Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

The storage room late at night became his furnace of self-torture. When he sat cross-legged, attempting to regulate his breathing, the meridian patterns he saw were no longer what they used to be. The liver meridian area was like a wildfire, burning and restless; the heart meridian's energy was floating and unstable, like a flickering lamp flame; deepest, at the source of the kidney meridian, came a faint feeling of "dryness," a warning sign that his innate vital energy had been excessively drawn away. This was clearly the sign of "five strains and seven injuries" mentioned in his master's medical records, a precursor to qi deviation. However, his extreme desire and obsession led him to distort this dangerous signal, interpreting it as a necessary "tempering" before "rebirth." Instead of restraining himself, he forcibly guided the burning energy to impact the stagnant meridians according to the "breakthrough" method his master had taught him. Each illusory feeling of "unimpeded flow" made him mistakenly believe that he was one step closer to the state of "combining literary and martial arts."

Zhou Zhenhua's disappointment was intensifying. After one training session, he stopped Cang Tianci, who was soaking wet and staggering, pointed at his shoulder, and said with heartache, "Tianci, look at yourself! Your strength is scattered, your spirit is adrift. What are you doing? If you continue like this, your body will collapse sooner or later. Put your studies aside for now, don't push yourself so hard!"

Cang Tianci didn't speak, but simply lowered his head deeply, building a stubborn wall of silence. Seeing this, Zhou Zhenhua sighed heavily, thinking, "I'll keep pushing him, and he'll eventually stop when he can't take it anymore."

One day, Cang Tianci sat upright in the storage room, but he couldn't calm his mind. He felt an unnamed heat surging within him. This heat was partly due to his body's protest, and partly due to his heart, which was almost being torn apart.

His thoughts swung wildly between two paths, neither of which he could let go of.

Martial arts were a gift from Coach Zhou, a path of glory paved with the blood of his elder brother Cang Lifeng, and a gift from heaven that allowed him to rise from the mud of Xiqiao Village and regain his dignity. How could he face Coach Zhou's disappointed eyes if he gave up martial arts? How could he live up to his elder brother's scars and the name of "hero"? It would be tantamount to ingratitude!

Wendao represents his master Chen Jiren's earnest instruction to "enlighten his mind and see his true nature," the role model his cousin Cang Liuqing set for him in the capital, the unwavering encouragement from his teacher Fang Wenhui during his most clumsy moments, and the promise Lin Wanqing made to fight alongside him. To abandon his studies would be to betray his master's legacy, stray from Liuqing's expectations, and extinguish the flame of hope in Wanqing's eyes. It would be utter betrayal!

"I can't give up... I can't give up on either side..." he muttered to himself. Giving up on either side would be like tearing down a pillar in a world he held together with his flesh and blood and emotions; the result would inevitably be the collapse of the whole. He was like a greedy child, tightly clutching two gems in his hand, refusing to let go of either one even though the sharp edges were drawing blood from his palms.

He sometimes recalled the lesson of injuring his leg a year ago. But the thought was immediately suppressed by an even stronger determination: "Things are different now! Back then, I only had brute strength. Now I have the Hidden Dragon Technique passed down by my master to strengthen my foundation, the Thirteen Postures of Tai Chi to harmonize my Qi and blood, and the medical principles of the Spiritual Pivot to guide my understanding... This skill is my foundation! Last time, my body reached its limit, but this time, as long as my willpower can hold on, what I will break through will be the shackles of my mind and the constraints of my body!"

This thought was mixed with an urgent desire for power, a hint of wishful thinking that "I can do it," and deeper still, a barely perceptible yearning for the immense prestige of being a "master of both literature and martial arts." He desperately needed a resounding victory, witnessed by everyone, to prove himself and to reassure all those who had placed high hopes on him.

He pushed open the door to the storage room, immersing himself in the familiar darkness. The nameless heat within him intensified, and his temples throbbed. He sat cross-legged, trying to circulate the Hidden Dragon Technique to calm his mind, but when his breath reached the "Shanzhong" acupoint in his chest, he felt a sharp, needle-like pain instead of the usual open and warm sensation.

His vision suddenly blurred for a moment, and stars flashed before his eyes. He shook his head, assuming it was just exhaustion.

"I can't sleep... There are still three test papers to finish, and tomorrow I have combination punch training..." he muttered through gritted teeth, urging his mental cultivation technique even more intensely. A weak, restless "heat" was forcibly drawn from his dantian and rushed to the top of his head, bringing a moment of morbid clarity. He mistakenly thought this was a sign of "breaking through his limits," and a fanatical glint flashed in his eyes.

