One Person: I, the Dragon Tiger Stall King! I Won!

142: The Taoist priest who sells talismansThe morning mist had not yet dispersed, and the stone steps in front of the ”Self-Combustion Hall” were already crowded with people.

The mountain wind, carrying the dampness of dew, could not disperse this fervor.

People from the south and the north, those wearing Daoist robes, those draped in martial attire, and even an old hunter wrapped in animal skins, were all squeezed outside this inconspicuous small southern courtyard, like people waiting for rain from heaven.

Some held gilded apprenticeship letters, kneeling on the bluestone slabs with trembling fingertips; others carried rosewood gift boxes containing thousand-year fire coral, geocentric flame crystals, and a Red Feather Token said to be a relic of an ancient fire cultivator—all just to trade for a single sentence of the ”Golden Flame Art.”

The door was tightly shut. Under the eaves lay a bamboo mat. Zhang Xuanyi was sitting askew on the threshold, a blade of wild grass in his mouth, leisurely cracking melon seeds.

Melon seed shells were flicked out one by one, drawing an invisible boundary in front of the crowd.

”...Therefore, those without desire perceive the mystery, while those with desire perceive the manifestations...” A young Daoist’s voice was hoarse; he had been reciting the ”Dao De Jing” for three days and three nights, his lips cracked and bleeding, yet his eyes remained as stubborn as iron.

Zhang Xuanyi finally spat out the last shell and lazily raised his eyes: ”Do you know how to make a fire?”

The young man was stunned: ”Naturally, I do.”

”Then, do you know how to extinguish a fire?”

The other person was speechless.

Zhang Xuanyi stood up, brushed the dust off the hem of his Daoist robe, and turned to enter the kitchen.

A moment later, he brought out a bowl of clear water and placed it on the low table in front of the threshold.

The water was calm, reflecting the morning light and the astonished faces of the crowd.

He leaned over and blew a soft breath.

The surface of the water rippled with a faint glow, spreading out in circles, with vague fire shapes swimming within, resembling winding dragons and snakes, or perhaps sparks just beginning to ignite.

That was not a reflection, nor was it an illusion—it was the water itself ”coming alive.”

The onlookers gasped.

”Want to learn about fire?” Zhang Xuanyi smiled, though his eyes did not look at anyone in particular, ”First, rub a spark from this water.”

No one answered.

Some frowned, thinking it was a deliberate difficulty; some stepped back, feeling it was absurd; more people stared blankly at the glowing bowl of water, suddenly realizing—they had spent their whole lives controlling fire, wielding flames, casting Seals, and burning Talismans, yet they had never thought: why does fire burn?

Zhang Xuanyi said no more, turned, pushed the door open, and entered the room. With a creak, he shut the entire world outside.

The wooden sign flipped over, and two black characters clearly appeared on the front: No one can be taught here.

The crowd was silent for a long time. Some left in anger, some remained kneeling, and others began to rub their fingers against the muddy ground, attempting to generate heat through friction.

No one noticed that the fire shape in the bowl of water quietly swam to the edge, leaped lightly, turned into a wisp of golden smoke, merged into the morning breeze, and disappeared without a trace.

Meanwhile, in an apartment in a small town a hundred miles away, Su Qingzhu closed the last cardboard box.

Three large boxes of interview notes were piled in the center of the living room, like a forest of steles about to collapse.

She pulled out the one on top, the cover inscribed with ”chronicles of vows: First Draft.” Opening the first page, there was a yellowing photo: at the foot of Mount Longhu, a young Daoist was squatting in front of a street stall teasing a cat, with yellow paper Talismans fluttering in the wind behind him, and the handwritten title—”The Daoist Who Sells Talismans.”

She stared at it for a long time, long enough for the sun outside the window to shift by three inches.

Then, she took out a lighter, and with a ”click,” a flame rose.

