Yang Zicang lowered his head to gaze at his own hand and the flint resting within it.
Though it appeared the same as when he first entered, a full decade had passed—and even with the power of acceleration, he had still lived through nearly two years firsthand.
–Though this is a dream, for those within it, there is still pain and joy.–
Before departing, Yang Zicang wanted to return to the small tribe he first encountered years ago. He wanted to see if they were still there.
[I will initiate time acceleration to advance by half a month.]
[I have consumed 15R.]
Yang Zicang, leaning on his long spear-staff, emerged from the now slightly denser forest.
It had just rained, and the savages were all huddled in a rocky alcove in the distance, threading through their fur or pounding stones with wooden mallets beside them.
They were crafting relatively handy stone tools.
Suddenly, these people erupted in a cacophony of shouts, baring their teeth at a distant figure.
But instantly, a voice cowed them into silence.
A burly savage, already showing signs of age, stood up, hesitantly craning his neck to look at Yang Zicang.
–Mm.–
–Mm, mm, mm!–
A few savages, arms dangling, crouched by the side of this upright, neck-straining savage.
Beholding the patchwork of hair, both thick and sparse, a smile crept across Yang Zicang’s face as he uttered in clear, well-articulated tones, –Xiao Wu!–
With a startled cry, A-Wu scrambled out of the pit on all fours, his feet plunging into the sludge as rivulets of mud oozed between his toes.
Yang Zicang watched with a fond smile as the boy scurried over and crouched at his side.
–Long time no see, Xiao Wu.–
Yang Zicang ruffled the greasy, ink-black hair atop A-Wu’s head—after two years in this place, he had long ceased to mind such filth.
Following A-Wu’s lead, two or three middle-aged or elderly savages shuffled over—those were the survivors from that very team years ago.
Gazing upon these faces, so drastically transformed by time, a pang of sorrow still gnawed at Yang Zicang’s heart, even if this was but a dream.
To them, thirty or forty years marked the threshold of old age; the fierce young lads of seventeen or eighteen had long retreated to the peripheries, now grinding stones and gathering fruit in the tribe.
–I’m sorry. This is all my fault.–
A-Wu, of course, understood nothing of his words; he simply found the –incomprehensible one’s– voice—rising and falling in rhythm, crisp and multifaceted—utterly fascinating.
Affecting a gorilla-like stoop, A-Wu deliberately tugged at Yang Zicang’s hand, eager to lead him somewhere else.
Yang Zicang followed him with confusion, while the other barbarians clustered around and moved along. It seemed that A-wu still held some authority.
Before long, Yang Zicang arrived at a pile of stacked branches.
The shape of the stack resembled the bonfire he had built earlier.
A-wu looked at him expectantly, pointing at his own mouth and the burn scars on his body.
–You… fine. But these rain-soaked logs won’t catch fire. Come with me, Xiao-wu.–
For the next half day, Yang Zicang led the barbarians to search for relatively drier wood, drying the surface moisture under the sun.
He also gathered dry branches, dried grass, and water-drenched vegetation, planning to use them later as a comparison for starting a fire. Yang Zicang also split open a hard fruit resembling a gourd to use as a ladle, scooping water from the stream.
Along the way, the young man casually took down a passing creature akin to a wild buffalo with his bow and arrows, sending chills down the barbarians’ spines.
When the barbarians looked at the bent –firewood– on him again, they became utterly terrified.
As evening fell, a new pile of firewood was set up, with water prepared beside it, along with another pile of green grass.
Under the curious gaze of the wild people, Yang Zicang pulled a flint from his pocket.
He crouched down, first taking a small handful of dry grass, placing it before him, and striking the flint. The scattered sparks made the wild people cry out in alarm.
In just a few strikes, the dry grass caught fire.
Seeing fire again, A’wu and the other –middle-aged and elderly– wild people of the small tribe were both overjoyed and deeply fearful.
It burned out quickly.
–Eh? Ah? What’s this?– The crowd stared at him, utterly confused.
Gesturing with his hands, Yang Zicang pointed out the difference between dry grass and green grass, then demonstrated with the green grass—sparks flew but it wouldn’t ignite. After this failure, he took the dry grass again, and it burst into flames with a single strike.
–This is called ‘starting a fire,’ this is ‘dry,’ and this is ‘wet.’–
Yang Zicang repeated the sounds several times, but it was like casting pearls before swine.
Just as the small fire was about to die out again, Yang Zicang tossed in new kindling, and it flared up once more, a look of sudden understanding dawning on some of the younger wild people.
He then demonstrated with a wet branch—it took a while before it finally caught.
The firelight flickered on the faces of the crowd, and A’wu gazed at it in deep thought.
But in the next second, a crackling sound rang out.
A Wu jumped to the side, utterly horrified as he watched Yang Zicang’s actions.
He saw him splash the clean water from the gourd ladle onto the fire, extinguishing the small blaze in an instant.
–Ah! Eh? Yi?–
Yang Zicang pointed at the water, then at the fire, and it dawned on him: perhaps this being was angry again.
–It’s getting late. Tonight, let’s feast.–
The beast felled by the arrow couldn’t be left to waste. Yang Zicang took a half-arm-long, sharp rock knife from his waist and skillfully dissected the carcass, leaving the wild men stunned.
