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

182: No one is worshipping the mountain gate, but the incense is still popularZhang Xuanyi’s steps were light, like feathers falling onto decaying leaves, making not a single sound.

He followed the ancient mountain path deep inside; on both sides was a primitive forest so dense it blocked out the sky, with vines coiled like Dragons and giant trees obscuring the sun.

This place used to be the periphery of Mount Longhu, rarely trodden by anyone, but on a whim, it had become a temporary base for his Myriad Laws Street Stall.

Following the faint traces in his memory, he pushed aside bushes as tall as a person, and the view before him suddenly opened up—a stretch of stone steps, mottled by the erosion of time, wound upwards, their end hidden in the deeper mist.

These stone steps did not lead to an ancient temple, but to a once-forgotten mountain pass.

On the surface of the stone steps, moss and soil were intertwined, but in the center was a startling wear mark, smooth as a mirror, as if countless feet had trodden over it day and night without ceasing.

Zhang Xuanyi knew this was not a natural disaster, but human traces—it was the ”Path of Will” carved out by the endless stream of people who came to purchase ”photocopy yellow paper” when he set up his stall here back then.

A path honed by the Mortal desire to seek the Dao, a brand bearing intense faith and hope.

Now, on those once-crowded stone steps, tiny white flowers were sporadically dotted among the grass leaves; their petals were grayish-white, slightly warm to the touch, as if containing a faint trace of vitality.

Zhang Xuanyi’s gaze narrowed slightly as he leaned down to pick one; the flower was like a miniature star, emitting an indescribable, gentle aura.

He recognized it; this was the ”heart-burning stamen,” a companion plant evolved from ”warm moss,” which only took root in land that had long gathered goodwill and hope.

It symbolized the intangible Power Of Will, taking root and sprouting here in its purest form, silently passing on the torch.

He carefully plucked the flower and tucked it into the worn, coarse cloth ledger he carried with him.

This ledger was the first transaction record of the Myriad Laws Street Stall; now the pages were yellowed, the handwriting on them long since blurred, with only a few blank pages left, waiting for new writing, waiting for new ”transactions”—perhaps about faith, perhaps about the human heart.

Night fell, and the mountain wind howled; Zhang Xuanyi found a sheltered cave and lit a bonfire.

The firelight danced, casting his lean silhouette onto the rock wall, shadowy and flickering, forming a sharp contrast with the endless darkness outside the cave.

He closed his eyes to rest, but suddenly a clamor reached his ears, breaking the silence of the mountain forest.

The sound did not come from afar, but seemed to emerge from the ground, carrying a certain heated argument.

Driven by curiosity, Zhang Xuanyi rose quietly and groped his way in the direction of the sound.

He pushed aside layers of tree shadows and discovered, not far ahead, an abandoned temple foundation.

Broken walls stood like ghosts in the night, but in the center of the temple foundation, several young men and women were busy around a simple stove, the flickering firelight illuminating their excited faces.

”The fifth step, it’s the left foot first, that’s right!” a young man said, holding up his phone, which was playing a video of Su Qingzhu explaining the ”Nine Steps to Setting the Stove,” his tone firm.

”Bullshit! My grandfather saw that Daoist with his own eyes; he was turning in circles on tiptoe!” another person retorted. He was tall and had a loud voice, seemingly firmly believing in the ”secret rumors” passed down by his Family.

”On tiptoe? Isn’t that just shaman dancing? Teacher Su didn’t say that!”

”Teacher Su is talking about theory! Do you understand theory? My grandfather said that Daoist’s every step was very casual, but with every circle he turned, the fire grew brighter!”

The two sides argued, neither willing to give in, until finally one of them made the call: ”Alright, stop arguing, let’s both try! Whoever’s fire is the steadiest, we’ll use that one!”

Zhang Xuanyi hid behind a tree, a smile unconsciously curling his lips.

He looked at those young faces; they lacked the powerful Qi of Outcasts and the rigorous Legacy of a Sect, yet they were practicing the ”secret technique” he had casually taught back then in the clumsiest, most persistent way.

They no longer worshiped deities, but instead infused their faith into every inch of firewood and every spoonful of congee.

This spirit of exploration was far more real than any Talisman.

He took a small bag of specially mixed ash from his coarse cloth bag; it was ash he had collected over many years from the bottom of stoves in places with flourishing incense, then mixed with a small amount of ”heart-burning stamen” pollen using a special technique. It contained no supernatural power, yet it could subtly harmonize the ”stove Qi,” making the fire burn purer and more steadily.

He silently placed the bag of ash on a conspicuous stone next to the stove, and then used charcoal to write four words crookedly on a piece of parchment: ”Don’t trust me, trust the pot.” Then, just as he had come, he quietly merged into the night.

