Cangmang Asks the Way 1: Guardian of the Lamp

Seven days after the turmoil, at night.

The training grounds and dormitories of Jixian Sports School were shrouded in darkness, with only a few streetlights casting lonely glows in the corners. The sweat and shouts of the day seemed to be frozen in the cold night, and all around was so quiet that you could hear the faint whistling of the wind passing through the horizontal bar.

Only at the far end of that row of bungalows used as warehouses, a window still let in a dim yellow light.

Cang Tianci sat cross-legged in the cramped space converted from a storage room. An old wooden table and a lamp were all that existed in this small space. To his left, several open middle school textbooks and competition problem sets had slightly curled edges; to his right, in the corner, leaned casually a pair of worn-out boxing gloves and neatly wrapped hand straps. In the air, the faint smell of old paper mingled with the subtle smells of sweat, rust, and the pungent lingering scent of burning mosquito repellent—a peculiar odor unique to him, a juxtaposition of "school" and "training ground" in this tiny room. He sat upright, his hands resting naturally on his knees, neither turning the pages nor doing calculations.

On the table, the halo of the lamp cast his seated figure onto the wall—the shadow was stretched long, like a silent mountain breathing in the night.

He had been sitting like this for almost an hour.

It wasn't practicing martial arts, nor was it meditating. It was simply... "watching".

Look at the light.

See how that steady halo of light, with the warm hue unique to an old lampshade, envelops the books on the table, the indigo silver needle pouch, and the pencil case sewn by his mother; see how, beyond the halo, the shadows slowly shift with his subtle breathing and movements; see how, in the distance, the darkness exists silently and steadfastly, neither completely penetrated by this limited light nor swallowed by it.

It's been seven days.

Seven days have passed since the framing incident subsided. During these seven days, he has continued to shuttle between the middle school and the sports school every day, like a taut string connecting two worlds and two completely different weights.

In the gifted youth program, he learned to refuse more concisely—not indifferently, but clearly. When a classmate came to him with a problem that could obviously be solved by looking up information themselves, he would smile and point to the book corner at the back of the classroom: "There's a similar example on page 35 of the 'Concise Exercise Book,' with a very detailed solution. Take a look first, and if you still don't understand, we can discuss it after class."

At the sports school, he learned to be more cautious in his actions—not out of retreat, but out of respect. When a student came to him with a sprained ankle during training, he would immediately ask the coach on duty to handle the situation, while he would simply stand by and use the simplest language to instruct the injured person to stay calm and wait for professional treatment.

He saw Zhang Hao's crooked "I'm sorry" tucked inside his notebook, he saw the deeper undercurrent beneath the ice in Zhao Xiaohu's eyes, he saw Wang Yaowu's almost desperate silence, and he also saw Zheng Tao's "sword" sheathed, its chill even more intense.

And then there's Lin Ruoxi. Since the day her grandfather, Professor Shen Qingshan, left, she hasn't said a single word to him that deviated from the topic. But during math group discussions, she would inadvertently paraphrase his occasional hesitant expressions in more precise language; before leaving the classroom, she would glance at his empty seat—she knew that by then, he had already hurriedly returned to the sports school.

These complex, silent currents from the "outside" intertwined with the daily sweat and aches at the sports school, and the occasional deep gaze from Coach Zhou, gradually settling into his perception. He often felt a tension: in the gifted youth program, he needed to use logic and knowledge to deconstruct the world; on the training field, he needed to react instantly with instinct and willpower. How could he reconcile these two almost contradictory abilities? Facing Zhao Xiaohu's underhanded tricks, he needed "wisdom" to maneuver; but if facing a vicious thug like Hei Pi who charged straight at him, or the moment Wang Yaowu insulted Wan Qing, what he needed was a thunderous strike of "courage" and "strength." Where exactly was the boundary and the measure between these two extremes?

At this moment, in the still of the night, in this space that belongs only to him, filled with the faint smell of dust and the rust of old equipment, he finally has the time and the peace of mind to "see" all of this clearly.

No, it's not just about seeing through the chaos of the outside world.

It also allows one to see clearly one's place in this predicament, to understand how the light in one's heart should shine, and how to illuminate the more extreme darkness that may descend at any moment.

