183: There are no gods on the mountain, but there are Taoists at the foot of the mountain.

The darkness before dawn is often the deepest, and Zhang Xuanyi was walking step by step toward the edge of the Forbidden Ground on the back mountain of Mount Longhu, which had been sealed by both time and legend.

The night was heavy, like spilled ink, and the mountains were hidden within endless Chaos.

Only in the distance could one faintly see the looming outline of the main peak of Mount Longhu, like an ancient giant god watching over this land in its sleep.

Zhang Xuanyi's footsteps were soft, each step treading on the thick decaying leaves, making an almost inaudible rustling sound.

He did not light a lamp, yet his eyes shone brightly in the darkness, like two flickering ghost fires, perceiving everything around him.

This Forbidden Ground was once a vital area that the Tianshi Mansion had strictly guarded for generations, because this was where the huge rift, connected to the outside world, had appeared when the Qi tide first arrived and the earth vein Seal loosened.

Countless powerful exotic beasts had once surged out from the rift, and the Tianshi Mansion had paid a heavy price for it.

However, at this moment, when he finally arrived at the depths of the valley where the rift once was, he discovered that the scene before him was vastly different from historical records.

The once hideous and terrifying rift had, who knows when, completely healed.

The earth had gently closed, like a long-dormant wound, now without a trace.

In its place was an endless field of heart-burning stamen flowers.

Those tiny white flowers emitted a faint and gentle light in the extreme darkness, like billions of miniature stars, adorning the entire valley in a dreamlike manner.

They were not dazzling, yet they possessed a warmth that could reach straight to the heart, as if with every breath, one could feel the endless hope within them.

Zhang Xuanyi stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

The air was filled with the fragrance of soil and the unique scent of the heart-burning stamen, carrying an aura of kindness and pure Power Of Will.

Here, there was no longer any sign of the mountain-guarding Disciple.

He knew that as early as several years ago, the upper echelons of the Tianshi Mansion had quietly issued an order: "No need to guard anymore, Power Of Will balances itself."

This was exactly the Dao he had hoped for.

He did not continue up the mountain, but chose to stop at the edge of the valley, near a gentle slope close to that sea of heart-burning stamen.

From his worn-out burlap bag, he took out a pebble he had picked up at the foot of the mountain, only half a person's height, unremarkable in appearance.

He carefully stood it on the ground, then extended his right index finger, his fingernail glowing with a faint cyan light, and with an almost pious demeanor, carved three tiny symbols onto the top of the stone tablet.

The symbols were ancient and obscure, like a long-lost script, or perhaps a most primitive totem.

They were not for proclamation, but for verification.

This was exactly the initial activation code for the myriad laws street vendor system.

Zhang Xuanyi knew that among the billions of living beings in this world, only those who truly understood that "transaction is offering" could, when catching a glimpse of this stone tablet by chance, feel a connection and thus interpret the true meaning hidden within.

It was not a Spell, nor a curse, but a simple truth about giving and receiving.

Just as he finished carving, a mountain breeze blew by, sweeping up petals and dust.

When the wind ceased, the surface of the wordless stone tablet was quickly covered by a thin layer of moss, lush and green, as if it had stood here since ancient times, blending into everything around it, never having existed, and never having been known by anyone.

That morning, a black off-road vehicle stopped at the intersection of the small town at the foot of Mount Longhu.

The car door opened, and a slender and capable figure stepped out; it was Su Qingzhu, a senior reporter for the Huaxia Metropolis Daily.

She wore a beige trench coat, her long hair tied up, her eyes still as sharp as an eagle's, but there was a hint of composure and determination between her brows.

In her hand, she held a confidential government proposal document — "Proposal on Establishing the 'Civilian Fire Starter' National Honor System".

This document, which condensed the painstaking efforts of countless official think tanks, aimed to posthumously award Zhang Xuanyi the "Era Fire Torch Medal" and include his deeds in national textbooks, in recognition of his immense contribution to Huaxia civilization during the Qi tide era.

Su Qingzhu stood at the entrance of the small path leading into the deep mountains, beneath her feet was a dirt road that had long been trampled solid.

She gazed at the small path that wound upwards and eventually disappeared into the lush mountain forest, standing still for a long time.

In her mind, countless images emerged: the first time they met, that sloppy, sharp-tongued, yet unfathomable street vendor; he used photocopy yellow paper to resolve conflicts between superhumans, and heavenly eye mung beans to perceive the opponent's Move; he stepped forward in times of crisis, yet always managed to turn danger into safety with a light touch.

In the end, she sighed softly.

Her fingertips moved slightly, and that heavy government document was quietly torn into shreds in her hands.

The tiny paper scraps swirled in the wind; without the slightest hesitation, she lit one of them and tossed it into an ancient pottery urn by the roadside — there, curling smoke was rising, it was an Ash-Returning Point used daily by the town residents.

The flame flared up instantly, gentle and firm.

Several women washing clothes by the nearby stream seemed to have a tacit understanding and simultaneously stopped their scrubbing.

They tacitly grabbed a handful of dried mugwort from their baskets and threw it into the pottery urn.

The mugwort burned, emitting a unique and fresh fragrance; an old woman squinted her eyes and whispered: "Thanks, burn it clean for us."

