185: Burning Heart Core

The mountain-sealing secret technique of the Tianshi Mansion has loosened, and the ancient Daoist Legacy, like a mountain flood suppressed for three hundred years, has swept across the globe in a tidal wave of Qi.

All things are growing, and myriad laws are reviving; amidst the mundane life of the Mortal world, Mortals can also glimpse the secrets of heaven and pursue the Dao.

This is not only a gift of the era but also a smooth path paved for those who come after by countless predecessors who tested the laws with their own bodies, transformed themselves into the Dao, and ultimately left behind either a name or countless nameless deeds.

Early in the morning, an off-road vehicle tore through the thin mist, kicking up clouds of dust on the rugged mountain road.

In the driver's seat, Su Qingzhu, wearing a sharp, professional windbreaker, stared with eyes as keen as a hawk's at the coordinates of the southwestern mountain region on the vehicle's navigation System.

On the passenger seat lay a screenshot of a satellite map, with a remote village marked in a red circle.

The screen showed that the public cooking point, known to the locals as the "Ash-Returning Point," had synchronized its cooking times precisely for seven consecutive days, with a deviation of no more than ten seconds.

This eerie sense of order caused a familiar ripple in her heart—intuition told her that this was by no means a coincidence, but rather the result of some kind of "centralized control."

She suspected that Zhang Xuanyi, the secretive man who claimed he had "closed his stall," was still maintaining this Power Of Will network that spanned across China in some unknown way.

"Zhang Xuanyi, do you think you can really hide without a trace?" she whispered to herself, lightly pressing the accelerator as the wheels crushed the gravel, driving deeper into the Secret Realm.

The purpose of her trip was precisely to uncover whether a hidden "center" existed within this "decentralized order."

However, the climate in the southwestern mountain region was unpredictable.

It was clear and sunny in the morning, but by the afternoon, dark clouds gathered, and bean-sized raindrops came pelting down.

The mountain road instantly became muddy and impassable, and her visibility was obstructed.

With a roar ahead, a massive boulder, accompanied by mud and sand, blocked the winding mountain road, completely cutting off the way forward.

A road collapse!

Su Qingzhu slammed on the brakes, and the wheels skidded, nearly sliding off the road embankment.

She took a deep breath and dialed the rescue number, only to be told that they could not arrive in the short term.

With no other choice, she had to park the car on the side and walk to a small town post station not far away.

The post station was not large, but it was packed with travelers stranded by the heavy rain.

She found a corner to sit in and, through the blurred window, saw several villagers wearing straw rain capes in the rain outside, working together to repair a pottery drainage ditch destroyed by the mountain flood.

Their movements were skillful, and they were humming an adapted version of the "Stove Ballad," the tune ancient yet carrying a modern rhythm.

What shocked Su Qingzhu was that the rhythm of the ballad was surprisingly consistent with the resonance frequency of the pot bottoms of the "Ash-Returning Points" she had recorded across the country.

Was this an unconscious, collective tacit understanding, or... some deeper resonance?

Her brows furrowed, and her inner doubts grew even heavier.

At the same moment, Zhang Xuanyi was trekking through the deep valley washed by the heavy rain.

He had long since abandoned all fixed paths marked by officials or civilians, choosing instead to walk on trails that were rarely visited and overgrown with thorns.

He had only one goal: to avoid any possible tracking, including the marks he had once left behind himself.

His figure moved like the wind, yet his footsteps were as light as nothing, weaving freely between the wet and slippery mountain rocks; every step landed on a node of the world's veins, as if he had merged with the mountains and forests.

Passing by an old house that had been abandoned for a long time, with half of its roof collapsed, he paused slightly.

On the door frame of the house hung half a faded, white-bleached red cloth strip—that was an early marker he had left by hand when he had just started promoting the "Ash-Returning Points."

He walked into the house; the earthen walls were mottled, cobwebs were dense, and the stove had long gone cold and silent, exuding an air of desolation.

However, a glance was enough for him to discover a pile of freshly chopped firewood in the corner, stacked neatly.

What was even more noteworthy was that there was a layer of old porridge residue remaining at the bottom of the pot, which, although dried, still showed fresh traces.

He crouched down and carefully inspected the ashes inside the stove.

There, it was not completely messy, but faintly revealed several regular footprints, arranged in a plum blossom pattern.

This was not the standard "Nine Steps of Stove Installation," but a clever variation of the third move, "Step on Earth to Create Warmth," carrying a hint of flexibility and wisdom adapted to local conditions.

Someone had been here, and judging by the depth and distribution of the traces, it was clearly not just one person, but rather the product of a group working together.