The pages curled and charred, the tongues of fire greedily devouring ten years of records: the confession of the Old Ancestor of Quanxing, secret recordings of the Under Heaven Society, Awakening data of extraordinary individuals, the final signal of the myriad laws street vendor system... Every page burned was a truth capable of shaking the world.

”Sister Su!” The assistant burst through the door, grabbing a blanket from the sofa to smother the fire.

”Don’t touch it.” Her voice was very soft, but unquestionable.

The firelight reflected on her face, flickering between light and shadow, as if someone was standing in the shadows nodding at her—it was a silhouette she was all too familiar with, the last group photo taken before her father died in the line of duty, displayed on the police station’s wall of honor.

She whispered: ”Some truths only shine when burned. Keeping them only turns them into shackles.”

The last diary was only half left. She reached into the lining, took out a black USB drive, and threw it into the fire without hesitation.

The plastic casing melted instantly, and the chip shattered into ash in the high heat.

The flame jumped violently, as if responding to some summons.

She closed her eyes, but a smile of relief appeared on the corners of her lips.

Meanwhile, in a small town hospital on the edge of the western Gobi, Cui Wujiu opened his eyes.

Sunlight pierced in. The bandages on his arms were seeping a faint golden light, and it seemed as if molten currents were slowly circulating under his skin.

The nurse said his body temperature was sixty degrees, yet he had no fever and was not in a coma; his heartbeat was as steady as an ancient well.

An envelope lay quietly at the head of the bed, the orphanage’s postmark clearly visible.

The DNA report was attached, with the words ”Half-sibling relationship confirmed” written in black and white.

After reading it, he remained motionless for a long time.

When he picked up his pen, he only wrote two lines: ”I am not your brother. True family members are those who have accompanied you in lighting a fire.”

On the day the letter was sent, he removed the bandages and walked out of the ward barefoot.

The wind and sand rushed to meet him, but he did not look back.

At that very moment, golden patterns suddenly lit up on the hospital room window—an illusory palm holding a small flame, lasting for three seconds before silently dissipating, as if a contract between heaven and earth had quietly closed.

The night was deep.

In the Huailing of Southern Anhui, weeds covered the path.

An abandoned elementary school stood lonely in the mountain hollow, its wall plaster peeling, the classroom doors crooked and ready to collapse.

Zhang Xuanyi walked over alone, his footsteps so light, as if afraid of waking something up.

He went around to the rock crevice behind the mountain, brushed away the moss, and revealed an old wooden stick that had been buried for many years.

As the moonlight fell, fine golden threads suddenly appeared on the ground, extremely faint, yet continuous, extending quietly like a Bloodline, disappearing into the depths of the darkness.

He did not move, just watched quietly.

The wind stopped, and the insects ceased their chirping.

Only the golden threads trembled slightly, as if waiting for a response.

The moonlight, like silver, sprinkled over the weeds in the Huailing of Southern Anhui, like a layer of thin frost covering the wounds of time.

Zhang Xuanyi sat by the rock crevice, leaning against the old wooden stick buried for many years, his fingertips gently brushing over the golden threads that had appeared on the ground—they were as thin as spider webs, yet tough and persistent, winding out from under his feet, passing through withered vines and jagged rocks, pointing directly at the sleeping village in the distance.

He did not move, only keeping his breathing extremely light.

These golden threads were not a Spiritual Vein, nor were they Talismanic markings, but rather the ”memory of fire”—back then, he had used the last drop of Pseudo-Three Caverns True Qi Liquid from the myriad laws street vendor system as a catalyst, planting ”fire consciousness” into the earth, just like sowing a seed that refused to be extinguished.

Now, three years had passed, and it had finally come alive, and not just alive, it was connecting.

Every wisp of golden thread corresponded to the embers under the stove of a household; even if that family had never ignited an extraordinary fire, tonight, their stove was glowing with a warm, golden light.

From people passing the fire, to fire igniting itself; from gods granting techniques, to the people developing them spontaneously—this was what he truly wanted to leave behind.

