Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

The flames, which were over ten meters high, seemed to be pressed down on their heads by an invisible hand, shrinking inch by inch.

The bright orange flames were torn into flat strips by the wind, shooting forward close to the ground, never to stand upright again.

The wall of fire that stretched from the western horizon to the eastern horizon transformed into a low wall in a matter of seconds, and then into a blanket of fire close to the ground, with the height of the flames reduced from over ten meters to less than three meters.

A good opportunity! The commander raised his right fist again.

"All water cannons—maximum range, fan-shaped coverage, fire at the base of the fire!"

The valve was turned all the way in.

More than a dozen jets of water shot out from the cannon at the same time, but this time they were not torn apart by the heat wave—the heat wave was suppressed by the opposite gust of wind.

The water jets traced more than a dozen white arcs in the air, crossed the isolation zone and the earthen embankment, and crashed into the burning carpet of fire that lay close to the ground.

The moment the water jet hit the ground, a large cloud of white mist rose up. The mist was swept northward by the wind and intertwined with the flames suppressed on the fire blanket, producing a sharp, hissing sound like quenching.

The wind gradually subsided, and the flames began to regain their momentum.

The expressions on everyone's faces gradually turned serious again.

Just then, dawn broke.

A few dozen steps away, in mid-air, in a spot where everyone had been distracted by the firelight and hadn't noticed, a dazzling light suddenly flashed.

The light was white, clean, and free of any impurities, as if someone had broken a whole piece of sunlight from the sky and held it in their hand.

It was a human figure.

The light came from his right hand, between two fingers.

The light is expanding.

White light flowed from between his fingers, like molten silver, solidifying as it flowed into something with a defined shape.

First, he held the sword hilt in his palm.

Then came the sword guard, where the light momentarily subsided before bursting forth again.

Then came the sword itself, pure light extending from his fingertips, one meter, three meters, five meters, ten meters.

With each extension of the light, the surrounding air emitted a low, resonant sound, like the lingering echo of a plucked string.

The lightsaber is still expanding.

Ten meters becomes fifty meters, and fifty meters becomes two hundred meters.

The outline of the sword changed from a blinding bright line to a screen of light, the edges of which were clear, as if someone had drawn it with a ruler.

The spine of the sword was a brighter line, stretching straight from the guard to the edge of the field of vision, without the slightest bend.

Two hundred meters becomes one kilometer, and one kilometer becomes five kilometers.

The light spread much faster than the wall of fire advanced—the wall of fire burned from west to east, while the lightsaber extended simultaneously in both directions from the hand holding the sword, as if the horizon itself had been lifted off the earth.

Five kilometers becomes ten kilometers, and ten kilometers becomes the entire distance from right in front of you to the horizon.

The entire isolation zone was illuminated by that lightsaber.

The pure white light, like the midday sun, spread evenly across every inch of the ground.

The rust on the old herdsman's shovel, the loose threads on the cuffs of the young man's camouflage uniform, the grass ash on the epaulets of the company commander's training uniform, the reflection of the number burned into the palm of the commander's glove by the vehicle body—every detail was captured in perfect detail.

No one speaks.

No one could speak.

The figure raised its right hand.

The colossal sword, so distant that its boundaries were invisible, was then raised high.

The tip of the lightsaber pierced through the copper-green haze overhead, tearing a long gash in the haze with its edges curling up to reveal the true sky above.

Sunlight poured down from the crack and fell on the lightsaber, causing its brightness to surge even higher. The ridge of light on the blade changed from white to some indescribable, almost transparent color, as if the entire Milky Way had been compressed into a single line.

The figure's right hand swept down.

The Milky Way is pouring down!

131 What government?

The instant the sword light touched the ground, an invisible wall of swords surged outwards in all directions.

In the next instant, as if some special living thing had been struck in a vital spot, the flames that were tens of meters high suddenly shrunk, began to twist from the cut, and then quickly dissipated, finally dying completely.

The smoke was pushed back by the wall of swords, rolling back in large swathes. The grayish-yellow smoke curtain peeled away from the ground, revealing the withered grass, baked white, and the cracked earth underneath.

As the smoke cleared, the air became cleaner layer by layer, revealing the blue sky once more.

When the wind blew again, it carried the scent of dry grass and soil from the depths of the grassland.

After doing all this, his figure drew a sword incantation.

The lightsaber, stretching to the horizon, began to dissipate from its tip.

The blade, guard, and hilt transformed into points of light in turn, and finally even the small embers of light between the two fingers dimmed.

His hand fell back to his side, and he turned his head to look this way.

The next moment, the figure had already landed beside the group.

"Ming-ge!" "Superman-ge!" "High-speed rail hero is here, thank you for your hard work!"

Several young herders were the first to shout out.

The old herdsman planted his shovel on the ground, freed one hand, and took off the grayish-yellow towel, revealing the blackened nasolabial folds beneath. He didn't shout, but the curve of his lips emerging from the towel's marks was clearer than any words he might have uttered.

"Hehe," Zhang Qiliang waved with a smile, "Everyone has worked hard."

“According to the rankings,” Zhang Qiliang put down his hand, his warm smile unchanged, his gaze shifting from the commander’s face to the old herdsman’s, and then to the company commander’s, “the cross-border wildfires here have become commonplace?”

The commander gave a wry smile, took off one of his fireproof gloves, and tucked it under his arm: "Last year, there were ninety-two forest and steppe fires that crossed the border from Mongolia."

