188: Chapter 188 Guerrilla Maneuvering (Part Six)

Northwest, Safe Point, Dawn.

Lu Mingyuan stood at the small city's gate, looking towards the southern horizon. The sun had not yet risen. A touch of red stained the sky's edge, faint, like rouge on a maiden's cheek. That red was spreading, bit by bit, thread by thread, inch by inch. As it spread and spread, the sky brightened.

Behind him stood nine people. Zhou Zheng and his eight Junior Brothers and sisters. They had rested in the small city last night, eaten, drunk water, slept. This morning, color had returned to their faces, light to their eyes. They stood behind Lu Mingyuan, not speaking, just standing. Like nine saplings planted behind him. Their roots not yet deep, their trunks not yet strong, their branches and leaves not yet lush. But they were there, standing, living, waiting.

"Sir Lu." Zhou Zheng spoke. "We've discussed it. We wish to follow you."

"Follow me?" Lu Mingyuan turned to look at them. "Do you know what following me entails?"

"We do," Zhou Zheng said. "No money, no Medicinal Pills, no Cultivation Techniques. Only hope."

"Hope is intangible. Unseen, untouchable, inedible, undrinkable. What will sustain you?"

"Our lives," Zhou Zheng said. "You saved our lives. Without you, we would have died on that mountain long ago. Dying there would have meant feeding the devils, becoming hatred and resentment, becoming part of the darkness. You gave us a second life. This life, we wish to use it for the right purpose. Sealing The Rifts, saving the people, Mending the Heavens. Dying anywhere is better than dying on that mountain."

Lu Mingyuan looked at him, at this Soul Transformation Stage Loose Cultivator. There was a light in his eyes, a very faint light, weak as a firefly's glow. But that light did not extinguish. No matter how strong the wind, no matter how deep the darkness, no matter how heavy the despair. That light was called gratitude, called faith, called resolve.

"Good," Lu Mingyuan said. "Follow me. But you are not selling your lives for me; you are living alongside me. I am not your Master, not your Master, not your general. I am your fellow traveler. Walking the same path, heading to the same place, doing the same thing. Sealing The Rifts, saving the people, Mending the Heavens. Seal one if we can, save one if we can, mend an inch if we can. No rush."

"No rush," Zhou Zheng repeated. The eight people behind him also repeated it. No rush. Two words, light as a feather, yet heavy as a mountain.

The old man from Willow Creek arrived. His name was Liu Laogen. He had farmed the land his whole life, never even reaching Foundation Establishment, just a Qi Refinement Stage Mortal. Behind him followed seventeen villagers, all from Willow Creek. Men, women, the elderly, children. They carried bundles on their backs, held dry rations, led oxen, herded sheep.

"Sir Lu," Liu Laogen walked up to him. "We don't want to stay in the city anymore. The city is safe, but the city is not home. Home is to the north, in Willow Creek, under that big willow tree. We want to return."

"You cannot return yet. There are still Rifts to the north, still Devilish Qi, still devil soldiers. Returning would be seeking death."

"Then we won't return. We'll follow you. Wherever you go, we'll follow. You guard for a day, we follow for a day. You guard for a year, we follow for a year. You guard for a lifetime, we follow for a lifetime."

Lu Mingyuan looked at him, at this old man who had farmed his whole life. There was a light in his eyes, a very faint light, weak as a firefly's glow. But that light did not extinguish. No matter how strong the wind, no matter how deep the darkness, no matter how heavy the despair. That light was called trust, called following, called unwavering loyalty.

"If you follow me, it will be very hard. No fixed shelter, no warm meals, no peaceful sleep. Coming with the wind, going with the rain, delving into Devilish Qi. You might get injured, you might die."

"We are not afraid," Liu Laogen said. "Farming is hard too, tiring too. You can get injured, you can die. But farming is for living. Following you is also for living. Both are living, but following you has more meaning. Because if we follow you, the sky will brighten. When the sky brightens, we can return to farm."

The old woman from Tudi Temple Village arrived. Her name was Zhao Sanniang. She had been widowed for thirty years, raising her son alone. Her son married, his wife bore a grandson. Her grandson was six years old, called Gousheng, because a humble name is easier to raise. Gousheng held his grandmother's hand, still carrying that oil lamp. The lamp was old, its copper skin blackened, but the wick still burned, flickering, like a beating heart.

"Sir Lu," Zhao Sanniang walked up to him. "We also wish to follow you."

"You too? Gousheng is only six."

"Six is not young. His father could herd cattle at six." Zhao Sanniang lowered her head, looking at her grandson. "Gousheng, are you afraid?"

"Not afraid," Gousheng said. His eyes were very bright, bright like stars. That light was no longer a firefly; it was starlight. Because a child's heart is pure, without hatred, without resentment, without enmity. Only light, pure light, clean light, sparkling light.

"Good," Lu Mingyuan said. "Stay close. Don't get lost."

"Won't get lost," Gousheng said. "Grandma's lamp is lit, so I can see the way."

The hunters from Shihezi arrived. There were thirteen of them in total, led by a middle-aged man named Shi Hu. His face was roughened by the wind, his hands calloused from knives, his eyes narrowed by the sun into slits. But he carried Killing Intent, the kind only those who have fought beasts for years possess. That Killing Intent was not hatred, not resentment, not enmity. It was the instinct to live, the instinct to protect oneself, the instinct to guard one's family.

