187: Xiaoyao Road

Deep in the ocean, the fishing boat swayed gently with the waves, as soft as a cradle.

The briny sea breeze carried the chill of the night, but it could not disperse the rising warmth within the cabin.

Zhang Xuanyi squatted at the hatch, his gaze like a torch, fixed tightly on the newly placed iron pot.

The green patterns on the bottom of the pot, at this moment, were like ancient runes being awakened, appearing and disappearing as the porridge bubbled.

It was not a dead object, but a living pulse; it flickered three times, each flash carrying a deep and firm rhythm, then it sank into the grayish-white surface of the porridge and did not emerge again.

He did not reach out, nor did he chant a Spell.

This fire was not lit by him.

It was the Cook on the boat who, following an electronic tutorial from an unknown "Communal Cooking Workshop", had carefully mixed in three spoonfuls of "old bottom ash" and then piously circled the stove three times with his left foot before igniting it.

The flame was not large, but it carried an unprecedented, vibrant vitality.

Zhang Xuanyi knew that from now on, even "who lit the fire" no longer mattered.

What mattered was that someone was willing to crouch down and slowly warm those cold pots.

A trace of gratification flashed deep in his eyes; it was a sense of relief after passing the torch throughout the human world.

During the early morning shift change, the sea breeze became increasingly biting, and the boat swayed violently.

Zhang Xuanyi stood up proactively, walked into the small kitchen, and took over the work from the Cook.

He did not take charge of the ladle, but silently picked up several large yams, skillfully cutting them into uniform pieces and stacking them neatly by the stove.

The young fisherman leaned against the door, watching him curiously: "New brother, how did you cut them so evenly? Are you preparing to Cook?"

Zhang Xuanyi grinned, revealing a mouthful of white teeth, his eyes deep: "Fire recognizes an honest man."

The fisherman was stunned, scratched his head, and didn't quite understand the meaning of this sentence.

However, when making porridge that night, using the same method and the same fire, the green patterns on the bottom of the pot flashed two more times than the previous night.

What was even more peculiar was that the steam rising from the pot condensed into fine raindrops in the night sky, falling gently onto the deck.

"The Sea Stove has opened its eyes! This is a good omen!" An elderly boatman walked out from the cabin and, seeing this phenomenon, was so excited that his beard trembled and his eyes shone, "I've been on boats my whole life; I've only heard the elders talk about it, but I've never seen it with my own eyes!"

No one knew that this phenomenon of the "Sea Stove opening its eyes" was just the most basic "Evenly Distribute Material, Qi Gathering" Spell among the "Nine Steps of Stove Setting".

This was once a secret technique passed down by word of mouth in the world of extraordinary people, but now, it had long been rewritten into the lesson plans for labor classes in some elementary schools.

Under the guidance of their teachers, the children cut ingredients into uniform sizes, thinking it was just to ensure the food cooked better, and never had anyone linked it to the word "Spell".

Zhang Xuanyi looked at the cheering crew on the deck, the corners of his mouth slightly raised.

His Dao, by this point, had reached the simplicity of the Great Dao, returning to the essence.

Several days later, the fishing boat docked for supplies.

Zhang Xuanyi quietly left the boat, put away the empty blue cloth bag, and replaced it with an old, paint-chipped aluminum lunch box, light and inconspicuous.

He did not board any more transportation, but walked deep into the interior, arriving at a long-abandoned mining area.

This was where he had failed to set up a stove three years ago—at that time, people were full of misunderstanding and resistance toward the new things that appeared after the "Qi Tide" arrived.

The residents did not believe the nonsense that "drinking porridge can change one's luck," smashing the pots and dumping the ash, calling him a "con artist swindling meals."

Now passing by the old site, the ruins remained, but in the corner of a broken wall, a newly fired pottery urn stood quietly.

The body of the urn was engraved with crooked handwriting, like a child's graffiti, but it carried a sense of piety: "Ash-Returning Point · Self-Burning, Self-Warming".

Zhang Xuanyi crouched down, his palm lightly touching the pottery urn, feeling the faint residual warmth radiating from within.

He reached his hand into the urn and felt around; the ash his fingertips touched still retained warmth.

He looked at the surrounding ground again; although the footprints on the soil appeared messy, upon careful inspection, they faintly aligned with the rhythm of "Stepping on the Earth to Generate Warmth".

He could feel that this was not formed overnight, but was a mark accumulated from countless repeated, unconscious actions.

He understood in his heart.

It was not that the people from back then had changed, but that later, someone had come and taught them.

Those "knowledge" pieces spread by the System had, in the most grounded way, integrated into the most ordinary, mundane life.

What were once considered "extraordinary Spells" had now become little life hacks, becoming the community's mutual aid Law.

In the evening, Zhang Xuanyi stayed at a simple, humble inn at the entrance of the town.

He ordered a bowl of plain noodles and sat quietly in the corner, listening to two cadres from the Water Conservancy Bureau at the next table discussing in low voices.

"Strange, the resonance frequency of the seventeen 'Ash-Returning Points' recently shifted by 0.3 Hertz. The higher-ups want to investigate if there is human interference." One of them frowned, putting down his chopsticks, his tone filled with some confusion and anxiety.

The other shook his head, picked up his teacup and took a sip, seemingly accustomed to this: "Investigate what? A new mutual aid stove for herdsmen opened in the Northwest; I heard it can double cheese production. Today, in the Southeast direction, a village primary school is hosting a 'Morning Reading Porridge Meeting'; the children drink a bowl every morning and are as energetic as little tigers. With more fire, the tone naturally changes; what is there to be surprised about?"

Zhang Xuanyi lowered his head, eating the noodles in his bowl, and quietly sprinkled the remaining pinch of mature Power Of Will ash from his lunch box into the stove of the shop's kitchen.

He knew that from now on, the world no longer needed a "Calibrator".

Because every addition of firewood, every flickering flame, had become the most natural and harmonious tuning in this world.

Late at night, Zhang Xuanyi, alone, followed the route in his memory to a mountain peak rarely visited by people.

The mountain wind howled, and the moonlight was like a wash, plating every plant and tree on the mountain peak with a layer of silver frost.

He took out the last old object from his bosom—it was a patch cut from his former blue cloth shirt, embroidered with a tiny stove pattern; although the stitches were clumsy, they carried a kind of ancient piety.

He originally wanted to bury this patch in the soil, letting it return completely to the dust.

However, when his hand was raised in mid-air, he stopped again.

When the wind rose, he gently tied the cloth piece to a "heart-burning stamen" growing on the mountain peak with tough roots and stems.

This was a rare Spiritual Plant that lived by absorbing the purest fire-elemental Qi between heaven and earth.

The cloth piece swayed with the stem, like a fluttering flag, and also like a silent letter, a will that no one would receive.

And in a city thousands of miles away, Su Qingzhu was standing in front of the newly established "Power Of Will Archive".

This building was entirely constructed of transparent glass curtain walls, reflecting the brilliance of the thousands of lights in the city.

She gazed at all of this, the sharpness and anxiety of the past gone from her eyes, replaced by a calm determination.

She whispered softly, her voice scattered by the wind, yet it seemed to clearly resound through heaven and earth: "This time, you really don't have to come back."

As her words fell, the seventeen "Ash-Returning Point" public stoves across the entire city, almost at the same moment, erupted with a faint but firm light.

That light was not scorching, but warm and moist like jade, as if the earth were responding to her confession, gently answering with a sound.

This light connected the city's smoke and fire, connected the distant mountains and seas, and connected every Mortal who harbored kindness.

Thus, Zhang Xuanyi's "Carefree Dao" finally blossomed in the human world.