emotional fluctuation.

In an instant—

Golden light exploded!

It did not burst outward, but collapsed violently inward, like the Universe flowing backward.

The entire bronze pillar trembled like a living thing, dense ancient inscriptions appearing on its surface, followed by an eruption of light and shadow: sheets of photocopy yellow paper fluttered in the Void Realm, heavenly eye mung beans spun around, fist soul candy emitted a faint sweet fragrance... all the illusions of strange treasures once generated by the System appeared one by one, only to turn into golden dust the next instant, rustling down and seeping into the cracked floor tiles beneath his feet, flowing in all directions along the ley lines.

This was not recycling, nor was it destruction.

It was returning.

These treasures, which once relied on the System to exist, were no longer commodities, no longer needing trade or upgrades; they became the memory of the earth, a wisp of warmth that ordinary people could hold in their palms.

Zhang Xuanyi stood up and patted the dust off his trousers.

Behind him, the stone wall peeled away silently, and amidst the flying debris, a line of newly carved text was revealed, the strokes flowing naturally, not like they were chiseled, but as if some will had flowed out naturally—

Xiaoyao is not on the stall, but in every pair of palms waiting for fire to warm them.

He smiled, did not look back, and turned to leave.

His shoe soles ground over the scorched earth, leaving shallow footprints, which were immediately smoothed away by a wind blowing from nowhere.

Meanwhile, in a small mountain village a thousand miles away, it was the middle of the night.

Su Qingzhu was wearing a coarse cotton-padded jacket woven by her mother, squatting in front of her kitchen stove, holding a yellowed notebook in her hands.

The village elders said today was the Cold Stove Festival, so she proposed holding the first Family Memorial Day. The whole village responded, but mostly it was just a formality—the stoves were cold, and no one lit a fire.

Except for her house.

Just after the midnight bell, a point of golden light suddenly jumped out from the depths of the stove, faint as a firefly but steady as a heartbeat, flickering on and off, as if responding to some distant frequency.

She was not surprised, nor was she happy.

She simply placed the blank notebook into the stove, whispering: Dad, I won't write this time, you take a look.

The flame suddenly rose, blue tinged with gold, rolling over the pages without burning them, instead lifting the ashes into shape—within nine breaths, a miniature Talisman clearly appeared: the Xiaoyao Token.

Then it scattered with the wind, leaving no trace.

That night, all the children in the village had the same dream.

A man in overalls and an old hat squatted at the entrance of every family's stove, smiling as he grabbed a small handful of warm ash from his pocket and handed it to each child, saying: Take it, don't be afraid of the heat.

The next morning, the stoves in seven households spontaneously ignited, with strange shapes, all resembling birds about to spread their wings.

And in a northern fishing port, the morning mist had not yet dispersed.

An old fishing boat slowly docked, and the captain grabbed the arm of the young man on the shore, his voice trembling with excitement: We encountered a storm once in a century! The giant waves were ten stories high, and the radar failed completely! But just when it was darkest, a golden flame suddenly rose from the sea, pointing the way straight ahead—isn't that strange? Could it be the Heavenly Master manifesting?

The man shook his head; it was Zhang Xuanyi.

He squatted down and pressed his palm against the keel of the boat.

With a slight movement of his fingertips, he sensed a faint golden thread that had completely merged into the wood grain, no longer distinguishable.

That was the remnant of the fire vein artifact left by Cui Wujiu back then. He had thought it would dissipate with its owner, but he hadn't expected it to quietly take root through the daily smoke and fire of the fishermen and the breathing of the tides, spreading along the ocean currents to the submarine volcanic chain, forming a natural network of fire vein nodes.

I didn't create it. He stood up, smiling and patting the deck, You all nurtured it yourselves.

Before leaving, he fished a rusty copper coin from his bosom and gently pressed it into the cold ash of the incense burner on the bow.

The last spirit coin.

Once worth a thousand gold, now it was nothing more than a souvenir, a farewell.

That night, no one saw it.

The cold ash in the incense burner suddenly ignited spontaneously, the flames condensing into the outline of a broken weapon—the very prototype of the fire vein spike that Cui Wujiu held during his lifetime.

Seven breaths later, the light collapsed, and a very thin golden thread drifted out from the embers, burrowing into the soil and rushing toward the depths of the sea.

Several days later, Su Qingzhu was organizing old items and found an old voice recorder at the bottom of a drawer.

The casing was worn, and the battery had long since died. She wanted to throw it away, but her fingers paused.

On a whim, she found a charger and plugged it in.

The screen flashed twice and miraculously lit up.

She pressed the play button.

At first, there was only static, like the lingering echoes of a stormy night.

Just as she was about to turn it off—

The static suddenly receded.

A low, hoarse voice with a hint of mockery came through clearly:

You say this world lacks fire? No... Su Qingzhu's finger stopped on the play button of the recorder, the residual warmth still lingering.

