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

132: The temple that no one worships is the most powerfulZhang Xuanyi’s knuckles were somewhat withered and yellow, as if calloused from years of gripping something; he leaned over and carefully picked up the slip of paper.

The paper felt tough to the touch—neither bamboo nor wood—with a warm, smooth texture, as if it still held a trace of a living creature’s body heat.

There wasn’t a single word on it, only a few freehand strokes outlined with the most primitive charcoal pencil, yet it precisely depicted a hidden gully within the rolling mountains of Southern Anhui; at the end, a crooked square was drawn, looking like a solitary house.

This letter had no origin and even less reason, yet it was like a silent imperial decree.

Zhang Xuanyi did not hesitate; he folded the map, tucked it against his chest, and turned to walk toward those vast, wild mountains.

Three days later, he stood at the place indicated by the map.

Before him lay a ruin, with weeds as high as his waist, and children’s graffiti and broken desks and chairs scattered among the crumbling walls.

This was a mountain primary school forgotten by time.

However, right in the middle of this dead, silent ruin, a single classroom had miraculously remained intact.

Although the doors and windows had rotted, the walls were sturdy, and not a single tile had fallen from the roof.

Zhang Xuanyi did not step inside immediately; his gaze was drawn to the blackboard.

That old wooden blackboard was completely free of dust; instead, it was covered in dense, childish handwriting, as if it were a diary left behind by countless children scrambling to write.

Today I rubbed out a spark again, a little bigger than yesterday’s.

Mom says I’m a little immortal, and I’m not allowed to tell anyone.

The teacher doesn’t scold us for playing with fire anymore; she says we are good children.

Every sentence carried a kind of innocent yet stubborn power.

Looking down, there were no books or pointers on the podium, only a chipped, coarse pottery bowl offered up.

Inside the bowl, filled with half a bowl of fine, dry wood shavings, an incredible scene was unfolding—a faint flame ignited out of thin air in the center of the shavings, danced quietly a few times, and then quietly extinguished.

After an interval of no more than three to five breaths, the flame would reignite, cycling over and over, like an untiring heart performing a tiny, sacred breath.

Night fell, and the mountain wind grew cold.

Zhang Xuanyi did not enter the room; he simply found an inconspicuous corner to crouch in, his whole body blending into the shadows.

Just past midnight, the sound of rustling footsteps came from all directions.

One by one, thin, small figures, guided by the moonlight, traversed the ruins with familiar ease, their faces bearing a solemnity ill-suited to their age, as they quietly gathered at the classroom door.

They dared not enter, only gently placing the things they had brought by the threshold—a piece of candy wrapped tightly in candy paper, a pencil still bearing fresh ink marks, or a paper crane folded from exercise book paper.

They said nothing, simply watching the flickering fire in the bowl, their eyes filled with admiration and devotion.

The wind blew through the dilapidated window lattice, carrying their collective whisper, as faint as a mosquito’s hum, merging into a strange power of thought.

I am not a bad child; I can make fire.

Zhang Xuanyi listened all night; it was only when the first light of dawn appeared and the children retreated quietly like the tide that he slowly stood up.

He did not touch the bowl, nor did he disturb the offerings; he simply dug a shallow pit with his hands in the corner of the classroom courtyard and planted a wild locust sapling he had found by the roadside.

He tore a piece of cloth from his own washed-out sleeve, carefully wrapped the sapling’s roots, and covered it with soil.

In the morning light, one could vaguely see two blurred traces of characters on that corner of cloth—Ten Thousand Laws.

Just as Zhang Xuanyi was patting the last handful of soil onto the wild locust, in a city a thousand miles away, a report titled We Do Not Need to Be Lit was like a stone thrown into a deep pool, stirring up a silent, massive wave.

This article by reporter Su Qingzhu was very strange; it contained no pictures, no data, and not even a single comment from her.