186: You ask me where I am? In the white steam rising from every mouthful of hot porridge

Before dawn, Zhang Xuanyi's footsteps stopped at the edge of a desolate border. There were no villages here, no lights, only a long-abandoned railway, like a grey spine, extending lonely into the distance.

The biting morning wind whistled past his ears, lifting a corner of his thin Daoist robe, bringing with it the scent of melting snow from afar.

He did not hesitate, walking straight to the center of the tracks, sitting cross-legged, and spreading out the blue cloth bag that had accompanied him for many years before him.

The cloth bag was empty, holding nothing, yet it snapped in the wind. That subtle sound eerily coincided with the electronic prompt that sounded in his ears when the myriad laws street vendor system first started, carrying a profound resonance and farewell.

He closed his eyes, feeling the last trace of connection to the System within his body. It was a lingering tie like a thin thread, and now it was time to cut it off completely.

Zhang Xuanyi slowly raised his right hand, palm upward, and a cluster of obscure spiritual light danced at his fingertips; that was the core energy that had once maintained the operation of the System.

A faint smile curled at the corners of his mouth as he whispered softly, his voice scattered by the wind but seemingly ringing clearly throughout the world: "The transaction is complete, but the sentiments remain."

As the words fell, the cluster of spiritual light in his palm suddenly contracted, turning into a searing pain as thin as a thread, flowing upstream along his meridians, and finally converging in the center of his palm before bursting violently.

That searing pain was not a physical torment, but a violent tremor from the depths of his Soul, where a certain connection was forcibly severed.

As this last searing pain completely dissipated, the green patterns engraved with complex textures at the bottom of the pots in the seventeen Ash-Returning Point communal stoves three hundred miles away flashed nine times simultaneously.

They required no instructions, nor did they have any visible source, as they spontaneously completed the ninth round of "Stove Calibration."

The embers remaining in the stove chambers were revitalized by this mysterious fluctuation, as if reignited by some invisible force, and the warm ashes emitted a faint, fragrant scent, signaling that the smoke and fire of the day were about to revive.

A few hours later, when the first ray of morning sun pierced the horizon, gilding the concrete jungle in gold, Su Qingzhu was standing on top of the city's tallest building, overlooking the myriad lights waking up beneath her feet.

Her gaze was sharp and profound, penetrating the glass curtain walls of the high-rise, as if she could clearly see the Mortal smoke and fire rising behind every window.

She held a letter in her hand that had never been sent, the paper worn at the edges from being rubbed repeatedly.

Unfolding the letter, there were only two lines of words, yet each word carried immense weight, filled with her complex and profound feelings for that man: "They all say you have left. I say you were never here—you have always been there, scalding the throat of everyone."

She carefully folded the letter paper into a pure white paper crane and took a transparent lantern from the bag she carried.

The interior of the lantern was exquisitely designed, with a small candle embedded at the bottom.

She lit the candle, and the dim yellow light instantly illuminated the paper crane, making it appear exceptionally sacred inside the translucent lantern.

Su Qingzhu took a deep breath and slowly released her hand.

With the help of the rising heat and the wind at the top of the building, the paper crane lantern lightly left her fingertips, swaying as it ascended, and soon merged into the sky of the early morning twilight.

Just as the lantern rose into the sky, the entire city, and even all the Communal Cooking Workshops within tens of kilometers—those public stoves that had once been modified by Zhang Xuanyi—vibrated silently in unison.

Inside the pots and stoves, the steam remaining from yesterday was instantly stimulated by an invisible force, condensing into a gentle mist that outlined a faint, arching line spanning the sky in the morning light.

That arc was not a physical object, yet it was clearly visible, like a "Stove Smoke Bridge" formed by the convergence of countless Mortal lives, stretching between heaven and earth, connecting the past and the future, and also connecting that man to this land.

Su Qingzhu looked at the breathtaking scene, the corners of her eyes slightly moist, but a firm smile appeared on her lips.

She knew that he had never truly left.

Near noon, at a station deep in the Gobi desert in the Northwest, a weather-beaten courier vehicle finally arrived.

The sweating courier unloaded a heavy package from the carriage, and upon opening it, found an old, paint-peeling aluminum lunch box inside.

The sender column was blank, but the recipient address had a strange line of words written: "Any Ash-Returning Point stove."

