177: The path to freedom? Or the beginning of chaos?

The sky over Heishigou in the north was as gloomy as a weight pressing on one's chest.

The wind, laden with coal dust, swept across the ruins, causing the corrugated iron eaves to clatter noisily.

The rain hadn't stopped; it had been falling intermittently for five days, as if the heavens themselves were weeping for this hollowed-out land.

Cracks in the ground spread like a spiderweb, and one side of a dry well had collapsed, exposing the rusted pump rod inside, which looked like a dying snake.

Zhang Xuanyi squatted in front of his stove, made from an oil drum. The flames danced inside the wind shield, licking the layer of scorched rice crust at the bottom of the pot.

The brown rice porridge was thick and steaming; in this damp, cold night where one could wring water out of the air, the heat pushed back the chill, inch by inch.

It had been three days.

No one came to drink the first bowl of porridge.

They just watched from afar—those men and women whose faces were stained gray-brown by mine dust, the old men leaning on canes, the young wives holding their children. In their eyes, there was wariness, but also something that hadn't been ignited for a long time.

He knew what they were waiting for.

It wasn't charity, it wasn't preaching, and it certainly wasn't a miracle.

They were waiting for a sense of certainty.

Just as that old miner with a face full of coal dust had said: "Wait until the water flows before lighting the fire, but at this time every day, we must set it out—otherwise, life has no sense of certainty."

He kept those words in his heart, valuing them even more than the tasks given by the System.

Back when he set up the Myriad Laws Street Stall, he sold Talisman, exotic treasures, and the fantasy of getting rich overnight.

But the people here didn't need photocopy yellow paper, nor did they care for heavenly eye mung beans.

All they wanted was a pot that could cook food, a road that hadn't collapsed, and a sleep that wouldn't be interrupted by fright in the middle of the night.

So he didn't draw Talisman, didn't channel Qi, and didn't put on any flashy displays.

He only cooked porridge.

On the morning of the third day, before the fog had cleared, a hunched figure walked over tremblingly.

It was the oldest widow in town, Granny Chen. Her son had died in a flooding accident three years ago, and her grandson was born with an Innate disability, living on government subsidies.

She held the child in her arms, her hands shaking so much she could barely hold the bowl.

Zhang Xuanyi ladled out a spoonful and handed it to her.

She drank it, slowly, one mouthful at a time, as if savoring a taste from a past life.

Suddenly, tears splashed into the bowl.

"Thirty years..." her voice was as hoarse as sandpaper grinding on iron, "I haven't tasted anything so much like the food my mother used to cook."

She said nothing more and turned to leave, her back gradually blurring in the morning mist.

But that single tear fell onto Zhang Xuanyi's heart, burning so much that he didn't sleep all night.

At night, he took a piece of charcoal and snuck into the abandoned main ventilation shaft.

The shaft sloped downwards, with water pooling up to his calves. The air was cold and fishy, carrying the rot from deep underground.

He followed the cracks all the way up, and on the rock walls at several key junctions, he used minimalist lines to outline the "Stove-Setting and Qi-Guiding Diagram"—no runes, no incantations, not even a trace of Qi was used.

This was merely the form.

It was the guidance of "momentum."

It was the reverse thinking he had taught street urchins to use a magnifying glass to focus light and light a cigarette: not to concentrate energy, but to clear blockages.

Airflow has its natural path. After underground cavities form, cold, gloomy Qi accumulates in the low places, entangling human dwellings and eroding their bones and muscles.

And this diagram, borrowing the terrain's momentum, fine-tuned the airflow, allowing the turbid Qi to slowly rise and dissipate into the wild hills and forests.

He didn't add anything; he only cleared the chaos.

On the seventh day, someone discovered that their water pipe had started to drip.

Not a gush, just "drip, drip, drip," like a heartbeat restarting.

Even stranger, several elderly people who had been plagued by rheumatism for years said that they didn't feel pain when turning over at night, and in their dreams, they even saw the sun on the threshing floor from their youth.

The news spread, but no one said it was Zhang Xuanyi who had done it.

He didn't mention it either.

Instead, on the wall next to the porridge stall, he posted a handwritten notice:

"Who knows how to fix a water pump? Who has old pipes? Let's work together to get the water back."

