157: The words are not finished, the meaning is far away

The rain poured down like a deluge, and the wild grass on the southern foothills of Mount Longhu bowed flat in the gale, as if the earth itself were trembling.

On the site of the old street stall, the nameless fire pavilion, constructed from rusty iron trunks, broken bricks, and dead wood, trembled slightly amidst the lightning and thunder.

The flames were reduced to a mere glimmer, like the breath of a dying person, struggling to survive in the wind and rain.

A dark figure broke through the rain.

Zhang Xuanyi stood ten steps away from the fire pavilion, his soaked black clothes clinging to his back, water dripping from his hair like ink lines.

His fingertips moved slightly, and half a photocopy yellow paper condensed in his palm—this was the last Talisman he had kept, which shouldn't have been used here, but at this moment, he did not want to see this fire go out.

"You don't need to save it."

The voice was hoarse, yet firm and decisive.

A blind old woman slowly walked out from the other side of the fire pavilion, her hunched figure almost swallowed by the wind and rain.

She leaned on a bamboo cane with one hand and protected a coarse cloth bundle in her arms with the other, walking tremblingly to the stove, opening the bundle, and pouring out a handful of ashes.

The ash had a faint bronze-green hue, with sparks vaguely floating within, like souls not yet awakened from sleep.

"My son was an electrician," she whispered, rain flowing along the gullies of her wrinkles. "That day the substation exploded, others said it was a lightning strike, but I know... the fire recognized him. He worked the night shift for twenty years and never let a single household lose power. That day, the fire burned onto his gloves on its own and brought him back."

As her voice fell, the residual fire in the stove suddenly shrank, then roared upward!

Crimson flames shot into the sky, transforming into a firebird about to take flight, wings spread, tail feathers curling, actually turning the entire curtain of rain into mist.

Water droplets vaporized into nothingness before getting within three feet, and the temperature inside the pavilion rose sharply, yet it did not burn; instead, it was so warm it made one want to cry.

Zhang Xuanyi stood frozen in place, the yellow paper in his hand quietly burning to nothing, turning into fly ash in the wind.

He did not step forward again, nor did he retreat, just letting the rain drench his whole body, soaking into his marrow.

The chill pierced him, yet it could not compare to the shock in his heart.

So, the true fire seed was never a power bestowed by anyone, but those who had been warmed, still willing to reach out to warm others' hearts.

He suddenly smiled, a smile that was somewhat bitter, yet somewhat relieved.

It had been ten years. From a young Daoist selling Talismans at a street stall to the "Fire Lighter" who ignited the first stove of folk fire, he had always thought he was giving.

But now he finally understood—he was merely the first person to pass the fire, and what truly kept it from extinguishing were the millions of Mortals who remembered the light and heat.

Meanwhile, in a conference hall in the capital, the lights were bright.

Su Qingzhu sat at one side of the long table, with the first draft of the "Livelihood Thermal Energy White Paper" spread out before her.

On the projection screen, a set of data charts was playing: the distribution of ash holders nationwide, stability assessments of fire sources, potential risk Ranks...

"I suggest implementing a 'Fire Seed Registration System' immediately." An expert in a white coat stood up, tone certain. "We must manage the registration of all ashes containing active Power Of Will to prevent uncontrolled spread."

The meeting room was filled with sounds of agreement.

Su Qingzhu listened quietly, and only after everyone had finished speaking did she slowly stand up.

She did not argue, but simply imported a recording into the audio System.

At first, there was the sound of wind, then a group of men whispering, mixed with coughing and laughter.

"Brother, take this. I picked it up from under the stove in the construction site cafeteria yesterday. The fire recognizes diligent people."

"Can it really provide warmth?"

"Why would I lie to you? Last night my mother's legs stopped cramping."

The recording ended, and the room fell silent.

Su Qingzhu's gaze swept across the room: "You can control the ash, but can you control the human heart?"

No one answered.

After the meeting, she stopped at the staircase, gazing at the rain curtain outside the window in a daze. A cup of hot tea was offered before her.

Looking up, it was a young man wearing glasses, in his early twenties, with a shy smile.

"Teacher Su, I am A-Cheng from the 'True Ash Alliance'," he said. "You told the truth today."

Su Qingzhu took the tea, her fingertips feeling a long-lost warmth.

She nodded gently: "I only spoke the truth they dared not hear."

Northern foothills of Kunlun, above the snow line.

The entire mountain range was like a giant beast waking up, the rock layers cracking with countless fine lines, a huge totem emerging from underground—it was the formation evolved from the three characters "Xiaoyao Token", burning with dark golden flames throughout, lasting for a full three minutes before slowly fading into the depths of the earth's veins.

Zhang Xuanyi stood on the peak, his whole body covered in ice and snow, yet he felt no cold.

In his hand, he held a charred sword hilt fragment, which was the final beacon of Cui Wujiu's broken relic.

Just a moment ago, it vibrated violently, then cooled completely, as if it had completed its mission.

The synchronization rate of the seventeen fire vein nodes worldwide broke through 99.7%—this was no coincidence.

"Old Cui..." He laughed at the sky, his laughter piercing the wind and snow, "You finally wove the Dao of fire into a code and scattered it into the Bloodline of the earth."

Where the wind passed, a charred leaf spiraled and landed on his shoulder.

He picked it up to look; the leaf veins were actually dense runes, faintly forming a broken phrase: "The time to return the fire..."

Words unfinished, meaning already distant.

He stared for a long time, finally tucking the charred leaf into his sleeve.

Below the mountain, the first light of dawn appeared, the first ray of sunlight shining in the direction of Mount Longhu.

