Control Fire Chapter (Introduction)

Shen Hui sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, holding the scroll of Fire Control in his hands.

These past days, studying characters under Senior Sister Jingming had gone faster than expected, so he could recognize every word on the silk scroll.

After all, the scripts of the two worlds shared some similarities, and his memory seemed sharper since crossing over—those originally obscure words and phrases became familiar after reading them a few more times.

He spread the scroll across his knees and focused intently.

The very first line made him raise an eyebrow: "Fire in this world is divided into two kinds: one is Common Fire, the other is Nature Fire. This art does not refine external elixirs or metals; it cultivates only Nature Fire."

Nature Fire?

He read on: "What is called Nature Fire relies on the seven emotions and six desires as fuel, the conscious spirit as the spark, to ignite the Life Gate True Fire."

Below was a cultivation method: first seal the five senses, then internally observe the dantian. Visualize a heart-fire within the chest, initially as faint as a bean. Then use one's own spiritual energy as kindling, feeding it continuously to make the flame grow. If one can keep this fire burning at all times and freely control its heat at will, that is considered entry-level.

Just as he was absorbed in reading, a faint pulse stirred deep in his consciousness.

The familiar parchment interface materialized, and a line of text appeared clearly in his sea of consciousness:

[Do you wish to spend 100 Dao Points to learn the Minor Five Elements Art: Fire Control (Entry)?]

Shen Hui froze.

One hundred points?

He looked down at the scroll, then back at the prompt, his mind turning.

It seemed that learning different texts required different amounts of Dao Points.

First Record of Hundred Herbs had only needed ten, but this Fire Control required a hundred—likely because practicing a technique was far more complex than absorbing pure knowledge.

He glanced at the bottom-right corner of the interface, where it read [Dao Points: 0 (Unallocatable)], and tentatively thought "confirm" in his mind.

Nothing happened.

The text on the interface flickered, then faded, leaving only a cold prompt:

[Insufficient Dao Points]

Shen Hui wasn't disappointed.

One hundred points—neither too many nor too few.

At his current cultivation speed, he could save up in about ten days.

But a thought lingered in his mind: he wanted to try cultivating this technique on his own first.

After all, if everything relied on the "interface" to pour knowledge into him, wouldn't cultivation lose much of its joy?

He unrolled the scroll again and read it word by word.

The more he read, the more astonished he became; the more he read, the more excited.

This Fire Control was completely different from what he had imagined.

It wasn't a fixed set of step-by-step instructions, but rather a fundamental theory about "fire."

A foundational method that allowed one to forge their own path from it.

The opening concept of "Nature Fire" already made it clear: this art emphasized seeking within, not borrowing from without.

Shen Hui sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and looked inward.

The quiet flow of energy deep in his dantian swirled gently. He tried, as the scroll instructed, to gather his mind at his chest and visualize a heart-fire.

At first, there was only emptiness, no movement.

He patiently tried again and again.

Spiritual energy circulated through his body, but it never condensed into that "faint as a bean" flame.

Occasionally, for a moment, a warmth would bloom in his dantian, but before he could feel joy, the heat dissipated like an illusion.

He didn't give up.

If one try didn't work, he'd try ten.

If ten didn't work, he'd try a hundred.

There was no water clock in the room, so he could only judge the time by the light outside the paper window.

Day turned to night, night turned to day.

Shen Hui didn't leave his room, skipped meals and morning lessons. His senior brothers and sisters, perhaps instructed by the master, didn't come to call him.

Two days later, he finally found a thread of insight.

A faint light flickered deep in his dantian.

Shen Hui opened his eyes and let out a long breath.

Though he hadn't ignited the flame, he knew he was close to entry-level.

But that final step might require deeper accumulation and more insight.

He didn't rush to continue meditating. Instead, he stood up and left the room.

Since he had already found the threshold, it was time to ask someone who had walked this path before him.

He first went to find Third Senior Brother Qingyi.

