189: The master that no one seeks is the most effective

That aura was both familiar and carried an indescribable sense of regularity and uniformity, as if hundreds upon thousands of cooking fires were burning and breathing together in the exact same rhythm.

This scent felt as if it had been measured by a ruler and pressed by a mold, having lost the liveliness and spontaneity that cooking fires should naturally possess.

Zhang Xuanyi's brows furrowed slightly, and his pace unconsciously quickened a little.

The rain fell like a woven curtain, and not far ahead, the outline of a village appeared intermittently in the mist.

At the entrance of the village, a brand-new stone tablet stood, engraved with large vermilion characters: "Communal Cooking Workshop Standardization Demonstration Village · Taoxi Village."

Beside the stone tablet was a more detailed notice board, listing the "Twelve Steps of Standardized Power Of Will Fire Operation," with neat, meticulous handwriting.

Zhang Xuanyi's gaze swept over it, and the corners of his mouth involuntarily curled into a mocking arc.

"Step One: Inspect firewood. Standard dry firewood moisture content must be below fifteen percent."

"Step Two: Stack firewood. Stack in a hash pattern, three horizontal and three vertical on the bottom layer, two horizontal and two vertical on the top layer; total height must not exceed forty-three centimeters."

"..."

"Step Twelve: Extinguish fire. After it naturally burns out, cover with standard Power Of Will ash to ensure no possibility of reignition."

Forty-three centimeters?

Zhang Xuanyi almost laughed out loud.

Was the person who set these rules using a protractor and a vernier caliper to cook?

He adjusted his bamboo hat and walked into the village like a passerby seeking shelter from the rain.

In front of the ancestral hall in the center of the village, a huge rain canopy had been temporarily erected, and under it, over a dozen brand-new, standardized large stoves were lined up.

Several cooks wearing the uniform of the "Communal Cooking Workshop" were gathered around a stove, their faces full of anxiety.

"It won't work, Village Chief, this firewood won't light!" a young cook wiped the sweat from his forehead and shouted to a middle-aged man, "The rain was too heavy last night, and the firewood at the very bottom of the warehouse got damp; the moisture content must definitely be over the limit!"

The man called the village chief looked serious, holding a small booklet in his hand: "What does the manual say? Does the manual mention how to handle damp firewood?"

"It doesn't!" the young man was on the verge of tears, "The manual only writes about 'standard dry firewood', this... this is not standard!"

The village chief flipped through the booklet loudly, and in the end, could only close it helplessly: "Then there's nothing to be done! Everything must be done according to the manual! Keep trying to light it; sincerity brings efficacy! This is a standard from above, it cannot be changed arbitrarily!"

A group of people faced a pile of damp firewood, vainly trying to light it with fire starters; sparks flashed and vanished, leaving only wisps of choking white smoke.

The villagers watched from the edge of the canopy, discussing among themselves, their faces filled with disappointment and hunger.

It should have been mealtime, but now they couldn't even smell a hint of hot food.

Zhang Xuanyi squatted in an inconspicuous corner of a wall in the distance, pulled a dry, hard pancake from his bosom, and chewed on it expressionlessly.

Watching the cooks who were tied hand and foot by the word "standard," there was no sympathy in his eyes, only a detachment like that of someone watching a play.

At noon, seeing no hope of lighting the fires, the village chief had to announce a suspension and summoned all the cooks to the ancestral hall for a meeting to study and revisit the spirit.

An old projector had been temporarily set up in the ancestral hall, and on the screen appeared a beautiful and determined face—it was Su Qingzhu.

In the video, she was no longer the reporter who chased after news of extraordinary people; she wore a capable uniform, her eyes sharp as knives.

She said in a clear and powerful voice: "Comrades, remember, the core of the 'Communal Cooking Workshop' is not the stove, not the firewood, and certainly not that set of procedures written on paper. Power Of Will originates from the human heart, from our original intention to send warmth to the hungry and cold. Form is the boat, the human heart is the water; water can carry a boat, but it can also capsize it. Never put the cart before the horse and let rules constrain the human heart..."

As soon as she finished speaking, there was a "pop" sound, the projector flickered twice, the image suddenly disappeared, and the ancestral hall plunged into darkness.

"What's going on?" the village chief asked anxiously.

In the corner, a cook muttered: "...Did the projector's ground wire not get connected according to the 'three-hole safety connection method' in the manual? Yesterday, I saw Li Er just plugging it in randomly."

"Pfft."

Zhang Xuanyi couldn't help it, and a mouthful of dry pancake crumbs almost sprayed out.

He quickly lowered his head, using his bamboo hat to cover his face, which had turned red from holding back laughter.

He thought to himself: Su Qingzhu, oh Su Qingzhu, back then you scolded me for engaging in feudal superstition and pretending to be a ghost, but now look, you yourself are being enshrined on the podium by these people, recited like a Talismanic Incantation.

It's just a pity that this Talismanic Incantation doesn't seem to be very efficacious.

By evening, while the adults were still getting a headache over "procedures" and "spirit," several half-grown children were starving and couldn't stand it anymore.

They snuck into the deserted kitchen canopy, targeting a basket of unwanted sweet potatoes in the corner.

"Ergou, this firewood is damp, what do we do if it won't light?" a little girl asked.

The leading boy, Ergou, who was only a little over ten years old, had a fearless spirit: "My dad said, the thinner you chop the firewood, the faster it dries!"

He found a wood chopper and laboriously split several pieces of damp wood into strips as thick as a little finger.

Another child found a handful of dry straw from under the eaves and placed it at the very bottom of the stove.

