Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

The thatched hut was simple and clean, yet spotless. A small earthenware pot simmered on the clay stove, bubbling and releasing medicinal steam. A silk chart of the human body's meridians hung on the wall, its lines ancient and rustic. Chen Jiren gestured for Tianci to lie down on the hard bed covered with a clean, coarse cloth.

He unwrapped the layers of bandages, revealing the plaster cast. Then, extending three fingers, he began pressing, kneading, and feeling downwards inch by inch, starting from the groin and following the meridians, through the hard outer layer of the cast. His fingers were steady, as if possessing a quiet, penetrating power, guiding Tianci's senses to touch the reality of the injury. Wherever they touched, Tianci felt an indescribable tingling, numbness, and swelling pain, seeping into the very bones, more tormenting than simple excruciating pain. Cold sweat quickly beaded on his forehead.

When the pressure was applied to a spot above the knee, Tianci's body jerked violently, his jaw snapped, and the intense pain felt like a red-hot iron stab piercing his very bones!

Chen Jiren's fingers paused there, his fingertips applying slight pressure as he gently rubbed the area for a moment, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Then he slowly moved down to the area around the kneecap and the side of the shin, examining it with equal care. The entire process was silent and focused, with only Tianci's suppressed breathing and the faint crackling of the fire in the stove.

After completing the inspection, Chen Jiren walked to the medicine cabinet, took out several medicinal herbs, and put them into a ceramic jar, stirring them slowly. Before long, a richer, more bitter medicinal aroma filled the air.

"The bones aren't broken, the tendons aren't severed, but it's the result of overwork and the torment of resentment. The liver governs the tendons, and anger injures the liver. The fire in your heart has dried up your liver blood, and your tendons have lost their nourishment. How could they not break?" He paused, his gaze falling on Tianci's neck and fists, which were taut with pain and tension. "This leg has taken the punishment for your heart."

As they spoke, the ointment had warmed. He used a wooden skewer to pick up a dark, sticky clump and applied it to the acupoint above Tianci's knee, where the pain was excruciating. The moment the ointment touched the skin, an extremely domineering, scalding sensation, as if alive, instantly transformed into hundreds of red-hot needles, drilling into the deepest part of the bone! Tianci's body jerked upwards, only to be hurriedly pressed down by Cang Zhenye. A short, extremely sharp "Ugh!" escaped his throat. The veins on his forehead, neck, and the back of his hands bulged like earthworms, and sweat poured out like slurry, instantly soaking his clothes.

His muscles were tense and trembling, like a bowstring stretched to its limit, every fiber groaning under the strain. His jaw clenched so tightly that his jawline was taut and sharp, crushing and suffocating the scream that was rising in his throat. Only hot, rapid breaths hissed out from his violently flared nostrils.

Chen Jiren's hand, applying the medicine, paused almost imperceptibly for a moment. He had practiced medicine for decades, traversing deep mountains and forests, encountering high-ranking officials and nobles, and had witnessed countless tough men enduring pain. But this young man before him, under the intense, almost bone-scraping pain induced by such potent medicine, had managed to swallow his beast-like roars with an unwavering will. This forbearance beyond his years was neither numbness nor brute force. He could contain the overwhelming pain within his own mind, rather than letting it transform into a violent or self-destructive aura. This instinct for 'control' and 'introspection' was precisely the most precious quality in spiritual cultivation. Chen Jiren raised his eyelids, his gaze, calm as a still well, sweeping deeply over Cang Tianci's face, contorted with extreme pain.

After applying the medicine and wrapping it with clean bandages, Chen Jiren said nothing, only instructing Tianci to lie quietly. For the next three days, Tianci stayed in the thatched hut. Chen Jiren changed the dressings on time each day, his technique precise and efficient, yet he spoke very little. He spent most of his time sitting on the old bamboo chair by the window, either flipping through a worn-out medical book or arranging drying herbs, as if no one else was in the room. But out of the corner of his eye, his gaze seemed to subtly fall upon the boy on the bed.

He saw that, in the brief intervals between the receding waves of excruciating pain, Tianci neither fell asleep nor groaned, but quietly gazed at the crisscrossing rafters of the roof, his eyes vacant yet not unfocused, as if staring at something intangible. Occasionally, his gaze would suddenly focus, landing on a certain acupoint on the meridian chart on the wall, remaining motionless for a long time, his fingertips unconsciously tracing lines at his side, as if tracing the winding lines; or he would see Tianci grab a certain herb, and although he didn't understand why, his eyes would subconsciously follow the same herb drying on the windowsill, a kind of innocent focus attempting to connect the dots.