Qingyi was tending to the few Spirit Nourishing Grass plants in the eastern courtyard. Seeing Shen Hui visit, he smiled and invited him to sit down.

After hearing Shen Hui out, he pondered for a moment and said, "The flame-control method I cultivate follows the path of Civil and Martial Fire. Martial Fire is fierce and violent, used for attack; Civil Fire is gentle and enduring, used for refinement and nurturing. The two complement each other to achieve their purpose. The 'heartfire' you sense, Junior Brother, doesn't quite align with my path, so I'm afraid I can't be of much help."

So he went to find Second Senior Sister Jingming instead.

Jingming was copying scriptures in her room. After listening to Shen Hui's account, she set down her brush, thought for a while, and then said:

"I walk the path of Yin Fire Yang Water, where water and fire aid each other. Yin Fire is not visible to the naked eye; it is transformed from true yin. Yang Water is not the water of rivers and lakes; it is condensed from true yang. The two clash to produce change. Your path differs from mine, so more words would be pointless."

Shen Hui was a little disappointed, yet he also felt a faint glimmer of understanding.

This Lesser Five Elements Art truly was as the master had said—each person's aptitude and insight differed, and the methods they cultivated were all distinct.

The two he had asked were far removed from his own approach, so naturally they couldn't offer specific guidance.

He thought it over, then turned and headed for the master's meditation room.

Old Daoist Ji Chen was sitting in meditation. After hearing about Shen Hui's experiences over the past two days, he opened his eyes, stroked his beard, and smiled.

"Asking them would naturally yield nothing. Each person has their own fate, each person their own cultivation. The paths they walk may not suit you."

Shen Hui lowered his head. "Disciple understands. But Disciple does not know where his own path lies."

He added half a sentence in his heart: And I also want to save those hundred Daoist practice points.

Old Daoist Ji Chen didn't even look at him, his tone calm as he asked, "Since you wish to practice fire methods, do you know what fire is?"

Shen Hui was taken aback, then answered hesitantly, "That which is born from the Dao is called nature; nature resides in qi, and qi resides in fire. Fire is the flower of the Dao."

"That is the fire in the Daoist texts," the old Daoist shook his head. "Not the fire in your heart."

"The fire in my heart?" Shen Hui murmured in confusion, not understanding what his master meant.

"Go help out in the kitchen for a few days."

The old Daoist waved him off. "Every day, light the fire and cook the meals. Watch how the firewood catches, how it burns, how it goes out. Once you see it clearly, perhaps you'll understand."

Shen Hui was stunned for a moment, then rose and bowed:

"Disciple obeys."

He withdrew from the meditation room and went straight to find Fifth Senior Brother Qing Shi.

Qing Shi was busy in the kitchen. Seeing him enter, he was startled at first. "Junior Brother, what brings you here? Hungry? Dinner isn't ready yet."

Shen Hui shook his head and said seriously, "Fifth Senior Brother, I want to ask a favor."

"What favor? Tell me."

"I want to practice fire methods. Master told me to help in the kitchen and watch how firewood burns, saying maybe I'd understand. Could you... let me tend the stove for a few days?"

Qing Shi immediately laughed and reached out to pat his shoulder. "What's there to ask about? If you want to come, come anytime! But stoking the fire looks simple, though there's actually a lot to it—when to add wood, when to pull it back, how to control a big flame or a small one—all have their tricks."

A warmth spread through Shen Hui's heart, and he smiled in reply. "Thank you, Fifth Senior Brother."

Qing Shi waved his hand, pulled a fire poker from beside the stove, and handed it to him. "Come, watch me start the fire first. Look closely—where the fire starts, how it grows big, how you let it burn slowly..."

Fifth Senior Brother Qing Shi crouched in front of the stove, also holding a fire poker, but he didn't rush to poke it into the firebox.

"Junior Brother, look," he said, pointing the tip of the poker at the firewood already stacked inside the stove. "The first thing about lighting a fire isn't the ignition—it's how you stack the wood."