"Wind! Not enough wind!" Ergou blew into the stove a few times, his face turning red, but the sparks remained on the verge of dying out.

His eyes rolled, and he ran to the pile of sundries, dragged out an old fan with broken blades, and blew "whoosh, whoosh" at the stove door.

Not understanding moisture content or hash-pattern stacking, the children only had one simple thought—to start a fire and roast sweet potatoes.

Driven by the crude fan, the dry grass was instantly ignited, tongues of fire licked the thin, damp wooden strips, and the moisture hissed.

The white smoke gradually diminished, and a cluster of bright, orange-yellow flames finally roared to life!

Just at the moment when the flames rose to their brightest, a nearly imperceptible cyan pattern flashed and vanished on the bottom of the stove pot.

The scorching steam suddenly hit the damp, cold wall behind it, briefly casting a blurred outline of a human face, impossible to tell if it was sad or happy.

"Wow! A ghost!" a sharp-eyed child screamed in fright.

The children were scared Soul Flying Away and Spirit Scattering, scrambling away, leaving behind a pot of uncooked sweet potatoes and a stove fire burning brighter and brighter.

The next day, the village chief learned of the children's behavior of "using fire in violation of rules and damaging public property," and they were made to stand as punishment outside the ancestral hall, receiving a severe reprimand.

Zhang Xuanyi stood under the old locust tree outside the ancestral hall, listening to the reprimands coming from inside, but never appeared.

When the night was deep and quiet, he floated back to the kitchen like a ghost.

He looked at the stove that had been successfully lit, and above the stove door, unhurriedly placed a piece of dead branch he had picked up from the roadside, which had a natural curve.

The position and angle of this dead branch were extremely ingenious, just right for utilizing the convection of cold and hot air inside and outside the stove to form a natural draft structure.

This was the first lesson his Master, Xiaoyao, taught him back at Mount Longhu: following the trend is not as good as borrowing the trend.

The Dao follows nature; it is not about making you comply with rigid rules, but about borrowing the momentum that exists everywhere between heaven and earth.

On the morning of the third day, before dawn, the old cook who had been scolded for half the night, perhaps harboring a grudge, snuck into the kitchen.

He didn't look at that damn manual again, but instead recalled the "wild method" the children used yesterday, split the damp firewood into thin pieces, laid down dry grass, and then learned to fan the stove door.

When he saw the dead branch Zhang Xuanyi had left behind, he was slightly stunned, then seemed to have a realization, and turned the stove door directly towards the direction of the breeze brought by the dead branch.

This time, the fire caught as soon as it was lit.

When the first wisp of cooking smoke rose curlingly in the continuous autumn rain, the entire Taoxi Village was in an uproar!

The villagers excitedly ran to tell each other, and the village chief was so moved that his eyes filled with tears, immediately reporting this matter as a Major Achievement of "grassroots comrades comprehending the superior's spirit in practice and discovering a hidden secret technique."

Soon, the superiors sent investigators, with great fanfare, vowing to compile this "lost ancient technique" into a book, incorporate it into the new standardized procedures, and trace its mysterious origin.

Just as the investigation team leader was holding a notebook, repeatedly studying the "ancient aerodynamic principles" of that dead branch, an off-road vehicle splashed through the mud and stopped at the entrance of the village.

The car door opened, and Su Qingzhu stepped out, looking travel-worn.

She ignored the village chief who came to greet her, walked straight to the investigation team, and presented an authorization order stamped with the bright red seal of the "Power Of Will Archives."

"According to Article 3 of the 'Emergency Regulations on Decentralized Power Of Will Propagation Behavior'," her voice was not loud, but it clearly drowned out the sound of the rain, "Any fire-starting method proven effective in practice can be filed by the local Communal Cooking Workshop as a new paradigm, without the need for tracing the source, and it shall take effect immediately."

The investigation team leader was stunned.

Su Qingzhu's gaze swept over the astonished crowd, and in that instant, her heart stirred slightly, as if she had sensed something, and she subconsciously looked towards the distant, mist-shrouded hillside.

In the morning mist, a figure wearing a bamboo hat was carrying an empty aluminum lunch box on his back, slowly walking away along the rugged mountain path, his silhouette lonely and carefree.

That night, Zhang Xuanyi stayed in a dilapidated temple halfway up the mountain.

The statues in the temple had long since collapsed, and only cold ashes remained in the incense burner.

He originally intended to rest for a moment and then leave, but suddenly felt a faint, almost imperceptible warmth coming from the ground beneath him.

He curiously pushed aside the thick fallen leaves and dust, only to discover that buried under the base of the incense burner was a small clay pot the size of a palm.

The clay pot was already cracked, but one could still see a few crooked characters carved on its body: "Imitation Fishing Reel Method · Self-Heating Stove."

He opened the clay pot, and inside was a ridiculously crude device: two AA batteries connected to a miniature motor taken from a toy four-wheel-drive car, with a small plastic fan attached to the motor.

Beside it was a note blurred by moisture, with childish but firm handwriting:

"If you can't understand the Ancestral Master's Talismanic Incantation, just build a wind-blowing incense burner yourself."

Zhang Xuanyi was stunned, and then, he looked up, watching the collapsed roof of the temple and the endless night rain outside, and suddenly burst into loud laughter.

The laughter echoed in the empty, dilapidated temple, shaking the dust on the beams to fall down in rustles.

He laughed for a long, long time, until tears seeped from the corners of his eyes.

After he finished laughing, for the first time, he felt that his heavy shoulders had suddenly become incomparably light, as if he had never carried anything at all.

Legends, in the end, will find their own way.

The cold ash in the stove could no longer spark a single ember. And the road ahead was still very long, very long.