121: All Things Return to Their Origin: The Free Fire Diagram

The wind at the hour of the Rat still carried the dampness of the night dew, brushing past the sleepless blades of grass on both sides of the mountain path.

Zhang Xuanyi carried that iron pot on his back, his footsteps neither hurried nor slow, as if walking back into a long-lost dream.

Three years ago, he had set up a tattered cloth here and laid out the first photocopy yellow paper; no one knew what this small stall, filled with the scent of worldly life, would ignite.

Now returning, the old locust tree at the village entrance was still there, only its branches were more aged, the bark cracked like incantations.

And the place that should have been the main school for fire lessons was gone without a trace.

In its place was a circular plaza.

Stone steps spread out in layers, surrounding a deep pit in the center like a lunar halo.

That was no ordinary fire pit — no railings, no frames, no tripods, only a circle of dark red bricks quietly embracing it, the ground slightly warm, as if a sleeping earth vein were breathing.

The fire pool was empty, yet it seemed as if it had already burned a thousand times.

The children no longer practiced their punches, nor did they recite mantras.

They sat around the pool, speaking one after another.

"My dad says that in the past, cattle and sheep would freeze to death in winter, but now we use fire to melt the soil and grow cabbage in the snow."

"My sister and I almost froze to death on the mountain, but I used a wooden stick to start a fire and dried her clothes."

"My grandma taught me that a fire cannot be started for nothing; if you start one, it must be something people remember."

The childish voices rose and fell; there was no teacher's instruction, no secret technique being taught, only real stories quietly burning in the night.

Zhang Xuanyi stood in the distance, neither walking closer nor making a sound.

He just squatted at the end of the stone steps, listening and watching, like a returning traveler who dared not disturb the peace of his homeland.

Suddenly, a little girl ran over, holding a newly whittled wooden stick in her hand, the tip still bearing green bark, clearly just cut from the forest.

She looked up at him, her eyes so clear that they didn't seem like a product of this era.

"It's your turn to speak," she said.

Zhang Xuanyi was taken aback for a moment, then smiled.

His smile was a bit bitter, yet also a bit warm.

He took the wooden stick, his fingertips tracing the rough texture, as if touching the trembling he felt when he first ignited the yellow paper on that rainy night three years ago.

He didn't speak, just walked to the edge of the fire pool, knelt on one knee, pressed the wooden stick into the groove, and rubbed his hands together —

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Sparks scattered like stars falling into an abyss.

In an instant, the fire pool roared!

A ten-zhang-high inferno shot into the sky, its red light tearing through the night curtain, heat waves rolling like a tide.

A huge totem appeared in the air: flames flowed into Talisman, the Talisman turned into scriptures, and the scriptures condensed into the myriad phenomena of mountains and rivers.

That was the complete "Myriad Laws Returning to Origin · Free Fire Diagram," formed by billions of fire memories, every stroke branded with the obsession and Awakening of the Mortal.

The crowd fell silent, looking up, their eyes reflecting the fire, and also themselves.

No one recognized who he was.

No one knew he had once run a street stall, sold mung bean candies, and changed the destiny compass.

But everyone felt it — this cluster of fire had started from someone inconspicuous.

Applause thundered, not for a hero, but for "us."

Zhang Xuanyi stood under the firelight, his figure stretched very long, very long.

He looked at the fire diagram suspended in the sky, and suddenly had an epiphany: true Dao has never been about one person attaining the Dao, but everyone burning together.

He gently set down the wooden stick and turned to leave.

Behind him, the firelight remained, and the stories continued.

And he knew that some things no longer needed him to say them.

Passing through the village path, he walked toward the old locust tree on the mountainside.

Moonlight shone obliquely, the tree shadows mottled, roots intertwined like an old Talisman formation.

He stopped, took a small pinch of ash from his embrace — that was the last bit of embers from the fire pit, from the first city that spontaneously boiled over.

He squatted down and sprinkled the ash toward the tree roots.