In those words was respect for the "fire seed", and even more, an understanding of a certain invisible gift.

In the afternoon, Zhang Xuanyi's figure moved through the canyons deep within Mount Longhu.

Sunlight filtered through the treetops, dappling his shoulders.

He happened upon a hiking study group led by a teacher.

The children, carrying small backpacks, were chattering and curiously observing everything around them.

The lead teacher was a middle-aged man wearing glasses with a scholarly temperament.

He was pointing toward the depths of the canyon, vividly explaining "modern Power Of Will ecology" to the children.

"Students, look at this mountain forest; it is not just scenery, it also carries the most primitive 'Power Of Will' of us humans.

In the early days of the Qi tide, when all order was disrupted, it was those bits of kindness and hope from ordinary people that, like a single spark, eventually gathered into a prairie fire.

And the earliest fire seed, it is said, came from a Daoist who did not wish to leave his name."

The children curiously asked: "Teacher, who is that person? What does he look like?"

The teacher smiled and shook his head, a glimmer of nostalgia and wisdom in his eyes: "No one remembers clearly.

Some say he wore worn-out Daoist robes and carried an old cloth bag, like a reclusive master; some say he was just a disheveled homeless man, always appearing and disappearing mysteriously; and others say that he was actually the auntie who serves you porridge at the Communal Cooking Workshop every morning, simple and unadorned, yet warming people's hearts."

Just then, a sharp-eyed little girl suddenly pointed at the worn-out backpack on Zhang Xuanyi, exclaiming in a childish voice: "Teacher! Does that uncle's bag have a stove pattern on it! It's exactly the same as the one at our Communal Cooking Workshop!"

Everyone looked in the direction she pointed, and saw that under a tree not far away, the thin man was facing them, a faint smile on his face.

On his backpack, there was indeed a "stove pattern" embroidered with red thread, slightly rough but full of the atmosphere of human life.

Zhang Xuanyi smiled and waved his hand, his voice carrying a gentle hoarseness: "I am a coal deliverer, not a fire starter."

After saying this, he turned and disappeared into the dense shadows of the trees as if merging into the forest mist, and never appeared again.

At dusk, the Communal Cooking Workshop in the county town was bustling with noise.

Su Qingzhu walked in, skillfully queued up, and paid out of her own pocket to buy meals for several sanitation workers who had just finished a day's work.

The steaming rice porridge emitted an enticing aroma, dispelling the chill of autumn.

An elderly sanitation worker recognized her; he was an old reader of the Huaxia Metropolis Daily and asked curiously: "Reporter Su, I read your newspaper's previous reports; where did that Daoist Zhang you mentioned go later?"

Su Qingzhu scooped up a spoonful of hot porridge, blew on it gently, and looking at the rolling white rice grains in the bowl, a smile that only she understood flashed in her eyes.

"He went to all the places no one pays attention to.

For example, in this mouthful of porridge you are drinking now, every grain of rice, every drop of water, is tainted with that Dao."

As soon as she finished speaking, at the bottom of that special giant iron pot in the Communal Cooking Workshop, a gentle cyan pattern quietly flickered for a moment, then vanished in an instant.

Su Qingzhu did not see it, but beside her, the old sanitation worker squinted his eyes, a glimmer of clarity flashing in his cloudy eyes, and he laughed: "This flame, it flickers exactly the same as when my grandmother was tending the stove thirty years ago; it has Spiritual Qi!"

In the dead of night, Zhang Xuanyi finally ascended an unknown solitary peak deep within the Mount Longhu range.

The peak was flat, the moonlight was like water, stretching his figure extremely long, merging with the mountain beneath his feet.

He took off the burlap bag embroidered with the "stove pattern" from his back and carefully spread it out, using it as his former Myriad Laws Street Stall.

However, the cloth bag was empty, without a single item, nor was there the familiar notification sound of the System.

There was only the cold moonlight and the rustling sound of the breeze brushing over the fabric.

Zhang Xuanyi sat cross-legged, looking up at the vast starry sky.

He whispered to himself, his voice so light it seemed as if it could be blown away by the wind: "The stall is closed, but the fire is not out."

At almost the same moment, amidst the surrounding mountains in the distance, seventeen Ash-Returning Points across the land of Huaxia simultaneously flickered with a faint cyan light.

The light was not dazzling, but highly penetrating, as if the earth at this moment had slowly opened countless warm eyes.

And thousands of miles away, deep in the sea of city lights, under a single lamp, Su Qingzhu was writing diligently at her desk.

Her fingertips tapped lightly on the keyboard, writing the preface for her new book —

"What he taught us was not how to become a god, nor how to summon wind and rain.

What he taught us was how to live together — a warm, down-to-earth, Mortal Dao.

He used his life to interpret the true meaning of 'carefree'; it is not about being isolated from the world, but about merging into all things without attachment."

Outside the window, thousands of lights flickered, and countless wisps of cooking smoke rose curlingly in the night; they no longer rushed to the sky, but gently intersected with the starlight, like incense lit by humanity itself, stretching on endlessly.

The morning mist had not yet dispersed, and Zhang Xuanyi walked down from the solitary peak to the valley at the foot of the mountain, his clothing hem stained with the gray petals of the heart-burning stamen.