"Master said the Hidden Dragon Technique can unleash potential... It seems my time has come." Instead of stopping, he guided the burning heat against his stagnant meridians, following the "breakthrough" method his master had taught him. With each imagined "obstacle" he cleared, the clarity of his inner fire lasted longer, but it also intensified his anxiety. In this self-created illusion of "power," he seemed to see Coach Zhou's approving smile, Teacher Xu's approving nod, and his older brother patting him on the shoulder saying, "Well done!"

He completely ignored the fact that the flame of the "heart lamp" in his dantian was flickering and dimming under the scorching heat of this illusory fire. This was not cultivation; it was burning fuel to keep the lamp burning, overdrawing the very source of life to maintain a shattering illusion.

Just as this self-destructive obsession reached its peak, a slip of paper folded into a square shape slipped out from the books he had carelessly opened. He froze, his hands trembling as he opened it. On it was Lin Wanqing's delicate yet powerful handwriting, a single line: "Tianci, don't overwork yourself. Taking care of yourself is the starting point."

There was no signature, yet it was like a handful of cool snowflakes, instantly landing on his burning sea of ​​consciousness, giving him a moment of clarity. But this cool snow was ultimately too weak, instantly melted by the raging inner fire and the immense burden on his shoulders. He clenched it tightly in his palm, murmuring to himself, "Wanqing, thank you! All the hardships will become stepping stones on my path of 'seeking the Dao.' I must prove that this path is viable!"

During the Qingming Festival holiday, Wang Yaowu returned to Xiqiao Village. Even before he reached his house, he sensed something was amiss. The usual scene of idlers chatting and fawning outside his courtyard was gone, replaced by a stifling silence and small groups of villagers gathering in the distance, whispering amongst themselves. His imposing vermilion gate was tightly shut, and something seemed to be missing from the lintel—that's right, the small sign that read "Home of Party Members."

His heart sank, and he quickened his pace. Just as he reached the gate, he heard his mother, Zhou Jinhua, sobbing uncontrollably from inside the courtyard, followed by the stern voice of a strange man: "...Comrade Wang Zhenkun's problem is very serious. The organization has already taken measures. We hope the family will adopt a correct attitude, actively cooperate, and not harbor any illusions..."

The door wasn't locked, and he pushed it open. Two unfamiliar cadres in Zhongshan suits, their faces stern, stood in the courtyard. His father's usual bicycle lay askew in the corner. His mother and sister slumped against the threshold of the main room, wailing and weeping. Inside the main room, cabinet doors and drawers were open, clearly showing signs of being ransacked.

"Mom!" Wang Yaowu called out.

Zhou Jinhua looked up, saw him, and cried out even louder, "Yaowu... your father... your father was taken away by people from the county. They... they came to the house looking for things..."

With a deafening roar, Wang Yaowu felt as if something had exploded in his head. Had his father really been arrested? He didn't want to believe it, but he had no choice but to.

In fact, as early as the winter vacation, he had sensed an impending storm from his parents' expressions, the villagers' attitudes, and the government's commendation of the Cang family. But he trusted his father, his second uncle who held an important position in the township government, and even more so, the power of the Wang family in Xiqiao Village.

However, all of this collapsed. The world he once thought was impregnable and reliable was easily torn apart before his eyes.

He didn't cry, he didn't make a fuss, he couldn't even utter a single word. A chill more biting than the dead of winter rose from the soles of his feet, instantly freezing his limbs and bones. He remembered his father's former power, his own arrogance at school, his countless schemes against Cang Tianci... all the past became poisonous needles that retaliated against him now.

Is this retribution? It must be, otherwise, how could he have ended up like this? Seeing the mess in the yard, his mother's tears, and the villagers pointing and whispering outside, he felt a deep sorrow. But when he saw his weeping mother and sister, his broken resolve instantly hardened. He was now the only man in the family; he had to take over his father's burden and support this broken home.

He walked over, calmly bent down, and picked up the bicycle that had fallen to the ground, straightening it against the wall. Then, he went to his mother and sister, reaching out to help them up from the ground.

Just as he straightened up, preparing to help his mother and sister into the house, his gaze swept over the empty bamboo chair his father often sat on by the door of the main room. His father's old coat was draped over the chair, the worn edges of the cuffs clearly visible. A tremendous emptiness, a mixture of fear, resentment, unwillingness, and utter helplessness, suddenly gripped his heart, almost suffocating him. But the next second, his mother's trembling arms and his sister's red, swollen eyes filled that emptiness, transforming it into a heavy sense of responsibility.

"Mother, sister, it's cold outside, let's come inside!" Wang Yaowu gently helped his mother and sister into the Wang family's house.

In the distance, the old locust tree at the entrance of Xiqiao Village sheds its last few stubborn withered leaves in the warming spring breeze, and tender green buds are struggling to emerge from the gnarled branches, showing a tenacious vitality in the sunset.