He took out his pocket knife and slowly carved two characters onto the trunk of the crooked old locust tree beside him: ”Carefree.”

The moment the blade cut through the bark, a strange change suddenly occurred.

From deep within the carving, warm golden liquid seeped out, flowing like blood along the grain, and quietly submerged into the ground along the tree roots.

The network of golden threads trembled violently, as if receiving some signal, and began to expand and intertwine at a speed visible to the naked eye, eventually outlining a miniature ”picture of human life” in the air—the lights of ten thousand homes had not yet been lit, but the fire had already taken the lead.

In this moment, as silent as an abyss, a rustling sound of footsteps approached from afar.

A seven or eight-year-old girl walked over carrying a red paper lantern, the halo of light swaying, reflecting in her clear eyes.

She was wearing a washed-out floral dress, and on her feet were a pair of out-of-season cotton slippers.

”Uncle Zhang.” She looked up at him, her voice very soft, yet it pierced through the night wind, ”My mom says you are an immortal.”

Zhang Xuanyi was stunned, then chuckled and shook his head: ”I am not an immortal, nor am I some great expert... Me? I’m just an old tool that has been phased out.”

The girl tilted her head and thought for a moment, then said seriously: ”But tools can’t tell stories. You can tell us ’how fire learned to walk,’ and you also teach us how to make the Kitchen God happy.”

This sentence was like a thin needle, unexpectedly piercing the softest part of his heart.

He had once thought he was just a slacker Daoist selling Talismans at a street stall; later he became an igniter, and then he was revered as a ”Folk Fire Master,” with ten thousand people kneeling and begging for a single technique.

But at this moment, a little girl told him in the simplest words: What you left behind is not just power, but also warmth.

He was speechless for a long time, then finally laughed, the corners of his eyes slightly crinkled, as if he had unloaded a heavy burden.

He shifted his body and patted the empty space beside him: ”Come, sit down, and wait for dawn.”

The little girl sat down obediently and placed the lantern between the two of them.

The flame danced, reflecting on her face, and also reflecting the long-lost peace in his eyes.

Neither of them spoke again.

The wind stopped, the stars shifted, and the east gradually turned white.

And at the same instant that dawn tore through the night, strange phenomena occurred almost simultaneously in twenty-seven communities across the country—regardless of whether they were urban or rural, or whether they were families of Awakened individuals, the flames in all the stoves turned pure gold without warning, and the shape was uniformly a silhouette of ”a hand passing a torch,” lasting for exactly seven seconds before returning to normal.

Surveillance cameras couldn’t capture the source, the meteorological bureau couldn’t detect energy fluctuations, and experts were at their wits’ end.

Only a few extraordinary individuals who had once knelt outside the ”Self-Combustion Hall” begging for the Golden Flame Art trembled violently when they saw the news footage, murmuring: ”That is... the Seal of Passing the Fire.”

Meanwhile, deep in the Forbidden Ground of Mount Longhu, the thousand-year-old bronze pillar of the ”Fire-Locking Cliff” collapsed with a roar, the Talismanic Incantations of the Seal on its surface peeling off piece by piece, and at the bottom of the pit, a thumb-sized golden flame floated quietly, as transparent as glaze, neither scorching nor extinguishing, like an eye that refused to close.

On a mountaintop ten miles away, Zhang Xuanyi stood for a long time, watching that faint light, the corners of his lips lifting slightly, whispering softly: ”You have finally learned to see the world for yourself.”

As the morning light first shone, he turned and left, his figure gradually melting into the mountain mist.

No one knew that, a few days later, when a market in a small town on the southwest border opened in the morning, a man carrying a bamboo basket on his shoulder and wearing washed-out work clothes walked slowly into the crowd, the gray-black stove ash in the basket radiating a faint, elusive warmth.

Someone stared at his profile for a long time, and suddenly their pupils constricted.

”That... isn’t that...?”