The ashes had long since dispersed, and the morning light outside the window slanted across the threshold of the old house, falling on the piece of bronze fragment she had brought back from Mount Longhu at her feet.

It lay quietly, the cracks on its surface spreading like veins, and at this moment, it was slightly hot, as if awakened by some distant frequency.

She didn't move, just looked at the dancing spot of light, as if the hoarse voice was still echoing in her ears—

You say this world lacks fire? No, what it lacks is people who dare to let the fire burn itself.

This sentence was like a rusty but still sharp key, violently unlocking the most secret door in the depths of her memory.

That was seven years ago, on the eve of the destruction of Quanxing.

As a reporter, she infiltrated the Qinling caves and, at the risk of her consciousness being backlashed, recorded the conversation with the last Old Ancestor of Quanxing.

But when she organized the material afterward, this statement did not exist in any backup file.

There was only a deathly silence and a abruptly interrupted static in the archive.

Now it had returned—not as data recovery, but as an active manifestation.

She suddenly understood: this wasn't the recorder playing sound; it was the residual will of the Power Of Will choosing to manifest at this moment.

Just like the stove igniting spontaneously, the guidance on the sea, the golden flame in the fishing port... everything was saying the same thing—fire no longer needed a container, nor did it take orders from anyone.

She looked down at her palm, where the Xiaoyao Token Talisman paper had once been attached; now it was empty, yet a heat flow was faintly coursing through her meridians.

I heard it, she whispered, as if answering the wind, or responding to the earth, So I won't stop it anymore.

She gently pushed the bronze fragment into the center of the sunlight, letting it absorb the daylight.

A moment later, a very thin golden thread seeped out from the cracks, floating three inches in the air, coiling like a snake, then suddenly exploded into starlight, drifting away with the wind, disappearing without a trace.

At the same moment, the first ray of Yang Qi of the summer solstice pierced through the clouds.

Thousands of households across the country woke up at the same second—

An old lady on a heated bed in the North was surprised by the warmth at the soles of her feet; a young man in a rented room in the South found his electric blanket hot enough to throw off the covers even though it wasn't plugged in; a herdsman in the Northwest pushed open his yurt and saw a small golden flame jumping in the cold ash of the stove, shaped like a bird spreading its wings; in a classroom in a primary school in the Southwest mountains, the chalk dust on the podium moved without wind, outlining half a fire totem in the corner of the blackboard.

No one spoke, and no one exclaimed.

But on street corners and alleys, children silently picked up chalk, charcoal, or even charred branches, and drew the same symbol on walls, manhole covers, and concrete floors: a firebird flapping its wings, its tail feathers like flames, and its eyes like golden pupils.

The internet had not yet noticed, and the hot search had not yet fermented, but a certain collective subconscious was quietly awakening—they didn't know what this was, but they remembered the man with the old hat in their dreams squatting in front of the stove, smiling and saying: Take it, don't be afraid of the heat.

In the high-speed railway station waiting hall, Zhang Xuanyi was munching on a vegetable bun, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.

The little girl in the next seat was blowing at a cup of cold coffee, pouting and muttering: Mom said the stove at home lit itself today... is it magic?

Before she could finish, steam rose from the cup, and a lotus-shaped golden flame slowly floated up, its petals distinct, a faint fragrance overflowing, lasting for seven breaths before quietly extinguishing.

The surrounding passengers were completely unaware, and only Zhang Xuanyi's mouth curled up slightly.

He didn't speak, just swallowed the last bite of the bun, clapped his hands, and stood up.

In his backpack, the fragment of the fire vein spike that once belonged to Cui Wujiu vibrated slightly, as if sensing something.

The train broadcast sounded, and he picked up his bag and walked toward the ticket gate.

And in the ruins of Mount Longhu thousands of miles away, the broken bronze pillar stood silently.

Its golden light no longer surged or flashed wildly, but pulsed steadily like a breath, flickering on and off, in sync with the earth.

Deep within the cracks, countless dense runic patterns vaguely appeared, exactly the same as the firebird patterns drawn by children all over the country.

As the wind passed through the treetops, on the ruins of the Ancestral Hall, a whisper seemed to circulate—

The fire is here, don't close the door.

As night deepened, Zhang Xuanyi boarded the train heading west.

Outside the window, the lights grew sparse, and the Gobi desert spread out like ink.

Several hours later, he pushed open the iron door of an abandoned weather station.

The room was cold as an ice cellar, the wall plaster peeling, the instruments covered in dust.

He put down his backpack, walked to the earthen stove in the corner, and prepared to gather ash to light a fire for warmth.

Just at this moment, a slight vibration suddenly came from the palm of his left hand.

Looking down—beneath the skin, a golden pattern was quietly emerging, winding like a vein, warm but not burning, faintly echoing the inscriptions on the bronze pillar.

He froze.

The fire had not yet been lit, but his body had sensed something first.