Shen Hui leaned in, following the poker's tip.

"You can't stack the wood too tight—too tight and there's no airflow, the fire gets smothered and won't catch. You can't stack it too loose either—too loose and it won't hold the heat, the fire just flashes through."

As he spoke, Qing Shi gently nudged the pieces of wood, varying in thickness, with the poker tip. "The bottom needs to be hollow, leave an opening for air. That's called 'the stove has a path, smoke and fire come naturally.' Leave gaps between the wood so the flames can lick at them."

He then grabbed a handful of dry grass and a few thin twigs from the side. "There's a trick to kindling too. Start with this soft grass—it catches in an instant, flames shoot up fast. Once the grass is burning well, add the thin twigs. When the twigs catch, then add the thick wood. If you shove a big log in right away, the fire won't light at all."

Shen Hui nodded, lost in thought.

"And this wood," Qing Shi pulled a piece at random from the pile, "see this one? It's pine—lots of resin, burns hot with big flames and lots of smoke, good for stir-frying. This one is elm—hard, long-burning, steady heat, good for stewing, can burn for an hour without dying. This one is poplar—burns fast, soft flame, good for steaming buns."

He laid the three pieces side by side on the ground, as if giving Shen Hui a proper lesson.

"Big flame or small flame isn't just about adding or removing wood. Blow a breath into the stove, and the fire leaps up. Half-close the stove door, and the fire smolders down. Fire has its own nature—you have to go along with it. When it's blazing, don't force it down; when it's weak, don't pile on too much, because too much can smother it out."

Qing Shi smiled as he spoke, a hint of self-mockery on his honest face. "I'm no good at cultivation. Master says I'm dull-witted and slow on the uptake. But cooking and stoking fires—I've been doing that for nearly ten years, and I've figured out a few tricks."

He looked up at the stove's beam, blackened by years of smoke and flame, and said with a touch of emotion:

"The fire in this stove is the fire of the mortal world. But it's a pity that those with high cultivation all live above such worldly flames. Master practices fasting. Senior Brothers and Sisters still eat, but that's only for now. The day they all stop eating, this kitchen will probably be left with just me."

Shen Hui was stunned.

Looking at Fifth Senior Brother's honest profile, he suddenly felt that this senior brother, who usually said little and just worked quietly, actually held a lot inside.

"Senior Brother," he said, "this mortal fire—I think it's pretty good too."

Qing Shi turned back and grinned. "That's right. Without this mortal fire, what would you all eat? Alright, sit and think it over. I'll go wash the rice."

He stood up, brushed the dust off his backside, and walked to the rice jar to start scooping.

Shen Hui sat in front of the stove, staring at the dancing flames inside.

Fifth Senior Brother's words, one by one, churned in his mind.

Kindling needs gaps between the logs for the fire to breathe.

Lighting the fire must go from shallow to deep, step by step.

Different wood has different natures, burning with different flames.

The size of the fire must go along with it, never forced...

He suddenly recalled that line from the Control Fire Chapter: "Rely on the seven emotions and six desires as fuel, the conscious mind as the spark, to ignite the Life Gate True Fire."

Seven emotions and six desires as fuel.

In these twenty-plus years of his life, he'd lacked food, lacked clothes, lacked stability, but he'd never lacked the seven emotions and six desires.

Joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, hate, desire—which one hadn't filled him to the brim?

He stared at the stove's fire pit, watching how the flames leaped from dry grass to twigs, how they licked from twigs to thick logs, how they blazed up fiercely when new fuel was added, how they calmed down when the stove door was half-closed.

Fire had a life.

Fire had a temper.

You had to go along with it, never force it.

He suddenly understood.

It wasn't about forcibly "creating" a flame in his dantian. It was about finding that tiny spark within his heart that had always existed but had always been ignored.

Then use those seven emotions and six desires as fuel, feed it bit by bit, and let it ignite on its own.

