173: The backlash of evil

The green-skinned train wound through the ridges of the Qinling Mountains' foothills, like a rust-spotted snake, slowly gnawing at the tracks and the cold wind.

The carriage was so old that one could almost hear the screws loosening; the radiator would roar twice, then fall back into dead silence, and cold air would drill in through the cracks in the windows and doors, condensing into a layer of grayish mist on the glass.

Zhang Xuanyi curled up in the corner, his coat wrapped tight, holding half a piece of dry, hard mung bean cake in his hand—the last bit of rations left by the stove last night.

He couldn't bear to finish it, not because he wasn't afraid of hunger, but because this thing was now heavier than gold.

The residue of the Pseudo-Three Caverns True Qi Liquid, mixed with the ashes of the heavenly eye mung beans, though it no longer had the power to break through realms, still carried a lingering warmth of "Power Of Will," the last spark left to him by the old era.

A migrant worker in the next seat rubbed his hands, his breath forming a white mist on his face: "This train's boiler breaks every year. They say they've fixed it, but it always quits once it enters the mountains. We people who travel for work are used to the cold, but we can't risk our lives just to endure it."

No one answered.

The carriage was silent, with only the rhythm of the wheels hitting the tracks, click-clack, click-clack, like some forgotten incantation.

Zhang Xuanyi lowered his head and took a bite of the cake, chewing slowly.

He knew the problem wasn't the boiler—it was that the earth veins along the entire line had long since dried up.

After the Seal on Mount Longhu loosened, the spiritual energy of the world was redistributed; wherever ancient roads, post routes, or water veins passed, there was a hidden flow of Qi being pulled.

And this green-skinned train line happened to be pressed onto a "Yin Transport Railway" that had been abandoned for a hundred years, which originally relied on several micro-earth caves along the way to maintain thermal balance; now that the cave eyes were blocked and the cold Yin Qi was flowing back, the furnace fire was naturally difficult to light.

He remained calm, crumbled the half-piece of charred mung bean cake in his hand into fine powder, and his fingertips imperceptibly traced an arc, drawing out a trace of residual Talisman intent.

When the attendant pushed the tea cart past, he turned sideways to let them pass, taking the opportunity to sprinkle the powder into the tea furnace opening.

The powder dissolved upon contact with water, silently sinking into the coal ash at the bottom of the furnace.

At first, nothing happened.

It wasn't until twenty minutes later that a low "hum" suddenly came from deep inside the furnace, as if something inside the metal had awakened.

Immediately after, the heating pipes began to vibrate and hiss, and a warm current slowly climbed up, spreading from the soles of his feet, dispelling the long-entrenched cold.

"Hey! It's hot!" someone exclaimed.

"Really! The temperature's up!"

Everyone was pleasantly surprised, clapping the radiators one after another, as if celebrating a miracle.

Only Zhang Xuanyi continued to lean against the back of his chair, head lowered, blowing on the hot water in his enamel cup, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, faster than wind blowing over paper ash.

The "old Power Of Will" had awakened.

Those travelers who had once rushed along this line, the old staff who guarded the stations, the mothers who saw off their loved ones, the fathers who rushed to construction sites... their obsessions, expectations, and struggles had all settled beneath this stretch of track, becoming part of the earth veins.

And his mung bean cake residue was merely a key, gently knocking on the door of sleeping memories.

The train continued forward, through tunnels and over bridges, the shadows of the mountains outside the window like ink.

Seven hours later, a delay notification sounded, and the train stopped at a station he had never heard of—Qingshi Ao.

The station name was rusted onto a crooked iron sign, the characters blurred.

The platform had collapsed on one side, the concrete cracked, weeds grew wildly, and the canopy was dilapidated, like a bird with broken wings lying on the ground.

In the distance, a few abandoned huts had dark, hollow windows.

Zhang Xuanyi carried his bag off the train, and the cold wind hit his face.

As soon as he stood steady, a homeless man handed him half a thermos of hot water: "Brother, have a drink of something hot; the wind here eats at the bones."

He smiled, took it, and thanked him.

But the moment he took the thermos, his brow twitched—he had noticed it.

Something was wrong.

These few people looked like they were sitting idly to warm up, but in reality, their breathing was weak, their hands and feet were abnormally cold, and their skin was tinged with blue, clearly signs of cold poison entering the collaterals.

Even more eerie was that the spot where they were sitting happened to fall exactly on the intersection of three broken earth veins; a hundred years of Yin Qi had accumulated there, like an inverted cold well underground, silently devouring Yang Qi.

If ordinary people lived here for a long time, the mild cases would suffer from joint pain and numbness, while the severe cases would have frost in their internal organs, and it wouldn't be surprising if they died suddenly in their sleep.

Zhang Xuanyi remained calm, sat on the bench, slowly finished the tea, and then fished a small bag of yellow paper ash from the lining of his luggage—that was the last pinch of photocopy yellow paper residue he had hidden away.

The System had long since shut down, and this paper had also lost the ability to duplicate Talisman, but it had once carried thousands of prayers, been stained with incense, tears, and blood oaths; even if only ash remained, it still had a faint light to awaken "spiritual perception."

He mixed the ash into the tea dregs, stood up, walked to the drain, and poured it out casually.

The ash water seeped into the cracks and slid silently into the ground.

In an instant, the ground seemed to have a very slight tremor, imperceptible to the naked eye, but it made a few wild weeds nearby shudder in unison.

A certain oppressive silence in the air was broken, as if something was slowly stretching its roots underground, reconnecting the broken veins.