“The largest one burned for four days and three nights,” he said, raising his head and nodding at the remnants of the fire line that had been pushed back into Mongolia by the sword wall and were losing their last bit of bright orange color. “The burned area, if converted, is nearly 100,000 hectares.”

Zhang Qi nodded and continued listening.

"This year," the commander continued, "as of September, there have been a total of sixty-nine cross-border fires."

"So, it's on an upward trend?" Zhang Qiliang asked.

The commander nodded solemnly.

The data may not be precise enough, but the trend is something that almost everyone present understands.

The old herdsman knew that he had dug seven times of wet soil on the isolation strip last year, and this year, in just September, he had already dug nine times.

The company commander was also aware that of the three he had carried out last year and the year before, his soldiers had already wiped out an unknown number of clumps of grass flying in from the north on the south side of the isolation zone this year.

However, most people in mainland China are not particularly aware of this.

At this time, some nearby herders had already started live streaming—everyone knew that Ming didn't care about this at all.

The viewers who quickly flooded into the live stream were shocked:

"Last year there were 92 times, and this year, only halfway through, there are already 69 times. That means I get a fever every three or four days?"

"Please note that this is only the data compiled by the national team. The disaster data of larger scale, local disasters, disasters caused by enterprises, and disasters caused by local herders extinguishing fires on their own are not included at all."

"Doesn't the neighboring Mongolia care about this?"

"Yes, we'll take care of it. We'll provide plenty if there's a fire."

"Damn it, let's get them to pay us a settlement!"

"In fact... they're the ones asking us for money."

What kind of money do you need?

"Fire-fighting money! What they're saying is: Our herders only have a few sheep, if the fire spreads to your area, the losses will be huge!"

"I suspect you're spreading rumors, but the story is so outrageous that it almost seems true..."

"Can a state regime be this shameless?"

"That's definitely not the official story... But I heard that the neighboring banner actually caught someone deliberately setting fires on their own territory! According to those bastards, they said: 'If we don't burn you a few times, you won't give us aid!'"

"Damn it! No wonder the Tatars appeared on the organization rankings four or five times this morning alone!"

"Watch your words!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I meant Mongolia..."

"That's more like it."

……

“It’s not a good idea to keep going through all this trouble,” Zhang Qiliang said, looking around at the elaborate setup. “…it’s not a sustainable solution.”

The way he said that made it sound like anyone was happy about it... The commander remained expressionless.

“Hey,” Zhang Qiliang realized he had targeted the wrong person with his complaints: “I’ll give it a try.”

"Oh?" The commander's eyes lit up. "You mean...you're going to contact the Mongolian government personally?"

The commander himself wasn't that curious, nor was he bold enough to directly reveal his intention to negotiate with foreign countries in such a public setting.

The moment Zhang Qiliang was discovered, the commander had already urgently reported to his superiors, obtained certain permission, and received certain dialogue prompts.

However, Zhang Qiliang's response completely exceeded the intended scope of the dialogue box.

"The Mongolian government?"

The contempt in those words was so obvious that even the weeds on the ground could hear it.

As a result, a massive amount of interpretations instantly emerged in cyberspace:

Standard translation: What government?

In-depth translation: What is it?

High EQ translation: Are you very familiar with me?

"Which areas are prone to fires?" Zhang Qiliang asked.

"..." The commander was silent for a moment—or perhaps he waited a moment. "From the Northern Gobi to Sukhbaatar."

Netizens immediately provided the following information:

"It's where the rain belt breaks off on the north side of the border. On our side, the Yinshan Mountains block the moisture from getting through, while on the other side it's all arid grassland, with withered grass piled up higher than a lamb's leg."

"That's right, these are basically the places where fires are most likely to start."

“Approximately 800 kilometers, accounting for one-ninth of the border of the arc-shaped province.”

"Okay." Zhang Qiliang nodded. "Please inform the border troops, patrol units, and port inspection areas along the route to withdraw ten kilometers. Is that convenient?"

"This...this..." The commander's forehead began to sweat. "I need to ask for instructions."

Five minutes later, the commander replied: "No problem! Everything is convenient!"

"Is two hours enough to evacuate?"

"There's definitely enough personnel for evacuation, and as for facilities..." The headset suddenly beeped, and the commander immediately followed up, "...that's definitely enough too!"

……

"Hahaha!"

"Enough my foot! They clearly don't want it!"

"Border defense facilities are either mobile or easy to rebuild. Compared to frequent fires, this amount of civil engineering work is less than one millionth!"

"This soldier doesn't seem to be very good at math..."

"Don't talk nonsense, they were just doing their job..."

Zhang Qiliang found a fire truck, sat on the edge, took out cigarettes from his pocket, handed them out to the people around him, and lit the last one for himself.

The surrounding herders followed suit, and even the local firefighters lit cigarettes.

The commander's lips twitched, but he said nothing—with this person here, how could it possibly catch fire?

"Ming-ge! Can we take a picture together?" A young herdsman wearing a leather apron squeezed next to the fire truck, his phone already raised, the family photo sticker on the screen reflecting the sunlight.

Zhang Qiliang jumped down from the edge of the fire truck, dusted off his pants, stood there with a smile, and casually gave a peace sign.

The young herdsman was so excited that his hands were shaking. He took five or six pictures in a row. When he looked down after taking the pictures, he found that Zhang Qiliang's fingers were covering the pimple on his face.