They had never seen anything so cleanly slice through flesh.
Every single thing on this mysterious being was a valuable treasure, and many savages looked at it with reverence.
The setting sun had completely vanished, and the blaze of the bonfire crackled and burned.
The night—a night fraught with countless perils. For these savages, each passing night over the long forgotten years was a dangerous world teeming with sudden attacks from wolves, tigers, and leopards, snatching away their frail lives.
But tonight was different.
The firelight danced across the cliff face and the distant forest’s edge. The aroma of roast meat seemed to carve out new pathways in their primitive minds; any wild beast that caught sight of the flame-wise instantly fled and kept far, far away.
At the sight of the reappearing flames, the few surviving barbarians who had once followed Awu recalled the terror of that year and dared not approach.
–Come, eat,– Yang Zicang said, pointing at the bonfire.
Hiding behind the elders for a long time, a childlike ape-man who had been sucking his fingers at the scent of roasted meat finally mustered the courage to step forward.
–This is—fire, fire.–
–Fyre.–
The child struggled to utter the word in a rough, unnatural accent.
Hearing that not-very-standard syllable, Yang Zicang nodded with a smile and handed a skewer of roasted meat toward the child.
Awu swallowed hard, watching the crowd before him.
In every moment, he longed for that bite of sweet potato from years ago.
Amid dozens of eyes full of mixed emotions, the slender little boy gulped, hesitantly examined Yang Zicang’s outstretched arm, and slowly extended his dark little hand to take it.
The boy sniffed it, tried to tear off a piece of meat with his teeth, and then his gaze froze, as if petrified.
The surrounding barbarians watched in tense anticipation. Two or three seconds later, the child let out a shriek, devouring the roasted meat wolfishly.
Before he had even finished chewing, the child had his eyes fixed intently on the other pieces of meat over the campfire, panting heavily, his gaze like that of a young tiger locking onto its prey.
Following his lead, more people stepped forward, struggling to utter the sound –fire.– Those who succeeded were rewarded with meat personally roasted by Yang Zicang.
Soon enough, the entire primitive tribe erupted into commotion, as if a monkey nest had been stirred. Yang Zicang, who had brought such –deliciousness,– was now worshipped by all, their yearning for more of this food insatiable.
Over the next few days, Yang Zicang taught these people how to make fire, grind stone knives, and roast meat.
They already knew how to use vines as ropes; their intelligence was not beyond hope. With someone guiding them step by step, some of them, especially the children, began to show talent, picking up simple skills.
–From now on, this is yours.–
Before leaving, Yang Zicang placed two flints into the rough palm of Awu, who was squatting in front of him.
The savages stared in disbelief, amazed that this magical being had given their tribesman the ability to create something that –illuminated the darkness.–
–Ah wqo!– –Xia ah hu!– –Xie mu.– –Wu wu!–
They imitated Yang Zicang’s pronunciation, dancing, singing, and chanting around him.
Ah Wu lowered his head to look at the stone in his hand, his mind still not yet reacting. When he raised his head again, the figure before him had vanished without a trace.
A few years later, Yang Zicang walked through the Gobi Desert, leaning on his staff, with a clay water jug dangling from it.
This clay water jug was not for himself, but for certain people here.
Whenever he encountered someone being chased by a giant desert centipede, running they knew not where, he would feed these primitive people who had lost their direction due to their flight a few mouthfuls of clear water from the jug to replenish their strength.
–There are no statues here, nor any ruins. Have I really come to the wrong dream?–
[How could I have doubted the strength of the royal court? How laughable.]
Yang Zicang shook his head helplessly.
Every time he wanted to awaken, this was how Moxel behaved.
–You won’t let me wake up, nor lead me to the lands of the statues. What is the point of conjuring such a vast dreamscape? Is it to showcase your divine marvels?–
Yang Zicang complained out of habit. Somehow, this had become his daily routine.
There was no response. He let out a sigh, sat down under the blazing sun, and stared at the mirage before him.
Amidst it, there was an oasis and the image of a flowing stream.
In this Gobi Desert, similar mirages often appear, and in those directions, one usually finds dry corpses drained of all moisture.
Anyone who believes there is food or water there will just wither and die.
–Hatta!–
A voice came from beside him.
Yang Zicang turned his head and saw a girl with a flushed face from the sun. She was holding a large green leaf over her head, and her body was lightly clothed with simple garments made of broad leaves.
Under such scorching sunlight, without something to shield the body, one would get sunburned.
Most of the primitive people here possessed such basic skills.
–It’s you. To think you followed me this far.–
Two days ago, when he escorted someone back to a primitive settlement, he had met this little bundle of energy.
At this moment, she gazed with wide, blinking eyes at the wooden staff Yang Zicang was leaning on, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on the clay pot water vessel hanging from it.
–You want it?–
Yang Zicang smiled as he took it down, shook it a little, and handed it to the child.
–Eh? For me?– She pointed at herself.
–I’m giving it to you. Be careful not to break it, though. It can’t withstand a fall.–
The child set her green leaf aside, picked up the water vessel sitting on the sand, and hugged it in her arms, giving it a good shake.
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