The homeless men didn't notice anything unusual, only feeling inexplicably warmer, and one of them even took off his coat: "Strange, just a moment ago I was shivering from the cold, but now it's like basking in the sun."

Zhang Xuanyi walked back to the waiting room, put his backpack under his head, and lay down on the squeaky bench.

Outside the window, the sky gradually darkened, and the clouds were thick, pressing down on the mountains so they couldn't breathe.

He closed his eyes, and exhaustion washed over him like a tide.

Three years of running, three hundred small towns, three thousand bowls of hot porridge, he had burned himself into a match, just to light the lamps in other people's hands.

The System was gone, the Divine Ability dissipated.

Like human hearts.

Like fire seeds.

Just as his consciousness was about to sink into a dream, a burning pain suddenly came from the palm of his right hand.

It was very light, yet clear.

It was as if someone had used a red-hot needle to write a character on his palm print.

He opened his eyes suddenly and stared at his hand.

The pain vanished in an instant, like an illusion.

But he knew it wasn't a dream.

That was a residual System response—the brand that had once resonated with the Myriad Laws Street Stall, which now only awakened when the earth veins fluctuated violently.

And now, it had awakened.

A torrential rain slammed onto the dilapidated canopy of Qingshi Ao station, like thousands of troops trampling over the tin roof, the roaring sound making the glass in the waiting room buzz and tremble.

Zhang Xuanyi was startled awake from the bench, the burning pain in his right palm returning—this time it was no longer a light itch, but a searing brand, as if lava was crawling up his wrist along his meridians.

He opened his eyes, his pupils shrinking in the darkness.

Outside the window, a pale flash of lightning split the clouds, illuminating that originally inconspicuous crack at the edge of the platform—it was currently wriggling slowly, as if a giant python was awakening underground.

Black water seeped out from the crack, glowing with an oily sheen, and wisps of milky white mist evaporated and swirled in the rain, refusing to dissipate.

"Yin Sha backflow..." he whispered, his voice as hoarse as rusted iron rubbing together.

This wasn't just a blockage of the earth veins, but a hundred years of accumulated resentment of Yin Qi finally breaking through the Seal; if left unchecked, the first person to step onto the platform tomorrow morning would have cold poison invade their heart meridians, leading to paralysis at best, or death with frost in their orifices at worst.

But he no longer had the System's support, the photocopy yellow paper had turned to ash, the Pseudo-Three Caverns True Qi Liquid had long been exhausted, and even the heavenly eye mung beans were just an empty jar used as a paperweight.

He could not manifest Dharma, could not shock the world, and certainly could not let people realize he still held the remaining fire of the old era.

He stood up slowly, moving very lightly, as if afraid of waking a sleeping mountain ghost.

His gaze swept over the surroundings—loose tin wall panels, abandoned drains, a few stray dogs shivering in the rain in the corner.

A plan came to mind.

He removed a piece of rusted tin, used his fingertips to bend it into a funnel shape, and quietly set it up above the crack.

He then fished a small pinch of roasted sesame seeds from his inner pocket—this was the last bit of rations he had saved last night, which he had intended to use to stave off hunger on the road.

The sesame seeds were sprinkled into the funnel, and the aroma was released upon contact with the rain, mixing with the oily smell and diffusing.

Before long, a stray dog twitched its nose and followed the scent, followed by a second, then a third... They scrambled to lick the sesame oil stains washed down by the rain on the edge of the tin, pushing and stepping on each other, unconsciously stepping out a kind of chaotic yet rhythmic pace.

One step, two steps, three steps... the dog shadows intertwined, the paw prints were messy, yet they happened to step on the most vulnerable nodes where the earth veins were broken.

In an instant, a barely audible "click" came from underground, as if a lock had opened, or a string had snapped.

The white mist paused, then began to retract, the black water stopped overflowing, and the soil at the edge of the crack trembled slightly, as if an invisible hand was quietly stitching it up from below.

Zhang Xuanyi leaned back on the bench, closing his eyes and panting, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

He knew that just a moment ago, these stray dogs had unintentionally walked a "Treading the Dipper, Walking the Dust Formation"—an ancient Daoist secret technique for exorcising evil and adjusting Qi, which relied on stepping on star positions, yet here it had been performed by a group of stray animals.

It wasn't that they understood the Dao; it was that human hearts had been abandoned for too long, to the point that even animals were closer to the breath of heaven and earth than humans.

The rain gradually ceased, and the sky began to turn grayish-white.

Just before the train pulled into the station, as he was packing his things, he suddenly saw an aluminum lunch box burnt pitch-black on the bench, the lid half-lifted, revealing half a baked sweet potato; the heat had long since dissipated, yet it still carried a trace of warmth.

Beside it was a crumpled note with crooked handwriting:

"You were right, the fire has to be found by oneself."

He stared at the lunch box for a long time, then suddenly smiled, the corners of his eyes twitching.

He took out the wrapper of the last fist soul candy—red background with gold characters, already ineffective, with only a bit of residual Talisman light hidden in the creases.

He gently covered it over the opening of the lunch box, like stamping a Seal, and also like planting a seed.

As he turned to board the train, the morning light broke through the clouds, and a ray of golden brilliance happened to fall on the edge of the lunch box, reflecting the faded wrapper and causing it to suddenly flash a very faint red light—fleeting, as if an illusion.

But in that very instant, the stagnant water within a ten-meter radius rippled slightly.

Just like the earth, blinking its eyes.

The train whistled and headed toward the heart of the Central Plains.

In the small town where Zhang Xuanyi got off to transfer, the streets and alleys were already quietly plastered with yellowed missing person notices.