The words were written with a fire poker, crooked and twisted, but each stroke was as serious as carving a monument.

At first, no one believed it.

Until the eighth day, a retired electromechanical worker arrived with a toolbox on his back.

Then came plumbers, welders, electricians... more than a dozen laid-off technicians, each digging out their dusty tools, squatting in the ruins to study old blueprints, cursing "we should have moved long ago" while working harder than anyone else.

They repaired pipelines, took turns cooking porridge, and even spontaneously made a duty roster:

Old Zhao brings coal on Monday, Auntie Li donates rice on Tuesday, Little Wu watches the stove on Wednesday...

A bowl of porridge had become the glue that bonded people's hearts.

Zhang Xuanyi still didn't speak, just adding firewood, stirring the pot, and collecting ashes every day.

After each pot of porridge was finished, he carefully scraped the residue from the bottom into a cloth bag, labeled it with the date, and stacked them neatly behind the oil drum.

That was the only thing he did for himself.

It wasn't Power Of Will, but it was better than Power Of Will.

One night, during a thunderstorm, a lightning bolt struck a high-voltage tower in the distance, plunging the entire mining area into darkness.

People woke up in a panic, thinking it was another precursor to a collapse.

But in this pitch darkness, a point of light ignited in the direction of the oil drum stove.

It was Zhang Xuanyi, relighting the stove.

The firelight flickered, illuminating his worn Daoist robe and that face that always wore a lazy smile.

He stood in the rain, one hand supporting the pot, the other shielding it, like a monument that refused to fall.

Someone came over with an umbrella, and someone silently handed him dry firewood.

That night, the porridge cooked for an exceptionally long time and smelled exceptionally fragrant.

The next day, even the most stubborn residents who refused to move asked in a low voice: "Can the water... really flow?"

Zhang Xuanyi looked up at the overcast sky, smiled, and didn't answer.

But if people's hearts are not connected, even if the water flows, you can't keep them.

So he was waiting.

Waiting for a real opening.

Waiting for a collision that could not be avoided.

And now, the rain was getting heavier.

Muddy water flowed down the hillside, and shouting could be heard in the distance, mixed with the crisp sound of metal colliding.

Zhang Xuanyi lowered his head to add firewood, the firelight reflecting in his eyes, deep as a well.

They weren't just here to look for water.

Su Qingzhu was rushing toward this side, treading through the mud. The wind lifted her raincoat, and strands of hair stuck to her forehead.

She had just finished taking a set of geological photos of the collapse zone and had heard villagers discussing "a Daoist priest who is cooking porridge and cured old cold legs," so she followed the trail.

She didn't know what she was looking for.

But she knew that this trip was no longer about recording.

It was about making a choice.

And at the moment she was about to step into the mining area, a dispute broke out.

"What's the use of you doing these fake things!" a roar tore through the rain curtain, "What happens if the house collapses! Do you care if the ground swallows people!"

Zhang Xuanyi stood in front of the stove, the firelight reflecting on his calm face.

He didn't refute.

He just gently stirred the porridge in the pot, the heat rising and blurring the profound meaning in his eyes.

The moment Su Qingzhu rushed into the porridge stall, she happened to see the young miner Wang Qiang kick over the wooden box piled by the stove, his roar almost drowning out the thunder: "What's the use of you doing these fake things! What happens if the house collapses! Do you care if the ground swallows people!"

Mud splattered everywhere, and several bags of rice were knocked to the ground.

The onlookers took a step back, but didn't dare to really leave—they watched that pot eagerly, waiting for the water to flow, waiting for the fire not to go out.

Zhang Xuanyi didn't get angry, nor did he offer any explanation.

He simply scooped a ladle of freshly cooked hot porridge and handed it to Wang Qiang.

"Want a drink?"

Wang Qiang was stunned, thinking he was being mocked.

"That's fine too." Zhang Xuanyi took back the ladle, turned around, pulled a rusted shovel from behind the oil drum, and stuck it into the ground, "Then go dig right now. You said no one cares if the ground collapses, so I'll go dig with you right now."