Shen Hui closed his eyes.

He didn't try to forcefully visualize like before. Instead, he emptied his mind and let the emotions buried deep in his heart rise to the surface, one by one.

First came joy.

He remembered the summer when he was eighteen. The sun scorched the ground so hot it felt like it was burning. He was squatting in the yard, helping his grandfather split firewood.

The sound of a motorcycle from the village entrance reached his ears. He didn't pay it any mind and kept swinging the axe.

Until the sound grew closer and closer, finally stopping at his front door.

"Shen Hui! Is Shen Hui home? Admission letter!"

The axe in his hand nearly landed on his foot.

A bright red envelope, gold-embossed lettering. His fingertips trembled as he took it.

He read it three times before he was sure it was real—he'd gotten into university.

His grandfather came back from the fields, squatted on the doorstep, and flipped through the letter over and over. He tapped his pipe against his shoe sole again and again, but in the end, he only said one word:

"Good."

Then he stood up, hands clasped behind his back, pacing back and forth in the yard several times. He'd pull out the letter to show off to anyone he met:

"Look, look, my grandson got into university. A top-tier school."

His grandmother, on the other hand, rummaged through the cabinets. From a clay jar full of rice bran, she fished out a few eggs, counted them twice, and finally picked the biggest one to cook Shen Hui a bowl of egg noodles.

That night, he sat in the yard, gazing at the star-filled sky, and for the first time, he felt that all those years of eating plain steamed buns, wearing patched clothes, and having chapped hands from the cold—they were all worth it.

Then came anger.

The summer of his sophomore year, he went home and found his grandmother's eyes red. No matter what he asked, she wouldn't say anything.

Later, he found out from a neighbor that a village thug, seeing that the old couple had no children to rely on, had claimed that the trees in his grandfather's field had grown onto his land. He'd brought people to chop them down and sell them.

Shen Hui trembled with rage. He grabbed a stick and was about to go find that bastard and fight him to the death.

But his grandfather held him tight around the waist, and his grandmother wiped her tears on the side, saying over and over, "Forget it, forget it. Don't stir up trouble. A few trees cut down, so what? It's not like only cypress wood can make a coffin."

"Why should we forget it?" he roared, his voice shaking. "What right do they have to bully people? Why should we just let it go?"

His grandfather said nothing, just held him and refused to let go.

That night, he lay in bed, unable to sleep a wink.

He listened to the suppressed coughs from his grandparents' room next door and clenched his fists.

He swore he would make something of himself, make those bastards who bullied them see clearly.

Sorrow came the heaviest, like a stone, not too big, not too small, pressing against his back until it ached, crushing his breath.

The autumn of his junior year, a phone call at four in the morning.

His grandfather's voice was very heavy: "Your grandmother doesn't have much time. She wants to see you. If you can take some leave..."

He bought a train ticket that same night, stood for over ten hours, and when he reached the hospital, his grandmother could no longer speak.

But she could still move. Her withered hand held his, her thumb stroking the back of his hand over and over, just like when she used to soothe him to sleep as a child.

He knelt by the bed, holding that hand, saying over and over, "Grandma, I'm back. I'm right here."

She held on for three days.

On the last night, the person keeping vigil grew tired and dozed off for a moment.

When he woke up, Grandma was already gone.

Her hand was still warm, but it wouldn't move anymore.

It would never move again.

He knelt by the hospital bed, not making a sound, but the tears wouldn't stop.

He remembered her pulling him up from the mud.

Remembered her brushing the dust off the seat of his pants.

Remembered her patching the holes in his schoolbag.

Remembered her tucking his feet into her lap to warm them in winter.

Remembered her always saying, "When my grandson makes something of himself, I'll finally get to enjoy life."

She never got to.

Grandpa left the next year.

After Grandma was gone, Grandpa was like an old tree hollowed out by rot.

He no longer crouched on the doorstep smoking, no longer worked the fields, no longer chatted with the villagers.