He slowly closed his eyes.

The Hidden Dragon Technique began to operate naturally. The flow of energy was exceptionally gentle and long, like a stream flowing quietly under the moonlight, without any coercion, simply following the predetermined channels of the meridians, moving leisurely forward. It was completely different from the explosive activation on the training field during the day; this was a calming, inward-focused power.

He closed his eyes, letting his senses sink deep into his body. He clearly "saw"—or rather, felt an unprecedented sense of clarity emanating from his body. The warm energy that flowed through his meridians every day flowed exceptionally smoothly tonight, like a blocked stream clearing and frozen soil thawing. Especially his old injury in his right knee, which used to always have a slight, faint soreness, was now a warm, relaxed sensation. He remembered his master's words while holding the chicken blood vine: "The rigid are easily broken, but the gentle endure." Suddenly, he understood: the back-and-forth between the school and the training ground, the calculations and grievances he had to deal with, seemingly draining him, had also been invisibly smoothing away the thorns in his heart and the stiffness in his bones. It turned out that "suffering" itself was a medicine to dissolve blockages.

But this "softness" and "relaxation" are by no means weakness. His fingertips unconsciously touched the tabletop, and he could feel the solid strength of the dragon's energy gathering at his fingertips. This was a deeper accumulation, so that when "firmness" and "decisiveness" were truly needed, it could unleash a more precise and unstoppable force. Just like a stream that is usually gentle, but can change its course when a flash flood occurs.

He looked into the inner turmoil that was always being pulled in two directions. The wisdom of the school, the courage of the training ground; the ability to evade underhanded tactics, the ability to block direct violence. This tug-of-war had once exhausted him, but now it suddenly loosened—not because the problem had disappeared, but because he saw clearly that this tug-of-war itself was his path, two different hands he had to wield simultaneously. To deal with Zhao Xiaohu, he needed to follow the rules and use his brain to maneuver; to protect Wanqing, he needed to act decisively and with courage. His elder brother had said, "Ask your heart, not your fists," and now he understood. The so-called "asking your heart" meant asking "when"—when to hold back and when to unleash your power. He needed a scale in his heart, weighing not the right or wrong of others, but the measure of his own actions.

He also gained a deeper understanding of what lay behind the silence of his father's generation. It wasn't just endurance; it was like the old locust tree behind their old house, its leaves swaying in the wind, its branches covered in snow, yet its roots, deeply embedded in the mud, never wavered. His roots were planted in the yellow earth of Xiqiao Village on one end, and in the daily footsteps and the storage room filled with old equipment on the other. These "roots" gave him resilience, making him understand that some things are like tree roots clinging to a stone, silent and enduring; but they also taught him that sometimes, perhaps, he had to be like his older brother, a branch detached from its roots, stretching out into the distant, unknown storms to fight for his life.

These insights did not come out of thin air, but were accumulated little by little, drop by drop, during these seven days that seemed to be caught in the cracks—no, during all the days from Xiqiao Village to Ji County, from the bottom of Yezhugou Cliff to the Provincial Stadium, from under the kerosene lamp to the dim light of the toilet, and then to the lamp in front of the storage room. Until tonight, they finally converged into a stream, finally reflecting the truest image at the bottom of that "well".

"I see……"

Tianci slowly opened his eyes.

Under the dim light, his shadow on the wall remained clear. But in his eyes, it all took on a different meaning.

The light must still shine. Like Mother said, a person must have a lamp in their heart, and know why it shines. But while shining, one must also know how far the light can reach and how long the shadow will be. One cannot avoid lighting the lamp for fear of shadows, nor can one pretend the shadow doesn't exist once the lamp is lit. Shining a light in this corner of the sports school, and being watched in the center of the youth program, both require the same clarity. However, the light will go out, the sky will rise, and even the most constant light can be swallowed by a greater darkness. So what is the meaning of lighting the lamp? Perhaps it lies in knowing it might go out, yet still choosing to shine; knowing the shadow follows, yet still facing the light head-on.