He took off his soaked Daoist robe, revealing the old, washed-out white T-shirt underneath, grabbed another shovel, and walked straight toward a slope with the deepest crack at the edge of the collapse.

"If you want the truth, I'll accompany you to dig to the root of it."

The rain got heavier, but the crowd seemed to be nailed to the spot.

A few seconds later, Wang Qiang gritted his teeth, grabbed the shovel, and followed with big strides.

The two of them dug in the mud, shoulder to shoulder, one shovel after another, digging very hard, and very quietly.

Rainwater flowed from their foreheads into their eyes, causing pain, but they didn't wipe it away.

Zhang Xuanyi knew that this generation of miners didn't believe in miracles, only in the calluses on their hands.

Suddenly, there was a crisp "clank."

The shovel hit something hard.

The two looked at each other and sped up their movements.

The mud was cleared away, and a section of cast-iron main water pipe, covered in mud but undamaged, was revealed—it had been lying underground for more than thirty years without breaking!

"The old pipeline is still alive!" someone shouted.

In an instant, the dead-silent ruins exploded.

Retired electromechanical worker Old Zhao stumbled over, knelt in the mud, and touched the pipe wall, weeping: "The seam my father welded... it's still there..."

The news spread quickly.

Welders, plumbers, and electricians all rushed back through the rain, bringing tools, blueprints, and seals, surrounding the break to rush repairs.

Zhang Xuanyi silently boiled water, made tea, and provided warmth, while casually mixing heavenly eye mung beans into the sugar water to distribute—not for fighting, but to help tired eyes stay open a little longer.

Until 11:17 PM.

"Whoosh—"

A turbid but powerful stream of water rushed out of the joint, spraying into the air like a lifeline that had broken free from its shackles.

Immediately after, clear water flowed into the big pot, boiling and rolling.

The entire area erupted in earth-shattering cheers; some people beat basins, some slapped walls, and an old lady knelt on the ground and kowtowed to the north.

Su Qingzhu stood in the middle of the crowd, soaked to the bone, her camera pressed against her chest.

She suddenly raised her camera, her voice drowning out the noise:

"Who still remembers the first meal their mother cooked? Today, let's make it again!"

As the words fell, it was as if some dormant memory had been awakened.

Clap, clap, clap...

More than a dozen households lit their stoves simultaneously; coal balls ignited, and firewood crackled.

Cooking smoke rose, connecting into a warm mist in the cold, rainy night, like a slowly reviving Dragon, coiling over this once-forgotten land.

Zhang Xuanyi squatted in front of the stove, watching the smoke and fire, the corners of his mouth rising slightly.

But his palm suddenly burned as if it had been branded.

He quietly rolled up his sleeve—faint blue veins appeared under his skin, which was a sign of the residual power of the Pseudo-Three Caverns True Qi Liquid resonating with the earth's veins.

The deep earth veins were still collapsing; relying on human strength, it wouldn't last more than three months.

He took out the last half of the medicine residue, his fingertips trembling slightly.

He had wanted to throw it into the bottom of the well to trigger a short resonance and delay the collapse—but his hand stopped in mid-air.

He looked down at the boiling porridge in the pot, steaming hot.

A moment later, he gently poured the medicine powder into the pot and stirred it evenly.

That night, every worker who participated in the repairs drank a bowl of fragrant "medicinal porridge."

"If you are willing to come back to work tomorrow," Zhang Xuanyi leaned against the oil drum, his voice hoarse but clear, "then it means the land isn't dead, and the people aren't dead either."

The next day, before dawn, more than thirty people appeared at the construction site on time.

And at this moment, at an altitude of a thousand meters, a micro-drone disguised as a bird hovered silently, its lens locked onto the entire mining area.

The footage was transmitted in real-time back to a secret office.

In front of the screen, a middle-aged man wearing the uniform of a Tianshi Mansion special envoy stared at the image, his brows furrowed, muttering to himself: "...A Dao of Carefree Wandering? Or the beginning of chaos?"

Outside the window, in the early morning of Heishigou, the thin mist had not yet dispersed.

A black off-road vehicle crushed through the mud and slowly drove into the ruins.

When the car door opened, Zhang Xuanyi was squatting in front of the oil drum stove, slowly stirring the porridge.