The next morning, a thin mist permeated the mountain forest.

An early-rising young girl discovered the bag of ash by the stove and opened it curiously.

Besides the bag of ash, there was also a folded piece of parchment inside.

The girl unfolded it and took a look, her eyes instantly lighting up—it was not an obscure Talisman, but a hand-drawn standardized construction diagram of an ”Ash-Returning Stove.”

On the diagram, concise lines outlined the structure of the stove, detailing key specifics like the angle of the ventilation opening, the depth of the clay pot, and the ratio of ash residue, even including the subtle differences in how different materials affected the firepower.

Its design was so ingenious that it rivaled the most rigorous engineering blueprints.

As if she had discovered a Treasure Trove, she immediately took a photo with her phone and uploaded it to the ”Power Of Will Mutual Aid Network.”

In less than half a day, this diagram caused a huge sensation.

Across the country, twenty-seven newly built ”Communal Cooking Workshops” adjusted their stove structures according to the diagram almost simultaneously.

Miracles followed: it saved an average of twenty percent of firewood, the thermal efficiency improved significantly, and most importantly, the congee it cooked had a richer aroma and a smoother texture.

”The style of this diagram is just like the one the street stall owner casually drew on the back of a yellow paper back then!” someone commented on the forum. This comment was quickly pushed to the top, resonating with countless people.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, in a hidden underground clubhouse, the air was filled with tension and a murderous aura.

The remnants of the former All-Nature force, a group of ill-intentioned Outcasts, were sitting around a long table, plotting to seize back the ”Source of Power Of Will.”

They learned through special channels that Zhang Xuanyi had not disappeared, but had become the behind-the-scenes promoter of the new era’s ”Power Of Will” in some secretive way.

”The news is confirmed! He is near Mount Longhu! According to reliable intelligence, he holds the key to the ’Life-Prolonging True Formula’!” a man wearing a half-ghost mask spoke in a low voice, his eyes flashing with greed, ”As long as we capture him and torture the secret technique out of him, our All-Nature can be reborn!”

The operation team was quickly assembled and infiltrated the deep mountains overnight.

However, when they arrived at the village at the foot of Mount Longhu in the dark, they were shocked by the scene before them.

Along the villages, every household was brightly lit, and men, women, young and old were all holding torches, spontaneously organizing into patrol teams.

They had no profound cultivation, no powerful Magical Artifacts, yet their gazes were firm and their steps steady.

”Stove-guarding people passing through, no weapons drawn!” the patrol members whispered to each other, passing on a simple yet powerful code.

There were even children, under the faint firelight, singing an adapted nursery rhyme: ”The Daoist eats no offerings, no Gu in the congee, whoever touches the fire seed, the whole village beats the bronze drums!” The childish singing echoed in the night sky, yet it was like the most impregnable fortress.

The All-Nature assassins looked at each other; they were not facing powerful Outcasts, but the hearts of billions of Mortals united as one.

These Mortals were no longer passively accepting protection, but actively guarding the ”fire seed” that belonged to them.

A sense of unprecedented frustration arose in the assassins’ hearts, and in the end, they retreated without a fight, quietly withdrawing from the mountain forest shrouded by an invisible power.

The moon rose to the center of the sky; Zhang Xuanyi sat alone on the peak of the main summit of Mount Longhu.

The cold moonlight stretched his silhouette long, as if he had merged into the night.

He looked down at the mountain, where dots of light flickered like stars; that was countless ”Communal Cooking Workshops” burning, billions of Mortal hearts beating.

He took out the now-ineffective ”Pseudo-Three Caverns True Qi Liquid” bottle from his bosom; it had once been one of the System’s most precious commodities, and now only an exquisite empty shell remained, its surface carved with the traces of time.

He gave it a gentle toss, and the bottle landed precisely in a crevice of the rock; the crisp sound of shattering was exceptionally harsh in the silent night sky.

The liquid seeped into the soil, instantly triggering a ripple of cyan light.

It was not a resurgence of power, but the final calibration of the ”Will-Foundation Resonance Network” spread across the country.

Thousands of miles away, seventeen ”Ash-Returning Points” sensed it almost simultaneously, and the gentle cyan patterns on the bottom of the pots all lit up for three seconds, as if billions of living beings were sending their most devout collective tribute to him and to this land.

Zhang Xuanyi knew that from now on, this world would no longer need a ”Supreme Law” to maintain order, because every bowl of hot congee was a decree, and every wisp of cooking smoke was faith.

The mountain wind howled, blowing through his hair and scattering the last trace of worldly attachment.

The darkness before dawn is often the deepest, and he was walking step by step toward the edge of the Forbidden Ground behind Mount Longhu, which had been sealed together by time and legend.