"Sir Lu," Shi Hu walked up to him. "We don't understand cultivation, don't know Cultivation Techniques, have no True Qi. But we can shoot arrows, set traps, track. Devil soldiers are also living things; living things leave traces, scents, weaknesses. We can help you watch them, delay them, wear them down. When you set up barriers, we'll guard for you. When you seal mines, we'll watch for you. When you subdue devil generals, we'll protect you."

"You're not afraid of death?"

"We are. But we fear living without meaning even more. Before, we hunted for meat, for pelts, to support our families. Now, fighting devil soldiers is for survival, for guarding our homes, for letting our children grow up. It's the same fight, but fighting devil soldiers has more meaning."

Lu Mingyuan looked at these people, at these Mortals gathered from various villages. They had no cultivation, no Cultivation Techniques, no True Qi. But they had hands, feet, eyes. They had hearts that wanted to live, homes they wanted to guard, a dawn they wanted to see. They were not strong enough, but they were numerous enough. Not strong enough? They could grow stronger slowly. Numerous enough? They could accomplish many things.

"Good," Lu Mingyuan said. "From today, you are no longer villagers; you are warriors. Not warriors fighting for me, but warriors fighting for your own lives. I will not pay you wages, not record your merits, not grant you titles. I will only give you one thing—hope. Hope that the sky will brighten, hope that the devils will retreat, hope that you can return home."

"That's enough," Liu Laogen said. "Hope is enough."

Lu Mingyuan stood at the city gate, looking at these people. Eighteen from Willow Creek, thirty-two from Tudi Temple Village, thirteen from Shihezi, plus Zhou Zheng's nine. Seventy-two people in total. Not many, but not few either. Seventy-two, like seeds, scattered upon the land of the Northwest. Plant them, and they will sprout. Sprout, and they will grow. Grow, and they will flower. Flower, and they will bear fruit. Bear fruit, and there will be more seeds. More seeds, and more land can be planted. More land, and more grain can be harvested. More grain, and more people can be fed. More people, and wider land can be guarded, more Rifts sealed, more people saved.

"Bai Ze," Lu Mingyuan said.

"Here."

"Assign them roles. Zhou Zheng's Loose Cultivators are responsible for combat. Shi Hu's hunters are responsible for reconnaissance. Liu Laogen's villagers are responsible for logistics. Zhao Sanniang and Gousheng are responsible for communication. Each to their duty, each contributing their ability. No forcing, no compelling, no overexertion. Do what you can, guard as long as you can. No rush."

Bai Ze flew up from his shoulder, hovering mid-air. Golden light shimmered. The bai ze map unfurled, an organizational chart materializing in the air. Each person's name, each person's cultivation level, each person's specialty, each person's task—all clearly marked. Seventy-two people, seventy-two pieces on the board, deployed upon the land of the Northwest. Not dead pieces, but living ones. They could move, walk, run. They could defend, attack, retreat. They could be born, die, and be reborn.

"From today," Bai Ze's voice was solemn, as if reciting a sacred covenant, "you are the first Disciples of the Xuan-shu Path. Not Disciples of Lu Mingyuan, but Disciples of the Heavenly Dao, Disciples of all living beings, Disciples of hope. Your task is only one—Mending the Heavens. Mend one if you can, mend an inch if you can, mend a day if you can. Mend and mend, and the heavens will be mended. When they are mended, the devils will retreat. When they retreat, the sky will brighten. When it brightens, you can return home."

No one spoke. No one cried, no one laughed, no one made a fuss. They simply stood there, at the city gate, in the morning light, standing. There was a light in their eyes, a very faint light, weak as a firefly's glow. But that light did not extinguish. No matter how strong the wind, no matter how deep the darkness, no matter how heavy the despair.

That light was called the Xuan-shu Path. That light was called the Menders of the Heavens. That light was called hope.

Lu Mingyuan stood before them, looking at these seventy-two people. In his heart, that small tree was growing. Twenty-two feet, twenty-three feet, twenty-four feet. Very slowly, slow as a snail's crawl. But it was growing, growing in the darkness, growing in the resentment, growing in the despair. It was growing, so it would grow big. When it grew big, it could hold up a larger sky, block more devils, save more people.

"Let's go," Lu Mingyuan said.

"Where to?" Zhou Zheng asked.

"North. To the Rift Zone. To where the Devilish Qi is thickest. To save those not yet saved, to guard those villages not yet guarded, to mend those gaps not yet mended."

"Not afraid of death?" Shi Hu asked.

"We are. But we fear doing nothing while alive even more. Do a little, that's a little. Do a day, that's a day. Do a year, that's a year. Do and do, and it becomes more. More becomes effective. Effective, and the devils weaken. Devils weaken, and people can live. People live, and hope exists. Hope exists, and the sky will brighten."

The column set off. Seventy-two people, forming a long line. Lu Mingyuan walked at the very front, Bai Ze perched on his shoulder. Zhou Zheng led the Loose Cultivators in the middle, Shi Hu led the hunters on the flanks, Liu Laogen led the villagers at the rear. Zhao Sanniang carried the oil lamp, walking at the very end of the column. Gousheng held his grandmother's hand, walking step by step. No rush, no impatience, no obsession. Walking slowly, steadily, lightly.

Walk one step, count one step. Walk one day, count one day. Walk one year, count one year. Walk and walk, and you will arrive. Arrive, and you guard. Guard successfully, and you save. Save, and you live. Live, and there is hope. With hope, the sky will brighten.

The Northwest sky was still gray, still had Rifts, still had Devilish Qi, still had hatred. But Lu Mingyuan was no longer afraid. Because behind him were seventy-two people.