188: Fire whistles drift across the no-man's land

Morning mist, like gauze, shrouded the desolate mountain peak.

That Spiritual Plant named "heart-burning stamen" swayed incessantly in the mountain wind.

Overnight, the blue cloth patch tied to it had been torn in two by the wind blades.

One half fell into the damp soil, merging with the morning dew, while the other half remained stubbornly wrapped around the stem tip, like a faded little flag declaring an end.

Zhang Xuanyi did not look back at that final sliver of attachment.

He simply placed his portable aluminum lunchbox upside down on a blue stone, listening to the residual dew on the lid drip down along the indentations.

The crisp sound seemed to draw a period to a segment of the past.

This lunchbox had once been the "container" for his Mind-Cultivation Technique, and also the "Magical Artifact" he used to calibrate the smoke and fire of the human world.

And from this moment on, it was just an empty lunchbox.

He knew better than anyone that a true Legacy was not about leaving behind some earth-shattering title, nor carving out immortal achievements, but about letting the world completely forget who it was that first handed over the spark.

His figure disappeared into the mountain forest, leaving with no further attachment.

By the afternoon, a chaotic barking of dogs suddenly came from the depths of the barren ridges, mixed with a woman's suppressed sobbing and a man's rough angry rebukes.

Zhang Xuanyi paused his steps and followed the sound.

He saw a dilapidated earthen house surrounded by a dense crowd of villagers, all craning their necks, pointing and gesturing at the bare chimney that showed not a trace of smoke.

"You wasteful woman! Can't you even burn a few pieces of firewood? The child is still waiting to drink some hot porridge!" roared a burly man with a fleshy face, his spit flying everywhere.

Surrounded in the center was an old woman with gray hair, protecting a thin, starving grandson in her arms, her whole body trembling like a leaf in the wind.

Facing the accusations of the whole village, she merely trembled her lips, unable to say a single word.

Zhang Xuanyi crouched under a dirt slope not far away, like a silent stone, with no intention of stepping forward.

He just watched quietly.

Just as the crowd's denunciation grew more intense, almost to the point of rushing into the house to snatch things, the old woman tremblingly turned and returned to the house, and a moment later, she brought out a rusty tin can.

Amidst everyone's suspicious gazes, she opened the can, carefully poured out some grayish-white powder, and sprinkled it evenly over the few remaining damp pieces of firewood in the stove.

She muttered to herself, her voice as thin as a mosquito: "Three spoons of old bottom ash, three circles around the left foot, may the Heavens grant us a meal..."

That action was less like making a fire and more like performing some ancient and devout ritual.

The fire striker struck, and a spark splashed into the stove.

A bizarre scene occurred!

The flame, which was so weak it seemed it could go out at any moment, the instant it touched the grayish-white powder, went "poof" and stabilized; although the firelight was not vigorous, it exuded a strange vitality.

Immediately after, a faint cyan pattern slowly appeared on the bottom of the iron pot placed on the stove, and the cold water in the pot began to steam at a speed visible to the naked eye.

The surrounding crowd instantly fell silent; the burly man who had just been furious now had his mouth open wide enough to fit an egg.

In the silence, someone muttered in a low voice: "...In that booklet issued by the Communal Cooking Workshop last month... it seems, it seems there really is this trick..."

One stone stirred up a thousand waves.

"Yes! I remember now, it's called the 'Will-Ash Combustion-Assistance Method'! They say it can even ignite wet firewood!"

"Goodness, I thought it was a scam, I didn't expect it to be real! This old woman actually learned it!"

The crowd's anger instantly dissipated, replaced by surprise and a trace of awe.

The burly man from earlier scratched his head, looking somewhat embarrassed, then turned and grabbed a bundle of dry firewood from his own woodpile, silently dropping it at the old woman's door.

Below the dirt slope, a faint smile curled at the corners of Zhang Xuanyi's mouth.

He stood up silently and turned back into the dense forest.

As it turned out, the most rigid rules were never carved by fists and authority, but taught through the softest words and the simplest truths.

When the Dao becomes firewood, rice, oil, and salt, there is no longer a need for a preacher.

At nightfall, Zhang Xuanyi stayed overnight in a long-abandoned forest ranger station.

The corners were covered in cobwebs, and there were several damp, yellowed copies of the "Basic Cook Training Manual" piled up.

He casually opened one, and by the moonlight, when he turned to the seventh page, he couldn't help but laugh dumbfoundedly.

On the page was printed in bold text: "Uniform Ingredient Qi Gathering Method: To ensure even heat, ingredients should be cut into uniform sizes and thicknesses, in accordance with the order of the Fire Virtue, to gather Qi and create fragrance."

Below it was an extremely poorly drawn illustration, depicting exactly the uniform-sized chunks.

Zhang Xuanyi's thoughts were instantly pulled back many years ago, on that bumpy fishing boat, where he, in order to make a pot of yams cook at the same time, had also patiently cut them into the same size.