He just sat there all day, staring at the road out front, not even knowing what he was looking at.

The day he left, he sat by Grandma's grave for half a day, and when he came back, he lay down.

The village head called to tell him—Grandpa had already been buried.

He hung up the phone in the library, sat alone in a corner until closing time, then walked to the bleachers on the sports field and sat there until dawn.

The village head said on the phone, It's okay, focus on your studies. Your grandpa was still talking about you before he went. Said you'd made something of yourself, that you sent money home every month. He left at peace.

But Grandpa, if you could still talk to the villagers before you left, why didn't you tell your own grandson? Didn't you want to see me? Or were you afraid I'd take time off and fall behind in my studies?

Then came fear.

The moment the car hit him, his mind went blank. He only saw those two blinding beams of light getting closer and closer, and then the world spun.

When he woke up, he was lying in a patch of grass, his whole body aching like it had been torn apart.

He didn't know where he was, didn't know what had happened. He struggled to his feet and walked for a long time before he found a rundown temple.

Before he even made it inside, two vagrants locked onto him.

Their hair was matted, their clothes were rags, and in the frosty weather they were wrapped in nothing but tattered cloth. Their eyes gleamed with a starving wolf's hunger as they sized him up.

One of them walked over and reached out to strip his clothes.

He fought with everything he had—screaming, thrashing, punching, kicking. In the end, it was only because he was tall and strong that the two cursed him out and left.

He curled up in a corner of the temple, shrinking into himself, trembling all over.

Not from the cold. He could see it in their eyes—they hadn't just wanted his clothes. They'd wanted his life.

The next two days, he was so hungry his vision blurred and he swayed when he walked.

He stole sweet potatoes from the fields and got chased by dogs. He drank river water and ended up so weak his legs gave out.

Every night, he couldn't sleep soundly, terrified someone would slit his throat while he was unconscious.

Shen Hui had lived all these years, but he'd never known that just surviving could be this hard.

Then came love.

In the spring of his sophomore year of high school, when the breeze was warm and gentle, a girl transferred into his class.

She sat two rows ahead of him. Every class, he couldn't help staring at her back.

She wore her hair in a ponytail, with two little pom-poms on the hair tie that bobbed back and forth.

When she smiled, her eyes curved into crescent moons. Her voice was really nice to listen to.

But he never spoke to her.

He'd deliberately walk past her desk after class, linger a little longer when she was on duty to help her arrange the desks, secretly remember what snacks she liked—even though he never had the money to buy her any.

Once, she turned around and smiled at him, and out of nowhere said, "You're my type."

His heart pounded so hard it felt like it would leap out of his throat. He was dizzy for the rest of the day.

But he didn't say anything.

Because he knew what he was.

No parents, relying on his grandparents farming to put him through school. The seat of his pants was patched. In the cafeteria, he only ever got rice. He couldn't even bring himself to throw away the pepper stems in the bean paste.

He wasn't good enough for her.

That same winter, she transferred away again.

He stood at the classroom door, watching her back disappear down the hallway, feeling hollow inside.

Many years later, he still thought of her sometimes.

He remembered her smile, the two little pom-poms on her ponytail, and that line: "You're my type."

Then came hatred.

He loathed those who mocked him.

In elementary school, someone pointed at his nose and said, "You're a bastard without a dad or mom."

He said nothing, clenched his fists, and dug his nails into his flesh.

In middle school, someone rifled through his bag, threw his cornbread on the ground, and stomped on it, saying, "A poor wretch like you still reading books?"

He still said nothing, crouched down, and picked up the crushed cornbread piece by piece.

In high school, someone announced in front of the whole class, "Both his parents are dead, his grandparents are farmers. What's the use of good grades? Even if he gets in, he can't afford tuition."

He finally threw a punch, pinning that person to the ground and beating him.

He got punished, wrote a self-criticism, and had his parents called in.

His grandfather came, hunched over, bowing and scraping to the teacher with apologies.