The wind swept across the treetops, the leaves rustling as if responding to some ancient contract.

The night deepened, the fire gradually subsided.

But everyone knew that this was just the silence before dawn.

And in the depths of the soil, unnoticed by anyone, a faint but firm heat current was slowly climbing up along the tree roots.

The firelight of the hour of the Rat subsided, Zhang Xuanyi's figure paused for a moment under the old locust tree, as if an old story had finally been written to its end.

He did not look back at the circular plaza, nor did he listen to the childish words of the children behind him competing to tell each other "that uncle just now was so amazing."

He knew that the towering inferno was not ignited by him — it was the fire that millions of people had suppressed in their hearts for too long, using his hand to make a start.

The wind passed through the forest, carrying residual warmth.

He squatted before the tree roots, took out the last bit of fire pit ash, and gently sprinkled it down.

This ash came from the first spontaneously boiling city; it had once been a place where countless grassroots superpowered individuals gathered around the hearth to talk through the night and declare their ambitions with fire.

Now it returned to the soil, like a seed entering the earth.

He did not pray, nor did he seek miracles, he just felt — it was time to repay.

Myriad Laws Street Stall started from worldly life, succeeded through human hearts, and in the end, should not be placed on an altar.

A night without words.

The next morning, as the rising sun first shone, the entire old locust tree suddenly bloomed with red flowers.

The petals were like molten gold, with faint blue flames dancing on the edges; when they fell, they did not burn the grass and trees, but instead caused withered branches to sprout green and new buds to break through the soil.

A child curiously picked one up and put it in his mouth; his eyes suddenly brightened, and he instinctively performed a complete set of Eight Extremities Fist, the Moves heavy and fierce, the intent and rhyme connected, as if he had practiced it a thousand times in a past life.

The news spread like wildfire.

Within three days, superpowered families and Sect branches from various places sent people to seek the flower seeds.

Some wanted to dig up the roots to transplant them, but found the roots had symbiotically fused with the mountain rock and were immovable; some collected petals for Alchemy, but only got a pile of scorched ash; even remnants of the Quanxing tried to snatch them, but just as they neared the tree, the ground beneath their feet suddenly ignited with blue fire, scorching them back three zhang.

The name "Xuanyi Sect Fire Seed Flower" spread like wildfire; rumors in the streets claimed this was the legacy of the "Free Dao Ancestor," and consuming it could allow one to understand the Origin of all laws.

Even overseas forces offered billions, just for one unopened petal that hadn't fallen yet.

When Zhang Xuanyi heard about these things, he was sitting on a rock on the mountainside eating dry rations.

He finished listening to the newspaper headline brought by Su Qingzhu — "Mysterious Sacred Tree Appears, Does It Herald the Arrival of a New Era?"

He just sneered: "The fire is not in the flowers, but in the hands that are willing to practice punches."

He spoke calmly, but his eyes were as deep as an abyss.

These people were still looking for shortcuts, seeking divine objects, and worshipping idols.

But the real change had already happened: in the markets, vendors used friction to start fires to cook noodles, no longer relying on gas; on campus, a young girl ignited a small flame in her palm to light up the library, laughing that this was "self-nature light"; veteran soldiers at the border sat around a fire pit, telling stories of how they survived on a single fire, and the young people listened with reddened eyes.

This was the meaning of fire — not control, but Awakening.

That night, the moon hid and the stars sank.

Zhang Xuanyi shouldered the empty pot, only a thin layer of ash remained at the bottom, and a spark within it flickered weakly like breathing, like an obsession that would not die.

He walked into the deep forest, his footsteps light and slow, yet firm with every step.

Behind him, the village lights gradually extinguished, only the same blue flames danced in the hearths of every household, gentle and silent.

Mist rose in the forest, his figure gradually blurred, his clothes blending into the night, as if he were about to become the legend itself.

But just as he stepped over the last mountain ridge, the smallest spark hidden at the bottom of the pot suddenly blinked —

Faint, yet clear.