At that time, he was still young and frivolous, thinking he was comprehending the Dao and preaching, integrating the true meaning of "carefree nature" into the kitchen.

He never expected that an unintentional act of his back then would be taken as a case study and copied into this training textbook distributed to the most basic units across the country.

He was hardly any Grandmaster; he was clearly just the inventor of a "folk remedy" included in a textbook.

While he was self-deprecating, a flash of firelight suddenly appeared outside the window.

He leaned to the window to look, and saw the young forest ranger who had just arrived next door, crouching in front of his stove, meticulously building a fire while referring to a brand-new manual.

The person carefully arranged the firewood into a seven-star shape, and after lighting it, the flame seemed to be guided by an invisible hand, automatically swirling into a small tornado, the heat highly concentrated, burning the bottom of the pot red-hot.

The theory in the manual was being perfectly practiced by the most ordinary person.

Zhang Xuanyi silently picked up that aluminum lunchbox and, using all his strength, knocked it hard against the hard corner of the wall.

With a crisp "clang," a clear notch was knocked into the edge of the lunchbox.

It was like a self-imposed punishment, punishing himself for his self-righteousness back then.

The next day, he passed through a county town.

From the loudspeaker hanging high on the street, news was being broadcast in standard Mandarin: "...The Power Of Will Base Frequency Monitoring Center announced today that the autonomous activation rate of 'Ash-Returning Point' public stoves nationwide has stabilized at ninety-seven percent. After assessment by the expert group, it is recommended that effective immediately, the 'manual calibration' mobile positions be officially abolished..."

The sound was not loud, but it struck Zhang Xuanyi's heart like a heavy hammer.

His once unique and crucial identity as a "Calibrator" had been completely erased by a line of cold official announcement.

Immediately following, the broadcast inserted a missing person notice: "Would a gentleman named Zhang Xuanyi, upon hearing this broadcast, please contact the National Power Of Will Archives as soon as possible. Editor-in-Chief Su Qingzhu requires your assistance regarding the archiving of certain historical documents."

Historical documents... archiving...

Zhang Xuanyi stood outside the newsstand, listening quietly until the end.

He took a coin out of his pocket, bought neither cigarettes nor water, but dropped it into the red donation box nearby.

Then, he picked up a copy of that day's "City Morning News."

The front-page headline featured a huge photo that occupied almost half the page, showing a galaxy of light formed by the flames of countless public stoves.

Below the photo was a striking headline — "We No Longer Need Heroes, Only Everyone Willing to Add Firewood to the Long Night."

Byline: Su Qingzhu.

He carefully folded the newspaper, stuffed it into the notched lunchbox, and closed the lid, as if sealing away a final memory.

Then, with his back to the sound of the broadcast, he continued walking forward.

At dusk, the weather changed abruptly, and a torrential rain poured down.

He took shelter in a dry cave by the roadside, and as soon as he entered, he was attracted by the sight on the cave wall.

The rough rock wall was actually carved with dense, crooked symbols and lines.

He looked closely, and his heart was violently shaken — this was no graffiti; it was clearly a huge network map, and every point marked on it corresponded to the coordinates of an "Ash-Returning Point" he had personally ignited or calibrated!

Who had recorded all of this?

Just as his mind was in turmoil, a thin figure flashed past the cave entrance.

The person, wearing a raincoat, nimbly climbed in; it was the young fisherman he had saved from the wind and waves many years ago.

Only now, on the other person's arm, was an armband printed with the words "Communal Cooking Workshop."

The young man didn't seem to notice anyone in the depths of the cave; he skillfully buried a package wrapped tightly in oil paper in a hidden crevice on the rock wall — it was a new batch of "Standard Will-Ash."

After doing all this, he rubbed his frozen hands and muttered to the heavy rain outside the cave: "Master said, the more it is this kind of windy and rainy weather, the more we must ensure the spark does not go out. There are always people passing through these mountains who need a hot meal."

Zhang Xuanyi curled up in the deepest shadows of the cave, motionless, letting the seeping rainwater slide coldly down his forehead.

He knew that as long as he walked out right now, the other person would definitely recognize him, would be excited, would kneel and worship, and would treat him as a god.

However, that pure trust and persistence from an ordinary person toward a fictional "Master" would collapse the moment he appeared.

A god cannot step down from the altar.

Therefore, he simply used his fingertips to gently draw a stove pattern, one already deeply etched in his heart, on the slippery wall beside him.

Then, taking advantage of the moment the young man turned to adjust his raincoat, like a true shadow, he exited the cave silently and merged back into the boundless curtain of rain.

That night, for the first time, Zhang Xuanyi truly became the "non-existent person" in the legend.

The continuous autumn rain showed no signs of stopping, washing away all traces between heaven and earth.

He walked aimlessly, but the muddy path beneath his feet seemed to have an invisible pull, leading him toward a place where, even in this damp air, he could still smell the rich scent of smoke and fire.

That scent was both familiar and carried an indescribable sense of order and uniformity, as if hundreds of stove fires were burning and breathing together in the exact same rhythm.