Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

The night was deep and still. In the dormitory, Chen Gang's sighs as he tossed and turned, Wu Bin's occasional teeth grinding, and Li Qiang's soft snoring intertwined to create the unique background sounds of the night. Outside the window, the cold moonlight cast a narrow, pale streak of light on the floor through the gap in the loosely drawn curtains.

Cang Tianci sat cross-legged on the bed, attempting to cultivate a state of tranquility through the Hidden Dragon Technique. However, the resentful look Sun Peng gave him as he left in the evening, the hunched and staggering figure of Sun's father, the extinguished flame in Coach Zhou's eyes… these images, like stubborn ghosts, kept flashing, overlapping, and echoing in his mind. That heavy emotion not only failed to subside but, like countless thin, resilient vines, seeped out from the cracks of his memory, coiling around his mind and tightening their grip. He felt agitated, his breath restless, and the originally gentle Hidden Dragon Qi in his dantian became stagnant and slightly hot, surging and thrashing through his meridians like a young dragon trapped in shallow waters, struggling but unable to find its way back to the sea.

He frowned, his mind churning with frustration: "Why can't I calm down? Sun Peng's departure was clearly his own choice..." Just as this thought crossed his mind, a fleeting, almost desperate light flashed in Sun Fugui's cloudy eyes. It wasn't hatred, but a cold, heavy stone belonging to his "father" pressing on his heart.

As Sun Peng disappeared at the end of the corridor, the last shred of strength in his back felt like a thorn, piercing into the unseen humiliation he himself had once endured. He thought of his own father—the man who carried him for miles through the snow without uttering a word. Sun Peng's father beat and scolded him; his own father couldn't even utter a sound like that. Which hurt more? He didn't know. But he did know that Sun Peng's path didn't begin at the sports school; it began in that small restaurant, with those slaps and complaints.

However, what stung him most was the destructive madness he felt when his teeth dug into Sun Peng's neck. Was this the same rage he felt when he punched to protect Wan Qing? When fed different kinds of food—the obsession to protect, or the resentment that rebounds after being trampled—are the fangs that grow from such power truly the same? His elder brother told him to "see clearly," and his master taught him to "control his thoughts." How could he truly maintain his original intentions and prevent this ever-sharpening "blade" from ultimately harming his initial purpose?

This questioning of "power and responsibility" is far more profound than mere guilt, directly addressing the core of his cultivation and "quest for enlightenment." The warmth in his dantian now felt like muddy water covered in ice shards, sluggish and difficult to move.

Just as his emotions were surging and his self-questioning reached its peak, a faint, loud murmur of music and indistinct laughter drifted in from outside the window. It came from a nightclub in some remote corner of the county town, carrying an air of extravagance and indulgence. This sound contrasted sharply with the steady breathing inside the dormitory, the cool moonlight outside the window, and the quiet, medicinal scent of Eagle Cliff in his memory. In a daze, he seemed to see Sun Peng walking towards that noisy, neon-lit area, while he himself sat in this quiet dormitory, guarding a path that required him to swallow every drop of sweat and every bit of pain and carefully polish it.

In this stark contrast, in the instant the clamor seemed to pierce his ears, a thought, like a thunderclap in the dark night, abruptly cleaved his chaotic thoughts: I cannot be responsible for the choices of others, nor do I need to bear their consequences. All I can be responsible for is my own heart, my own choices, and where the power in my hands will lead! Sun Peng's wrong path is a mirror, reflecting not my right or wrong, but the abyss I must always be wary of. I, Heaven-sent, cultivate not only strength but also heart; uphold righteousness, walk into darkness, and let the light of my heart never be extinguished—this is the greatest reverence for this power, and the best response to the cries of those struggling for survival at the bottom of the cliff!

This thought, like the first firm crack in the ice beneath the surface, was silent yet instantly pierced through all the tangled thoughts. A clear and open spirit rose powerfully from within, washing away all hesitation, unease, and self-doubt. In this perfect moment of clarity and mental lucidity, the accumulated strength from long-term arduous practice surged forth, breaking through that invisible barrier.

His breathing naturally became deep and slow. With each inhale, it was as if he were drawing in the surrounding silence and the cool moonlight, letting it sink into his dantian; with each exhale, it was so long it was almost still, carrying away and dissipating the remaining restlessness and distracting thoughts in his body, along with the heavy burden of "the consequences of others' actions." This was not deliberate control, but a special state that his body and mind entered after unloading their burdens, a state close to dormancy yet remaining extremely clear-headed.

The clamor outside the window seemed distant, like a lifetime ago. In this state, he felt his heartbeat sink into the earth, becoming a distant yet steady drumbeat. His blood flowed smoothly and powerfully, like the undercurrent of a deep pool under the moon. The weariness of the day and the lingering pain of old wounds found their most primal solace and comfort in this profound tranquility.

—This is precisely the initial sign of the second level of the Hidden Dragon Breathing Technique, "Turtle Breathing to Contain Truth." The body is like an ancient well, reflecting one's own inner self.

In this state, his attention was no longer disturbed by the outside world, but completely focused inward. The world collapsed inward, yet expanded infinitely—he could not "see," but clearly "know": deep within the Yanglingquan acupoint on his right knee, a small, tangled mass of dark "qi" was slowly rotating, the lingering stagnation of an old injury; where the steel pipe had struck his left rib, a thin, resilient layer of "coolness" clung to the periosteum, like moss that would never dry. And in his dantian, there was no longer a warm mass of qi, but like a bottomless ancient well, its surface still, yet reflecting the faint light and shadow of qi and blood throughout his body's meridians. He could "feel" the smooth flow of qi and blood in the main meridians; he could "perceive" that the locations of several old injuries felt thicker and tighter than others, like knotted ropes, hindering the smooth flow of qi and blood. This was not vision, but a subtle "map" of his own state, fed back to him by his body in a state of ultimate tranquility.