And among the southern mountains, at the entrance of a remote village, a hundred-year-old tree stood silently, its roots deep in the soil.

The tree hollow had been cleaned out, and the villagers were quietly preparing clay pots, collecting the warm ashes from stoves, incense burners, and heated brick beds over the past year.

No one spoke, but everyone's eyes were astonishingly bright.

Just as if waiting for a solemn return.

The "Fire Returning Festival" in the southern mountain village had no drums or music, nor any banners.

Only the wind passed through the gnarled branches of the old tree, emitting a low wail like the chanting of scriptures.

The village entrance was already crowded with people, men and women, old and young, all silent, holding coarse clay pots in their hands. Inside the pots were the warm ashes they had gathered handful by handful over the year from stove chambers, incense burners, heated bed edges, and woodpiles—the embers that had once illuminated the night, cooked meals, and dried wet clothes.

Su Qingzhu stood on the periphery of the crowd, the camera lens aimed at the hundred-year-old tree.

She did not turn on the recording, just watched quietly.

Her fingers trembled slightly, not because of the cold, but because some long-lost vibration was rising from the bottom of her heart.

A child of about six years old peeked out from behind their mother, small hands tightly clutching a clay pot painted with a red fish pattern.

"Little one," she crouched down and asked softly, "Why return the fire?"

The child blinked, with a milky voice yet every word clear: "Mom said, fire is borrowed, you can't just burn yourself."

Su Qingzhu's heart gave a sudden jolt.

"Fire is not a thing, it is people going home."

This sentence that Zhang Xuanyi said on the ruins of the street stall three years ago was like a bolt of lightning splitting the dark clouds of memory.

At that time, she did not understand, thinking he was talking about metaphysics, playing the tricks of a Daoist.

But now, she understood—fire was not a resource, not a power, but a flowing Power Of Will, a temperature that was passed on.

She suddenly smiled, but her eyes turned red.

She took a small cloth bundle from her inner pocket and opened it, revealing a pinch of ink-black ash—this was the original ash she had quietly brought back from the old street stall site at Mount Longhu, untouched for ten years, treated as a treasure, as if holding the final proof of that legend.

But now, she no longer wanted to "possess" it.

She gently poured the ash into the pit at the child's feet and covered it with a layer of soft, fresh soil with her own hands.

"I have returned it too," she whispered, as if to the earth, and also as if to someone far away.

When she stood up, her pant cuffs were stained with mud, but she did not brush it off.

This soil, this ash, these silent old tree roots... all were worth getting one's pant cuffs dirty for.

At the same moment, the summit of Mount Longhu, early morning of the Winter Solstice.

The cold mist was like gauze, wrapping around the stone steps of the Star-Gazing Platform.

The world was silent, only the north wind swirled at the edge of the cliff, then quietly retreated.

Zhang Xuanyi stood alone on the peak, his black clothes fluttering, his shoulders covered in frost and snow, yet he was completely unaware.

In his hand, he held a mottled clay pot, the body of the pot carved with seventeen scratches, each representing the resonance of a fire vein node.

What was contained in the pot was not ordinary ash.

It was the salt-grain ash from the fishing port, carrying the smell of the sea; the rust ash that the old master at the steel mill clutched in his palm until death; the subway ash that fell when passengers breathed out white air on the last subway train of the city; the firewood ash that the old man guarding the stove on a winter night in a mountain village raked out while telling stories... Every handful was sent from thousands of miles away, attached with a note, a sentence, or a "thank you".

He had refused to accept them many times.

But people insisted: "This is not for you, it is to return to the fire."

He smiled bitterly, and finally accepted it.

Tonight, the Winter Solstice, the Yang Qi just budding, the thinnest moment of the intersection between heaven and earth.

He slowly lifted the pot lid.

"Thanks, everyone." The voice was very light, yet seemed to pierce through the mountain wind, "Your fire, I will return it on your behalf."

As his voice fell, he tilted the pot and poured.

The ashes rose into the air, like black butterflies fluttering, swirling into the sky with the wind.

However, just three feet from the ground, a sudden change occurred—

Every grain of ash actually ignited with a tiny glimmer on its own!

It was not flame, nor was it sparks, but like stars rising back up, flowing against the current, drawing dense light trails in the pitch-black sky, like the Milky Way pouring backward, ten thousand points returning to the source!

Even more strange was that those light points did not dissipate, but instead gathered in the high sky into a blurred Talisman shadow—resembling the character "Xiaoyao", and also like a "fire" pattern, passing in a flash.

When the last grain of ash disappeared into the sky, from the direction of the mountain gate, came a very faint "click".

Like a lock cylinder turning.

Zhang Xuanyi did not look back.

But he also knew—some doors do not necessarily need to be pushed open.

He placed the empty clay pot upside down, gently on the highest step, as if making an offering.

Then, he turned and walked into the morning mist.

And thousands of miles away, the stove chambers of countless households ignited without wind at this moment, the water in the pot not yet boiling, but a "thank you" word, so faint it was almost invisible, quietly appeared, passing in a flash, like a whisper.

On the morning of the third day, Zhang Xuanyi did not go down the mountain.

He sat cross-legged on the stone steps of the Star-Gazing Platform, eyes slightly closed, as if sleeping yet not sleeping.

The morning mist gradually dissipated, the mountain gate remained tightly closed, and everything was silent.

Only on the bottom of that upside-down clay pot, unknown when, a drop of water condensed.

Extremely small, extremely clear, hanging without falling.

The sunlight shone obliquely upon it, refracting a barely perceptible line of golden patterns—

Like a character, like a Talisman, and like fate.