197: The last buyer didn't pay.

The bell at the Hour of the Rat tolled from outside the mountain, three times, dull and thunderous.

Deep in the vault of the Power Of Will Archives, the air felt like solidified lead.

There were no lights here, only a ring of dim blue Talisman runes circulating slowly on the walls, illuminating the charred scrap of cloth on the central stone platform—the last remaining entity of the myriad laws street vendor system, curled up under a glass cover like a leaf scorched by heavenly fire.

When Su Qingzhu pushed the door open and entered, her footsteps were light, yet they caused a glimmer of light in the air to tremble.

She wore no protective suit and carried no recorder, only an old trench coat draped over her, holding a cup of warm water in her hand.

Fingerprints were still visible on the side of the cup, from where she had gripped it all the way up.

She walked to the platform, crouched down, and gently placed the water beside the glass cover.

Her movements were as familiar as if she had done it a thousand times before.

Ten years ago, when Zhang Xuanyi set up his Myriad Laws Street Stall, it was just like this.

Before the copper bell rang and the tea grew cold, he would first pour himself a cup of water, place it by the stall, and say, "The deal is not yet made, but the goodwill arrives first."

No one understood what that meant. Until now.

Steam rose in wisps, tracing a thin line in the cold air.

Suddenly, the mist stopped in mid-air, as if severed by something invisible.

Immediately after, a layer of frost formed silently on the surface of the cup—not the chaotic patterns of ordinary ice crystals, but precise as if carved by a graver: three concentric circles, the twelve earthly branches on the outer ring, a seven-point star array at the inner pivot, with a crack running right through the center, shaped like a shattered reverse fate altering compass.

Su Qingzhu's pupils constricted, and her breathing almost stopped.

But her face remained impassive; she simply slowly took a silver-gray spectrum analyzer from her inner coat pocket, turned it on, and set it up on the ground.

She aimed the lens at the water surface, adjusted the sampling frequency to 7.83 Hz, and simultaneously activated the spatial fluctuation capture mode.

The data stream began to scroll.

At first, it was just noise, chaotic and disorganized.

But when the time pointed to 00:17, the values suddenly jumped—seventeen coordinates activated simultaneously, distributed from the southeast coast to the Northwest wilderness, spanning three thousand kilometers, unrelated people resonating at the exact same moment.

She stared at the screen, her fingertips turning cold.

The first signal source: a fishing village in southern Zhejiang, Old Fisherman Uncle Lin, who ten years ago wandered into a ghost tide while trying to save his drowning grandson and escaped by using "heavenly eye mung beans" to see the true form of the evil spirits.

Now, he wakes up every night at the Hour of the Rat, touches the purple-black scar on his chest, and mutters, "The fire must be bright, so the child won't be afraid."

The second: Chen Wan, a volunteer teacher in the Northwest, who luckily passed her college entrance exam after consuming "heavenly eye mung beans," and later used intuition to predict an escape route during a landslide, saving a busload of students.

She didn't know why she always dreamed of a young man selling Talismans in the early hours, smiling and saying to her, "You owe me a story."

The third... the seventh... the seventeenth.

All of them were people who had bought on credit back then.

Someone didn't have money to buy "photocopy yellow paper" to protect their home, and Zhang Xuanyi waved his hand: "Just bring a bowl of hot soup next time."

Someone lied that they had lost their spirit coin, and he laughed: "Then you owe me a story; come back when you've prepared it."

Ten years passed; no one repaid the money, no one brought the soup, and no one finished that story.

But they were all paying it back.

Uncle Lin taught all the children in the village to draw Talismans to repel mice, saying it was to "keep the Kitchen God happy";

Chen Wan opened an "Ability Perception Initiation Class" in a mountain primary school, using mung beans as teaching aids, and the children called it "the eye that can see";

Others rushed into fires to save people, unable to explain why afterwards—"I just felt that someone was waiting for me in the fire."

These actions were originally scattered like dust, unnoticed, but now, they formed a stable energy circuit at a specific frequency, like an invisible net, quietly supporting something about to undergo Awakening.

And the anchor point of this net was precisely this cup of water, this piece of cloth, and this name that had long dissipated into the fundamental frequency of the Power Of Will—Zhang Xuanyi.

Su Qingzhu stared at the waveform on the spectrum analyzer, her heartbeat gradually synchronizing with the undulating green line.

She suddenly remembered the last time she saw him ten years ago.

It was raining heavily that day; Zhang Xuanyi stood at the school gate, waving with his back to her, his figure as faint as dissolving ink.

He said: "Some people buy Talismans to save their lives, some to become stronger, but the most powerful are those who, after buying them, forget about the Talismans—because they have already become the Talismans themselves."

She didn't understand then.

Now she understood.

These people were not missing a deity, nor were they worshipping a System.

They were using their own lives to continue a belief: fate can be seen, and it can be changed, even if it's just a small flame rekindling.

And this was the true starting point of the Dao of Freedom.

She slowly closed the instrument, put away the data card, and her gaze fell on the cup of water.

The frost was still there, even deeper, as if a miniature star map was hidden at the bottom of the water.

She remained silent for a long time, then finally reached into her inner pocket, her fingertips touching a smooth, warm metal disc—the last spirit coin.