He saw that when Cang Zhenye awkwardly tried to comfort him, Tianci would listen attentively. Even though the pain made his forehead covered in cold sweat, he still tried to squeeze out the words "Dad, I...I'm fine" from his chapped lips, his voice hoarse but trying to be steady. When Su Yumei turned away to wipe her tears, Tianci's fingers would quietly clench the coarse cloth beneath him, his gaze following his mother's trembling back, his eyes filled with a deep sorrow and guilt that was beyond his years.

What caught Chen Jiren's eye most was this: after a dressing change, Tianci briefly fell into a coma due to exhaustion. Upon waking, taking advantage of the empty room, he laboriously propped himself up, extended his right index and middle fingers, brought them together like a halberd, and slowly, yet remarkably steadily repeated the three gestures of "pointing," "poking," and "wiping" in the air. Though his fingertips were weak, the movements carried a subtle, contemplative rhythm. After a moment, exhausted, he stopped, then pulled his textbook from beside his pillow. In the dim light from the window, his lips moved silently, as if reciting a poem.

On the afternoon of the third day, the pain subsided slightly when the dressing was changed. Chen Jiren washed his hands and suddenly asked, "Kid, these injuries you sustained from practicing martial arts?"

Cang Tianci nodded upon hearing this: "Yes. Practice...practice boxing."

"Why do you practice boxing?" Chen Jiren picked up a dry cloth and slowly wiped his fingers. "Is it to become strong and powerful? Or do you want to learn from those street thugs and show off your violence?"

"No...no!" Tianci suddenly looked up, his words stammering but carrying a resolute force: "For...for my family! My family is too...too poor, too...weak! My parents...are suffering too much! I...I have to find a way out!"

Chen Jiren continued wiping his hands, only letting out a soft "hmm" through his nose. He walked to the window, picked up the vine stem that resembled chicken blood but had an unusually supple texture, and rubbed it in his hand: "This thing is called Chicken Blood Vine. It looks as withered and hard as dead wood, but it is best at promoting blood circulation, clearing blockages, and regenerating new blood. Hardness is easily broken, but gentleness lasts long. This applies to healing the body, and it also applies to dealing with the world." He turned around, his gaze seemingly falling on Tianci, yet also seemingly penetrating him, looking into the distance: "Just home? There are many ways to make a living; you don't necessarily have to fight tooth and nail."

The old man's calm words were like a key, inadvertently touching the most tightly locked door in his heart. Images flashed before his eyes: Lin Wanqing's pale face as she was shoved, the steel pipe crashing down in the dark alley, Wang Yaowu's sinister grin, and the glaring bruise on that slender wrist…

Tianci's breathing became rapid. His throat felt like it was blocked by a scalding thorn; he struggled to break free and managed to say, haltingly:

"I...I can't protect them..." he squeezed out hoarsely. "I've seen...I've seen...fists, but they can't beat...Teacher Zhang's...reasoning, they can't...break through...the Zhao family's door, they can't...stop...Wanqing's...her father's slaps!" He slammed his fist on the bed, pulling on his injured leg, causing him to wince in pain, tears mingling with sweat streaming down his face. "But I...I don't...I don't have fists...I don't even have the...right to stand...stand. My brother told me to ask...to understand the world's...the world's twisted logic...I can't see it clearly. I only know...I hate. I hate their arrogance, and I hate...hate myself...I'm useless. I want...I want my fists to be hard, my eyes to be bright! My heart...to be clear! To see clearly those...those weights pressing down on people's heads! Smash them! One...one of them left!"

He coughed violently, his whole body contorted as if he were coughing up his internal organs, vomiting out all the sincerity, anger, and helplessness deeply rooted in suffering and tempered by injustice into this quiet thatched hut.

The thatched hut was deathly silent. Cang Zhenye and Su Yumei were stunned by their son's confession.

Chen Jiren stood quietly, his hand ceasing its caress of the chicken blood vine. His deep gaze, like an ancient pool, reflected the trembling figure of the boy on the bed. It was not merely a boy's vow, but a soul repeatedly battered by reality, yet still refusing to shatter, determined to grow steel bones from the ruins.

