Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

In the evening, Cang Lifeng and Lin Wei returned from the hospital and ate noodles together at a small restaurant on the street. They chatted as they ate.

Cang Lifeng said, "Xiang Rong is recovering very quickly. Dean Li said he can be discharged in three more days. Once he's discharged, my brother and I can go back to our hometown together."

"That's great. Tianci should be on winter break by now, right? I wonder how his recovery is going," Lin Wei said.

"Not bad. He asked me to give you his regards on the phone." Cang Lifeng smiled.

"Tianci is so sensible. I really want to visit your Xiqiao Village and see what kind of environment nurtured people like you."

"Okay. Come back with me for Chinese New Year this year. My mom has been talking about you on the phone for ages."

Lin Wei lowered her head, gently stirring the noodles in her bowl with her chopsticks, a blush creeping onto her face. After a moment, she looked up and said, "Lifeng, this winter vacation, I might really go to your Xiqiao Village. I've been thinking about this a lot these past few days: your family's story isn't just about a few people. From your great-grandfather guarding national treasures to the Korean War, from the bank robbery to your brother's knife wound. It's a river that has flowed for fifty years."

She paused, then continued, "I want to write it down. Not just a report, but an in-depth feature. This era needs stories like this."

Cang Lifeng looked at her. Her eyes shone brightly in the dim light of the noodle shop.

"What do you want to do?" Cang Lifeng asked.

"Dig deeper. It's not just about reporting on a person or an event, but about recording a legacy."

Cang Lifeng thought for a moment and said, "Okay, I'll discuss it with them again."

That evening, Cang Lifeng returned to his office and called Xiqiao Village. His second uncle, Cang Yuanzhi, answered. He told him about Lin Wei's desire to do a feature article. Cang Yuanzhi remained silent for a long time before finally saying, "Let her come."

Another day passed. During morning rounds, Li Xiuzhi came in person.

She examined Cang Xiangrong's wound, reviewed the nursing records, and nodded: "The healing is better than expected. He can stay for another week, and if all his vital signs remain stable, he can be discharged."

"Thank you, Dean Li!" Cang Xiangrong said.

"You're welcome, it's my pleasure."

Li Xiuzhi closed her medical record folder. Her gaze inadvertently fell on two books on the bedside table. One was "The Art of War," which he always carried with him, with his second-class merit medal resting on top of it. The other was "How the Steel Was Tempered," a gift from Shen Jingyi.

Li Xiuzhi bent down and flipped through the copy of "The Art of War" on the counter. The pages were covered with annotations, each stroke meticulously written.

She nodded slightly, a smile appearing on her face.

She turned to Cang Xiangrong and said, "Jingyi has been learning to cook these past few days. Is her cooking alright?"

Cang Xiangrong was stunned. He hadn't expected that Shen Jingyi had personally prepared these meals. He recalled the temperature of every spoonful of food these past few days, the nonchalant tone in her voice when she said, "My mom made these," and the gentleness with which she fed him. An indescribable feeling welled up inside him.

He honestly replied, "It's delicious. Jingyi said you made it."

"This girl is too embarrassed to admit it. But I taught her the craft myself. She learned very diligently and improved quickly, almost catching up with me," Li Xiuzhi said with a smile.

"Mom, what bad things are you saying about me?" Shen Jingyi walked into the ward carrying two thermos containers.

"Girl, I'm praising your cooking skills. I've been able to eat your cooking these past few days thanks to Xiang Rong." Li Xiuzhi affectionately pinched Shen Jingyi's cheek and walked out of the ward.

Shen Jingyi blushed and lowered her head, not daring to look at Cang Xiangrong. She walked to the bedside and placed two insulated containers on the bedside table. Then she opened them and filled them with food…

In the following days, visitors came in droves to offer their condolences. Representatives from the military informed him that the second-class merit award had been approved, and representatives from the Nancheng Municipal People's Government delivered the commendation decision from the Foundation for Righteous and Courageous Acts. Cang Xiangrong thanked them all and saw them off.

The ward fell silent again. Cang Xiangrong leaned against the headboard, placing the second-class merit medal on the bedside table, next to the book Shen Jingyi had left behind. The medal gleamed dimly in the afternoon sunlight. The book was open, stopped at the page with the ginkgo leaf between the pages.

He had seen photos of those recipients of the Second-Class Merit Citation on the military academy's wall of honor: those who had served on the border, in disaster relief, and in major exercises. Back then, standing before that wall of honor, he felt those people were so distant. Now he had one too. But he felt this medal wasn't truly his. At least, not just his.

He remembered the passengers who rushed to help subdue the assailant, and Shen Jingyi's brave kick that struck the assailant in a vital spot. They were all heroes.

Outside the window, the winter sun peeked through the clouds, falling on the medal and on the withered ginkgo leaf between the pages of the book. The veins of the leaf were clearly visible, like an outstretched palm.

The day before Cang Xiangrong was discharged from the hospital, Lin Wei placed the special project proposal on the editor-in-chief's desk.

The editor-in-chief, surnamed Zhou, was in his fifties with gray hair and glasses with lenses as thick as the bottom of a beer bottle. After reviewing the proposal, he took off his glasses, wiped the lenses with his sleeve, put them back on, and reviewed it again.

"Fifty years," he said.

"What?"

"From Beiping to Xiqiao Village, from the Korean War battlefield to long-distance buses, fifty years." Editor-in-Chief Zhou closed the proposal and looked at Lin Wei. "You mean, a great-grandfather who guarded national treasures, a combat hero with a broken leg, a bank robber who saved lives, plus this military academy cadet who just received a second-class merit award—these people are all from the same family?"

Lin Wei said, "Not only that. There's also his grandfather, who kept the secret for forty-eight years."

Editor-in-Chief Zhou remained silent for a moment. He certainly knew the significance of this topic. A family, spanning half a century, doing the same thing in different eras and circumstances. This wasn't just news; it was history. In any media outlet nationwide, it would be a story of the year.

"How do you plan to implement this project?" Editor-in-Chief Zhou asked.

"Four-page feature. Page one reconstructs the events, page two covers the Korean War, page three focuses on family traditions, and page four provides commentary." Lin Wei turned to the second page of the proposal. "But it doesn't stop there. I want to make a 40-minute documentary. I've already spoken to the provincial TV station; they're interested. As for CCTV... we're still waiting for their response."

"It's the Cang family again." He leaned back in his chair, looked at the ceiling, and said with a smile, "Lin Wei, you have quite a connection with their family."

Lin Wei's ears burned slightly, but she didn't respond. Her gaze fell on the stack of reader letters on the corner of the table, some of which were from last year's series, and some envelopes were already yellowed.

Editor-in-Chief Zhou was silent for a moment, then picked up the pen on the table and signed his name on the first page of the proposal. His handwriting was messy but firm. He pushed the proposal back to Lin Wei.

"Go ahead. Remember, don't write it as a praise speech. Nobody reads praise speeches."

"Then what should it be written as?"

"Write it like a mirror, so that people can see themselves." Editor-in-Chief Zhou put his glasses back on, lowered his head, and continued reading the manuscript.