On the edge were engraved tiny characters: "Five for two, returns and exchanges guaranteed."

This was the only token Zhang Xuanyi had left her.

He had said: "The day you feel the world is too dark, throw it into the fire. Perhaps someone will hear."

She had never burned it, nor dared to use it lightly.

But now, she took it out.

Holding it in her palm, it felt like holding a heart that hadn't yet been ignited.

Outside the window, the wind passed through the valley, blowing through the treetops, as if countless voices were whispering.

She looked down at the spectrum analyzer's standby screen, her lips moving slightly, her voice so soft only she could hear:

"If you can still hear..." Su Qingzhu's hand was steady, but the moment the spirit coin slid into the spectrum analyzer's excitation array, her breathing faltered for a beat.

The metal disc fell into the slot like a stone sinking into a deep pool.

The instrument suddenly hummed, a low-frequency sonic oscillation, as if Awakening something sleeping deep underground.

The dim blue Talisman runes flared brightly, the circulating light bands on the walls reversed, and the air was torn open by an invisible crack—the charred scrap of cloth trembled slightly, unexpectedly floating up, projecting a blurry outline of a street stall inside the glass cover: faded red cloth, a crooked copper bell, half a price list unfinished... and that familiar, lazy silhouette leaning on a bamboo chair, ethereal and faint.

"If you can still hear..." Her voice was very soft, yet every word was clear, "This time, I have money."

It was not a plea, but a response. Ten years of debt, settled in an instant.

The data stream scrolled wildly, the 7.83 Hz fundamental frequency was pushed to the critical point, and the entire vault began to resonate.

Just at the moment when the one-way summoning was about to be completed—the seventeen remote frequencies collectively shifted without warning!

There was no interference, no blockage; instead, it was like seventeen hands gently lifting all the energy, not sending it into the air, but downwards, pouring it into the earth.

A silent shockwave exploded on the level of spiritual perception.

The ground cracked, fissures spreading like a spiderweb, radiating outwards from the stone platform.

Frozen soil churned, decaying leaves splashed, and a few tender green grass shoots broke through the layer, trembling slightly in the wind.

They were too small, not even as long as a fingertip, but every leaf tip held a dewdrop, crystal clear, like a miniature mirror—

In every dewdrop, a different child's smiling face was reflected.

Some grinned, missing front teeth; some shyly pursed their lips, clutching half-drawn Talismans in their hands; and a little girl was stuffing mung beans into her classmate's mouth, the two of them laughing together...

Su Qingzhu's pupils contracted violently.

This was not an image; it was a projection of reality!

These children were all of the new generation that had grown up in grassroots organizations like the "Ability Perception Initiation Class" and "Community Exorcism Mutual Aid Society."

They had never met Zhang Xuanyi, yet they had long since lived as the sparks he left behind.

The energy was completely exhausted, the scrap fell with a "pop," and it lost all its brilliance.

Before the phantom of the street stall dissipated, it seemed as if someone laughed softly, like the wind blowing through an old eave bell.

She knelt on the ground, remaining motionless for a long time.

Finally, she reached out to retrieve the wooden box, gently closed the lid, and her fingertips brushed the last trace of warmth from that charred cloth scrap.

When she stood up, her movements were somewhat sluggish, as if she had unloaded a heavy burden, yet also as if she had lost some kind of support.

She walked towards the door, the hem of her trench coat sweeping across the cold ground.

Just as she raised her hand to push the door open, her sleeve loosened—a neatly folded slip of paper slipped out quietly.

She didn't pick it up, just looked down at it.

On the paper was the handwriting she had written last night, the ink marks deep, pressing through the paper:

"Proposal to abolish the 'Special Franchise System for Extraordinary Treasures' and open registration for universal cultivation."

Below was a line of small annotations: "Freedom is not a privilege, but the direction of all living beings' true hearts."

The light outside the door was gradually brightening, and the morning mist was thinning. She bent down to pick up the paper, tucked it into her inner pocket, and pushed the door open to leave.

The cold wind hit her face, but it carried a hint of warmth.

On the open ground in front of the steps, a coarse pottery bowl had appeared at some point.

The rim of the bowl had a small chip, and inside was half a roasted sweet potato, its steam almost gone, its surface slightly cool.

Underneath the sweet potato was a piece of cigarette box paper, with a line of crooked characters written in charcoal:

"The soup is too hot; drink it after it cools."

She froze.

Then she let out a low laugh, the frost in her eyes cracking inch by inch.

She didn't check the surveillance, nor did she call security.

She just crouched down, picked up the bowl, and slowly sat on the steps.

The morning light slanted down, outlining the soft contours of her profile.

She ate in small bites; the sweet potato was sweet and soft, and swallowing it felt like swallowing a small ball of fire.

After finishing the last bite, she still didn't stand up, just quietly gazed at the mountain city gradually Awakening ahead.

The pottery bowl rested on her knees, sunlight passing through the bowl wall, reflecting a circle of tiny scratches inside—

These were not patterns from the firing process, but symbols carved by hand, extremely shallow, extremely dense, arranged into a nearly lost Talisman structure, faintly echoing the dim blue Talisman runes that had once circulated on the wall...