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

179: Even if the scholar does not receive the talisman, the bottom of the pot can still connect to the earth veins.Morning mist, like gauze, enveloped a fishing village in a corner of the South Sea.

The sea breeze, thick with the smell of salt and fish, blew in, and waves crashed against the reefs, breaking into white foam before receding, leaving behind a damp beach and scattered shells.

Zhang Xuanyi sat at the edge of the tide line, his pant legs rolled up to his calves, bare feet in the cool sand, holding a broken piece of pottery, teaching a few naked children to arrange a crooked circle.

“The fire must be stable on three legs, and the Qi must flow freely on all four sides,” he said in a low voice, as if talking to himself or reciting an incantation. “You see, three blue shells form the legs, one circle contains the Qi, a second circle nourishes the spirit, and a third—connects the pulse.”

The children didn’t understand, but they played earnestly.

A little girl dug out a groove with her finger, embedding the shells one by one, mumbling, “Three legs stable… four sides flowing…” Another boy simply lay on the ground, using a small stick to complete the lines, looking exactly like a sand table formation.

No one knew that this was merely a simplified “Stove Settling and Qi Guiding Formation,” simplified to its utmost.

Nor was it some profound talisman, or a golden light incantation; it merely hid the laws of earth vein circulation within the children’s doodles.

But after a night of sea breeze, as the fine sand shifted, those originally crooked patterns were quietly smoothed out, their arcs natural, their nodes precise, as if the earth itself had recognized a long-lost rhythm.

Su Qingzhu came ashore at this time.

She stepped from a swaying fishing boat onto the shallow beach, her reporter’s bag heavy on her shoulder, clutching an encrypted telegram that had just leaked from internal channels.

The corner of the paper was already wrinkled from the seawater, but the headline was still clearly visible:

“Tianshi Mansion Officially Launches ‘Hundred Stoves Project’: Three Hundred Abandoned Kitchens Converted into Mutual Aid Stoves, Guiding Votive Power to Flow, Protecting Earth Vein Tranquility.”

Below it, a quote from an article she had published five days earlier was cited: “True protection is someone willing to cook an extra pot of porridge on the coldest night.”

She had intended to immediately find Zhang Xuanyi and ask him his thoughts on this “fireworks revolution” he had ignited—after all, the core concept of this plan was almost verbatim what he had casually said while squatting in front of ruins, cooking porridge.

But as she passed through the low-lying cluster of fishing houses, she saw the Daoist priest, rumored to be able to alter fate and destiny, sitting on a small stool in front of Old Fisherman Chen’s house, head bent, threading a needle and mending a fishing net that was beyond repair.

“My son has been working outside for five years and hasn’t returned…” Old Man Chen smoked his pipe, his eyes cloudy amidst the swirling smoke. “Last night I dreamed our stove was smoking, the firebox was glowing red, and the smell of food was delicious. You say, does this mean he’s coming back?”

Zhang Xuanyi’s fingers paused, the needle tip picking up a thin hemp thread, gently tying a knot.

He looked up and smiled, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes: “Dreams are false, but your longing for him is real—with that longing, the fire won’t go out.”

Su Qingzhu stood at the alley entrance, neither approaching nor speaking.

She watched his back, his worn Daoist robe faded white, the cuffs frayed, but his spine was ramrod straight, like an iron nail driven into the earth, silently, yet supporting the entire collapsing sky.

That night, a storm suddenly arrived.

First, muffled thunder rolled across the sea, followed by a fierce wind tearing through the clouds, and torrential rain poured down.

Seawater surged in, instantly flooding several low-lying houses, short-circuiting the electricity, plunging everything into darkness.

Villagers panicked, rushing towards the ancestral hall at the village entrance.

It was on higher ground, historically a place of refuge.

But when they pushed open the door, they found the usually empty kitchen lit by a faint candlelight.

Dry firewood was neatly stacked in the corner, rice bags arranged in a square, the stove covered with waterproof cloth, still retaining residual warmth inside.