What enlightened him even more was that, in this state of deep, still reflection, recalling his elder brother Professor Cang Lifeng's "Pointing Finger and Intercepting Meridians" technique, many previously vague key points suddenly gained a completely new and clear framework. In his mind, without conscious effort, the scene of Sun Peng's vicious kick automatically and clearly reappeared in his "inner vision." But this time, what he "saw" was not the shadow of the leg, but the almost imperceptible, mis-tightened bowstring of the muscles in Sun Peng's waist and hips before his center of gravity shifted; the premature and excessive convergence of qi and blood towards the tendon source of his left ankle, supported by that kick. At the time, he only knew to dodge with extreme caution, but now he understood: if, in that instant of "life" when the blood and qi were just beginning to gather and the muscles were about to tighten, he had lightly touched the "source" of the gathered qi—not a fatal point, but the "root" of the tendons' power or the "pivot" where nerves converged—perhaps... that vicious kick would have been like a firecracker with its wick removed, all show and no substance, withering before it even landed. "Striking the pulse" doesn't cut off the "flood" after the force has been released, but rather the "spring" where the force originates. This requires a calm mind, a discerning eye, a hand as steady as a rock, and an unerring intuition for seizing the opportunity.

Not satisfied with this realization, he naturally began to "deduce" within that "ancient well"-like inner vision: a blurry, phantom image of an opponent emerged on the surface of the well's water. The phantom lunged forward, its fists and feet whistling through the air. But reflected in the well water, the opponent's slight shoulder lift, the twisting of its waist and hips, the stagnation of its breath, were all as clear as the lines on a palm. His mind moved accordingly—not to dodge, but in that instant of power's imminent release, the "fingertips" of his mind had already preemptively touched the "source" of the opponent's shoulder well, vertebral pool, or knee joint. The phantom's power suddenly dissipated, like a sandcastle collapsing. Once, twice… In this silent inner vision, "cutting off the source" gradually transformed from a clearly understood principle into an almost instinctive grasp of the "opportunity."

He quietly got out of bed and stood barefoot on the cold floor. Without turning on the light, relying only on the dim light from the window, he assumed the starting stance of the "spear finger" gesture.

His body and mind remained immersed in the profound stillness brought by "turtle breathing and true essence," his breaths long and steady, his heartbeat calm. But all his thoughts were concentrated at his fingertips. He no longer imagined a specific opponent; his mind was simply immersed in an extreme focus. What he constructed in his mind was a model of human power generation, the potential pathways of surging qi and blood. Combining the practical experience taught by his elder brother, the meridian knowledge passed down by his master, and the new "memory" formed by his internal visualization just now, he "simulated": the imperceptible pre-emptive shrugging of his shoulder blades, the subtle shift of his center of gravity to the front of his feet, even the brief pause in his breathing before exerting force... All these subtle signs pointed to the moment and path of the power about to erupt. His fingertips were pointing at the most vulnerable and crucial node on that "moment" and "path"—perhaps the attachment point of a tendon, perhaps the narrow passage where a nerve passes through a bone crevice.

His right hand shot out like lightning, without a sound, without a shout, only the ultimate focus and stability of concentrating all his spirit, the strength of his waist and legs, and the potential energy accumulated from deep breaths into a single point. The fingertip sliced ​​through the air, not with a whistling sound, but with a sharp, solid penetrating sensation, as if piercing the dense darkness of the night. He seemed to sense that if there were an enemy before him, this finger would not pierce flesh, but precisely "cut" into the gap between a tendon and bone in the enemy's arm, or strike the nerve endings where a bundle of nerves converged under their armpit, closing the smallest gate just before the torrent of power was unleashed.

After finishing a set of finger techniques, he slowly withdrew from his stance. His breathing remained deep and long like an ancient well, his heartbeat steady as ever, only fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his fingertips were slightly warm from the intense force he had exerted, as if he had just held a pebble warmed by his body heat. A warm feeling filled his dantian, and the water level in that "well" seemed to have risen imperceptibly. Just then, Chen Gang, in the lower bunk, turned over in his sleep, letting out a long, unconscious sigh, as if he too had unloaded some kind of burden.

He stood quietly, savoring the feeling of that perfect combination of profound stillness and explosive power. This was no longer a simple "finger-severing strike"; it incorporated the profound composure and inner illumination of the Hidden Dragon Technique, the keen insight of the Spiritual Pivot Finger Technique, and his own blood-soaked questioning of "what is power?" It was more precise, more concealed, and focused more on controlling the "opportunity" rather than pure killing. Perhaps, it could be called "Hidden Dragon's Heart-Questioning Finger." He thought silently. It questioned the wielder's true heart, reflected the subtle ripples of the opponent's impending power; it pointed to the line of balance and disintegration in the conflict, and also a boundary to protect the one who held onto their thoughts.

The moonlight flowed silently like water. He looked inward again at the "ancient well." The well water was deep and clear, reflecting the faint light of his own meridians, and also seemed to reflect a corner of the distant Milky Way outside the window. In the starlight reflection deep in the well water, he felt a very faint but definitely present "direction"—it was not a path that could be seen with the eyes, but an invisible "response" and "tension" that he had just clearly perceived between his own breath and this vast world, illuminated by the light of his heart.

The night was deep, and the Milky Way hung low. The boy's figure stood still, seemingly silently absorbing the entire weight of the night. The flame in his eyes burned quietly, steadily illuminating his own "ancient well," and reflecting in the well water the faint trace of starlight.

Unbeknownst to him, at that very moment, on the other side of the county town, Zhao Xiaohu was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, but thinking of him.