Just as he was rising, lost in thought, and preparing to leave, a crisp cry from children suddenly came from the distant valley: "Quick! Hurry up! The teacher said we need to perform the 'Fire Reception Ceremony' today, if we're late, we'll miss the auspicious time!"

The voices drew closer, and a group of youths dressed in uniform school uniforms, carrying small backpacks, led by a tall female teacher, were walking towards the old house while chatting and laughing, carrying a small, brightly polished copper pot.

Their faces were beaming with excitement and anticipation, as if they were about to perform a grand ceremony.

The female teacher leading the group looked around and finally fixed her gaze on the dilapidated yet story-filled old house.

She said loudly to the children: "Children, today we are performing the 'Fire Reception Ceremony' here. The first ladle of porridge is to honor that Daoist who neither accepts incense nor leaves his name, yet lights the smoke of myriad households for us!"

"To the Daoist!" the children replied in unison, their childish voices echoing in the valley.

They carefully scooped out the hot porridge from the small copper pot and poured it into the long-cold stove of the old house.

In an instant, a faint yet pure cyan light flashed from the bottom of the stove, brief but clearly visible.

It was as if a long-dormant spark had been awakened, or as if it were responding to some call that transcended time and space.

Zhang Xuanyi stood deep in the shadows of the trees not far away, without revealing himself.

He merely silently took out a small pinch of mature Power Of Will ash from his cloth bag, which he had collected over a long time—a crystallization fused with the mundane life of the Mortal world and the charm of the Carefree Dao.

He lightly flicked his hand, and the ash, like specks of starlight, was carried by the mountain wind into the stove of the old house, silently merging with the newly born cyan light.

This was his last time "adding firewood," using the most hidden and minute way to inject the final bit of strength into this spark spontaneously ignited by Mortals.

After doing all this, he quietly turned around and disappeared back into the depths of the forest, as if he had never appeared.

By evening, the rain had gradually subsided, and Su Qingzhu finally arrived at the remote village nestled in the embrace of the mountains.

She had originally thought she would find some kind of strict organization here, or a commander hidden behind the scenes.

However, the scene before her left her stunned.

The so-called "centralized control" was nothing more than a "Power Of Will Practice Class" offered by the local middle school.

The students used simple mobile apps to record the cooking data of various stove points in the village, attempting to summarize the rhythm within them using the most rudimentary mathematical models.

This was not some secret organization of the world of extraordinary people, but a group of curious children, guided by their teacher, exploring the mysteries of the mundane life of the Mortal world in a scientific way.

Su Qingzhu walked into the village school and looked through their notes.

Page after page was densely filled with observation records, experimental data, and countless failed attempts.

Those crooked handwritings, however, exuded an unyielding resilience.

Until the very last page, a line of childish yet resounding text caught her eye:

"Perhaps there is no Great Master at all; we are our own spark."

Su Qingzhu was stunned.

She stood frozen for a long time, the myriad words in her heart finally turning into a soft sigh.

She understood.

That man, everything he did, was not to become a high and mighty god, but to scatter the "spark" into the Mortal world, allowing every Mortal to become an igniter, to become firewood, and to become the light that illuminates themselves.

In the end, she did not take away any "evidence," but instead left all the advanced equipment she carried—including high-precision sensors and encrypted signal analyzers—at the school as a supplement to the children's "practice class."

She only carefully picked a leaf from the flourishing "heart-burning stamen" at the entrance of the village, tucked it into her diary, and left the quiet little village, carrying a heavy sense of understanding and respect.

Late at night, a waning moon hung in the sky, its cold radiance spilling over the earth.

Zhang Xuanyi climbed up to a nameless mountain pass, the wind howling and whipping up his thin Daoist robe.

He looked back at the path he had come from; the lights of the distant village flickered sporadically, each one seeming to connect to a steaming hot pot, connecting to an endless, living Power Of Will of the Mortals.

He unbuttoned his blue cloth shirt and took out a warm, smooth piece of jade that he had worn close to his body for many years.

It was a talisman bone, once a fragment of the System core, fused with the profundity of photocopy yellow paper and the richness of the Dao De Jing ashes.

It had once been his last and most direct connection to the "myriad laws street vendor system."

However, at this moment, it had completely cooled down, unable to emit even a trace of Qi rhyme, just like an ancient artifact that had completed its mission.

Zhang Xuanyi gently stroked the surface of the talisman bone; finally, he bent down and buried it in a rock crevice on the mountaintop, covered it with soil, and carefully planted a young "heart-burning stamen" seedling on top of it.

Under the moonlight, the flower bud trembled slightly, as if responding to some distant and profound call.

He took one last look at the heart-burning stamen seedling swaying in the moonlight, then turned around without looking back and disappeared into the vast night.

Before dawn, Zhang Xuanyi reached a wilderness on the edge of the border, where there were no villages or towns.