Watching that figure walk away, he gnashed his teeth in hatred.

Later, when he started working, he thought all that was behind him.

Until one day, the plan he'd stayed up several nights to finish was presented at a meeting by his supervisor, who said, "This is the result of our team's hard work. I mainly contributed to..."

Sitting below, watching his supervisor's smiling face, he felt a flash of déjà vu, as if seeing that same figure from years ago.

He didn't make a scene. He knew making a scene would cost him his job. He needed that salary, needed to pay off his student loans, needed to survive.

Then came desire.

He was human too.

He'd also wondered what it was like to be rich.

No more counting every penny, no more living in a shabby urban village with terrible soundproofing, no more eating steamed buns and pickled vegetables.

He'd also wondered what it was like to have power.

To make those who bullied him see, to make that supervisor who stole his plan regret it, to give his grandparents the best gravesite and erect the finest tombstone for them.

He'd also wondered what it was like to have a home.

Someone waiting for him after work, someone to talk to over meals, someone to paste Spring Festival couplets with, someone to check if they were hung straight.

He'd also wondered what it was like to have a wife.

Someone who would smile at him, bicker with him, and when he needed it, tell him, "It's okay, I'll go through it with you."

He also craved pleasure.

He wanted to eat meat heartily, sleep soundly, have a full meal without counting the days, stretch lazily in the sun, and think of nothing at all.

He wanted so many things.

Life, death, the desires of the ears, eyes, mouth, and nose—not one was missing.

He wanted to live; he didn't want to die.

He wanted to hear pleasant sounds, see beautiful sights, eat delicious food, and smell fragrant scents.

He liked watching sunsets, listening to the rain, the white steam rising from freshly steamed buns, and the warm sunlight on quilts dried in autumn.

These were all very small things, yet it was precisely these small things that made him feel that living wasn't so bad.

Shen Hui opened his eyes and realized he was already crying, tears streaming down his face.

The fire in the stove was still leaping, reflected in his pupils like two clusters of warm light.

All those things that had been buried deep in his heart for so long, things he thought he'd forgotten but had only dared not touch, now surged out like a tide, and like the firewood in the stove, one piece after another, they caught flame.

Joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, hatred, desire.

Life, death, ears, eyes, mouth, nose.

The seven emotions and six desires, every single one, was firewood.

He suddenly understood.

The seven emotions and six desires are the firewood. It's not about forcibly "generating" a certain emotion, but about acknowledging what already truly exists.

Joy, anger, sorrow, happiness, love, hatred, desire—which of these isn't the truest kindling? Which can't burn to ash in the depths of the heart?

He looked at the flames in the stove and slowly spoke, his voice very soft, as if comforting himself, or whispering to that blaze:

"That which is called fire is the spirit of qi. The eye of heaven and earth, the authority of creation. Where the mind's thought stirs, there fire arises."

The moment the words fell, the flames in the stove surged violently, nearly bursting past the iron pot.

The fire was several times fiercer than before, as if it had gained life, gained sentience, leaping and dancing joyfully in the stove, casting the entire kitchen in a bright red glow.

At the same time, deep in his consciousness, a line of text automatically appeared on the parchment interface:

[Minor Five Elements Art: Fire Control (Beginner)]

Shen Hui stared blankly at the flames in the stove, and slowly, the corners of his mouth curled up.

Done.

He turned his head to look at Fifth Senior Brother by the chopping board. Qing Shi had long since stopped his work, staring wide-eyed at him, his face full of shock.

"Junior Brother... you... why are you crying!"

Shen Hui smiled as he replied, "Just got smoke in my eyes by accident."

Then he rose and bowed deeply to Fifth Senior Brother:

"I must thank Senior Brother for showing me the way."

Qing Shi was stunned for a moment, then laughed and waved his hand. "This is hardly showing the way—I just taught you how to light a fire..."

If you can't find the book by its title, try searching by the author—maybe it's just been renamed!