After a long pause, Chen Jiren's gaze shifted from Cang Tianci's face, then slowly swept over the thatched hut that had witnessed decades of history, as if seeking the silent wisdom within. A moment later, his gaze returned, etched like a rock into Tianci's still tearful eyes, and he said:

"Child, this leg injury of yours is both a calamity and an opportunity. Medicine and external forces can only temporarily soothe the pain in your bones and clear the blockages in your blood and qi. But if the anger in your heart, the burden on your shoulders, and the sharpness in your eyes are not guided and resolved, they will eventually burn you again. Extreme rigidity is easily broken, but gentleness can help it; obsession becomes an obstacle, but a clear mind can break it."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the meridian chart on the table before returning to Tianci's face, and said, word by word:

"Stay here until your leg injury heals. Learn some herbs and some medical knowledge from me."

Tianci was stunned.

"I'm not asking you to become a doctor," Chen Jiren said. "I'm letting you know how the fire in a person's body starts burning and how it goes out. Once you know this, the punch you throw won't hurt you."

He stood up, walked to the medicine cabinet, his back to Tianci:

"If you're willing, let's start with these medicines to treat your leg."

Cang Zhenye and Su Yumei, standing to the side, were completely stunned, as if their souls had been shattered by a sudden, resounding bell. The old doctor, whom they considered a celestial being, was now showing favor to their poor, peasant-like child? Su Yumei's lips trembled, and she unconsciously rubbed the rough corner of her clothes, her voice so weak it was as if afraid to shatter a beautiful dream: "Old sir…we…our family, our child…he's clumsy, does he…do he really deserve to learn from you?"

Cang Zhenye was plunged into a profound, almost terrifying, state of bewilderment. He looked at his son, then at the gaunt old man, and suddenly knelt down with a thud, kowtowing heavily. His voice choked with sobs and trembled, "Old sir... your immense kindness... our Cang family... can never repay it in several lifetimes! My child... I entrust my child to you! If he misbehaves, you... you can just scold and beat him as you please!"

Tianci was startled awake by his father's actions and struggled to get out of bed to pay his respects, but Chen Jiren raised his hand to stop him. "There's no need for such formalities. Things come together naturally. If you are willing to calm your mind and endure hardship, start by learning about the herbs used to treat your legs."

He then said to Cang Zhenye and his wife, "The child needs to rest and shouldn't be moved. You can go back home with peace of mind, and bring some clean clothes when you have time."

The Cang Zhenye couple expressed their deepest gratitude, turning back every few steps as if they wanted to imprint this thatched cottage and this serendipitous opportunity deeply into their eyes.

The wooden door creaked shut softly, shutting out the last trace of human voices and cooking smoke. A deep silence suddenly descended upon the thatched hut, broken only by the crackling of pine branches burning in the clay stove, the low hum of medicine in the earthenware jar, and the long, mournful sigh of the mountain wind sweeping through the withered branches outside the window.

Cang Tianci lay alone on the hard bed. The burning pain in his legs had turned into a heavy, tingling, dull sensation, clinging to his skin and bones. In his hand, he tightly clutched the small peach wood amulet that Lin Wanqing had given him, the rough wood grain digging into his palm.

The dazed joy and elation of his parents' departure gradually subsided, and an unprecedented sense of emptiness, mixed with the medicinal fragrance and chill of the thatched hut, enveloped him. Chen Jiren's words, like cold pebbles thrown into a lake of his heart—"liver fire and resentment," "extreme rigidity is easily broken," "insight and control"... These words collided and intertwined fiercely with his elder brother's burning admonition, "Ask your heart, not your fists," Teacher Fang's warm encouragement, "Only by living is there hope," and his mother's teaching under the lamp, "You must have strong bones."

The wooden grain of the peace charm in his palm pressed against him, as if reminding him of the specific "goodness" and "weakness" that "Wanqing" represented, which needed to be protected. But what Chen Jiren pointed out to him was a "path" of introspection, of cultivating oneself first. Protecting one person and seeking the truth for the world, how should he walk the path before him and how should he calm the anger in his heart?

He suddenly remembered the cold, icy bottom of Wild Boar Gully, and his mother's description of his "struggled cry." Back then, it was for survival. But now, he seemed to be pushed onto a deeper, quieter, and more unpredictable path. Not one to pound it with his fists, but one to see with his eyes, understand with his heart, even smell the bitter herbs with his nose, and touch the invisible meridians with his fingers.

The future remains uncertain, and the mountain air is bitterly cold.

Next door, the slow, rhythmic sound of Chen Jiren pounding medicine could be heard, "thump...thump...thump..." each sound echoing into the vast night.