He still had to protect. Just like he did with Wanqing, his family, and those who truly needed and deserved help. But the way he protected them had to be clearer—not by taking on everything, but by defining boundaries; not by always being at the forefront, but by first establishing himself firmly so that he could become a "root" and "branch" that others could rely on. But what if he faced not rumors and exclusion, but a villain wielding a knife against the innocent, naked, uncompromising violence? What if Zhao Xiaohu's malice towards Wanqing were ten times more intense? Where would the boundaries of "wisdom" then lie? Would the gentle glow of the "moon" instantly transform into the scorching heat of the "scorching sun"? He thought of his elder brother. In Nancheng, his brother was probably facing a more direct and brutal contest. What would his brother choose?

Thinking of this, a vague emptiness suddenly welled up beneath the calm he had just managed to regain. Nancheng was so big, the work so hard, and his older brother had such a stubborn personality… Last time they spoke on the phone, his brother's voice was terribly hoarse; he only said, "Everything's fine, busy," before quickly hanging up. The weariness in that voice struck him even through the phone line. It must be late at night in Nancheng now. Was his brother still at the construction site? Was he facing a difficult boss, or protecting a group of bullied workers? The ferocity and domineering nature he had seen on Liu Tietou and Wang Zhenkun's faces was probably even more pronounced in Nancheng. The wind whistled through the distant bar, sounding sharp and mournful; for no apparent reason, he felt the sound was like steel bars being forcibly bent at the construction site, and his heart clenched.

Is it just my imagination?

He listened intently again, but could only hear the wind.

But the heavy burden of worry in his heart could no longer be suppressed. The image of his older brother's back in the morning light on the day he left home was exceptionally clear in his mind. His brother said he was going to make a name for himself, to carve out a different path for people like them. In that big city, what kind of "weights" would his brother face, and what kind of "principles" would he need to understand? Would the price he paid for every act of "protection" and "help" he made be ten times, a hundred times heavier than what he experienced at school?

As for the malice, the scheming, and the things lurking in the shadows...

A sliver of Tianci's gaze swept across the window. A sliver of cool nightlight seeped in, mingling with the warm lamplight.

Was that moonlight? He wasn't sure. But it was cool and constant, just there. It didn't drive away the darkness, because darkness was part of the world. It simply existed, in its own way, allowing those who wished to remain awake in the weary night to see the outline of their small room by its soft glow, and to imagine the silence of distant mountains and rivers—and the unknown hardships and perseverance that might be unfolding within them.

The glow of the lamp and the moonlight outside the window gradually became indistinguishable to him. They were both light, capable of illuminating where they should, and also capable of casting shadows they couldn't reach. Once he understood this, the tension that had always been in his heart finally settled down.

He knew that the road ahead would still be filled with trials and tribulations; the sweat shed at the sports school wouldn't be in vain, the competition in the junior class wouldn't cease, and the eyes watching from the shadows wouldn't disappear. There would still be moments when he needed to defend his principles and when he needed to help the weak, just like his older brother on the construction site in the south of the city, inevitably facing even rougher and more complex competition. And the heavy concern he felt for his older brother was like a subtle reminder: the real test might be far more severe than what the school and the county town could contain.

But he was no longer anxious or confused.

Because the light in his heart had finally found its proper brightness and posture—uncompetitive, fearless, and unavoidable, simply shining serenely, yet containing within it a profound understanding of light and shadow, a clear-headed consideration of the boundaries of action, and a deep concern for his loved ones far away who might be in danger. It illuminated his own unique path, connecting the school and the training ground, and also reflected the complexities of this world and the responsibilities he had to shoulder.

He reached out and turned off the light.

The storage room was plunged into darkness for a moment, but the sliver of light from the window immediately became clear, faintly outlining the room and illuminating the faded slogan on the wall, left by some unknown predecessor: "Sweat, don't cry; peel, don't fall behind." The light was paler and colder than the lamp, yet it seemed more expansive and constant, connecting with the boundless night sky.

He sat up straight and closed his eyes. The Hidden Dragon Technique circulated on its own, his breathing calm, but deep within his dantian, a trace of that heavy longing for the distant future remained. This longing no longer made him panic; instead, it was like adding a ballast stone to the light in his heart.

The wind is still blowing. The night is still long.

But the sky in the east had faded a bit from its original inky color.