The courier weighed it curiously, shook it, and there was no sound from the lunch box.

He raised an eyebrow, and with a bit of playfulness and confusion, slowly opened the lid.

The expected food did not appear; instead, there was a sketch drawn with charcoal.

The style was rough but vivid: beside a crude stove stood a figure seen from behind, with a wisp of white smoke rising from his head, looking as if he had just taken a sip of boiling hot porridge and was steaming from the heat.

The courier looked at the painting, stunned for a moment, and then couldn't help but laugh out loud.

This painting possessed an indescribable, strange, yet intimate atmosphere of the marketplace.

He shook his head, took the painting out of the lunch box, and casually taped it to the wall of the station's kitchen.

Afterwards, he took the empty aluminum lunch box to the sink, washed it thoroughly, and placed it in the station's communal cooking area, thinking it might come in handy.

That night, a passing traveler walked into the station kitchen, hungry.

He immediately saw the clean and shiny aluminum lunch box, and thinking it was convenient, scooped some rice and water into it and cooked porridge on the fire.

The flames licked the bottom of the lunch box, and before long, the traveler suddenly noticed that on the severely worn aluminum skin at the bottom of the box, a faint circle of cyan patterns had emerged.

The pattern was not clear, but it carried an indescribable simplicity and sanctity.

He was a bit surprised, but didn't think too much about it, just thinking that this lunch box might be quite old.

However, to his surprise, the porridge, which should have been cooked in the preset time, took an extra ten minutes to reach the perfect consistency.

That bowl of porridge, when eaten, was sweeter than any bowl he had ever eaten before, as if it contained some indescribable warmth and power.

At dusk, Zhang Xuanyi's figure appeared at the pier of a fishing village on an island in the south.

He had long since taken off his Daoist robe and changed into a coarse cloth fisherman's outfit, with the same empty blue cloth bag on his back.

The sea breeze, carrying a salty, fishy scent, rushed towards him. He looked at the fishing boats moored at the port and chose an old fishing trawler that was about to set sail.

"Hey, where are you going?" The captain was a dark-skinned, sturdy middle-aged man who asked curiously when he saw him alone.

Zhang Xuanyi smiled slightly, his smile carrying a bit of freedom and spontaneity: "Anywhere is fine, as long as there is a hot meal on the boat."

The captain laughed upon hearing this, waving his hand readily: "Come on up! We don't have much else on our boat, but there's plenty of food!"

Before boarding, Zhang Xuanyi looked back at the direction of the mainland one last time.

The setting sun was slowly sinking into the horizon, dyeing the entire expanse of waves a magnificent blood-red.

In his eyes, that boundless red light was like countless burning stove chambers reflected between heaven and earth, and every wave looked like a cluster of dancing flames, endless and alive.

He whispered to himself, his voice low and clear, as if making a final confession to this land and to himself: "This time, I'm really leaving."

Night fell completely, and the ocean-going fishing trawler rode the waves in the deep sea.

Zhang Xuanyi sat alone on the deck, letting the sea breeze blow through his hair, looking up at the vast, boundless starry sky above.

The Milky Way was like scattered crushed diamonds, brilliant and profound, making his figure appear even more insignificant.

Suddenly, a commotion came from the cabin, breaking the silence of the night.

Zhang Xuanyi stood up in confusion and looked toward the sound.

It turned out that the Cook on the boat had bought a new iron pot today and was preparing to make a midnight snack.

However, when he poured rice and water into the pot and lit the stove fire, a shocking scene occurred—a circle of clear cyan patterns emerged on the bottom of the iron pot, and the pattern swayed with the rise and fall of the trawler in the waves, as if it were alive.

The crew had never seen such a scene, so they gathered around, discussing it one after another, their eyes full of shock and uncertainty.

Only Zhang Xuanyi smiled slightly the moment he saw the cyan pattern.

He didn't say much, just walked up slowly, took the long spoon from the Cook's hand, and skillfully helped stir the rice grains in the pot.

No one recognized that this new crew member was the owner of the Myriad Laws Street Stall who had once shaken the Human Realm, and no one asked who he was.

The sea breeze blew, the porridge steam rose, and those wisps of white smoke were no longer blocked by high-rise buildings, but rushed straight into the sky, merging into the Milky Way overhead.

It was as if the fire of the whole world felt some distant and profound resonance at this moment, gently trembling and burning...