Chapter 38: Spirit-Willed Mail to the Post Emblem World-3

Yang Zicang looked down at his calloused hands and the flint they held.
Despite a full decade having passed, even with his speed enhancement, he had personally experienced nearly two years of it.
A complete failure!
Yang Zicang let out a sigh, resigned to giving up and leaving.
Before returning to the real world, he wanted to go back and visit the small tribal group he had first encountered years ago.
[I will initiate time acceleration to reach a point half a month from now.]
[I have consumed 15 R.]
……
The jungle after the rain was especially verdant.
Yang Zicang, leaning on a long spear-staff, emerged from the woods, which had grown slightly lusher.
The wild tribesmen were hiding in the recesses of a rock face in the distance, some grooming the hair on their bodies, others pounding stones with wooden mallets to craft relatively convenient rock tools. The moment they spotted someone appear, they suddenly stirred with commotion, but instantly, a voice cowed them into submission.
A slightly aged, burly wild tribesman stood up, hesitantly craning his neck to look at Yang Zicang.
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, hmm hmm!”
Several wild men hung their arms and half-squatted beside this upright, peering figure.
Looking at the patchy deep and light-colored fur, a smile spread across Yang Zicang’s face as he stated clearly and articulately:
“Xiao Wu!”
A Wu let out a loud cry, tumbling and scrambling out of the pit, his feet sinking into the mud, mud spurting up between his toes.
Yang Zicang wore a smile as he watched him run over and crouch down beside him.
“Long time no see, Xiao Wu.”
Yang Zicang touched the dark, greasy hair on his head, studying these faces that had changed so much. For them, being in one’s thirties or forties was already old. The robust young men who were seventeen or eighteen back then had now stepped back from the front line, spending their days in the clan grinding stones or gathering fruits.
“I’m sorry, it was my fault.”
Of course, A Wu couldn’t understand what he was saying; he merely found it amazing that the “unfathomable one’s” voice rose and fell with varied tones, clear and diverse.
A Wu, deliberately like an ape, half-squatted and took Yang Zicang’s hand. Yang Zicang followed him in confusion, while the other wild men gathered around and moved along as well. It seemed A Wu still commanded some authority.
Before long, Yang Zicang came to a pile of stacked branches.
The way it was arranged was just like the bonfire he had started back then.
A Wu looked at him expectantly, pointing with his finger toward his own mouth, and then at the burn scars on his body.
“You want to learn to make fire?”
Yang Zicang’s heart felt as if something had struck it.
“But these rain-soaked logs won’t ignite. Follow me, Xiao Wu.”
For the remainder of the half-day, he led the savages in gathering dry wood, fetched water from the stream using a gourd ladle, and even dissected a chance encounter with a wild ox using a stone knife. When sparks finally ignited the hay, the elders among the savages expressed a mix of fear and anticipation, while the younger generation recoiled in pure terror, stepping back.
“This is what we call ‘making fire’; this is ‘dry,’ and this is ‘wet.’”
Yang Zi Cang gestured with his hands, pointing out the difference between dry hay and green grass, performing a demonstration.
The firelight flickered on everyone’s faces, and A Wu stared at it contemplatively. Suddenly, with a “pop,” a ladle of water doused the flames.
A Wu leaped aside, startled and wide-eyed at Zang Cang’s action.
“Ah, hey, eh?”
Yang Zi Cang pointed at the water, then at the fire, and he finally understood—whether this being might be angry again.
“It’s getting late; tonight, we’ll feast.”
The beast dissected in the afternoon couldn’t be left behind, wasting it. Yang Zi Cang dissected it right before their eyes, leaving all the other savages utterly dumbfounded.
The sun sank completely below the horizon, as the fire crackled and burned.
Night—a night that hides countless dangers. Every night for the long, centuries-long history has been a dangerous world, where, for these primitive people, wolves and tigers could emerge at any time, stealing away their fragile lives.
But not tonight—tonight is different.
The firelight reflected off the mountain walls and the edge of the distant forest; the sight of the flames sent any passing beasts scurrying far away.
At the reappearance of the fire, the few surviving members of the group that had once followed A Wu dared not come any closer. Yet the aroma of the roasting meat seemed to unlock a new region in their brains, making it impossible to resist its temptation.
“Come and eat,” Yang Zicang said, pointing to the bonfire.
Hiding behind the elders for some time, a childlike ape, licking his fingers as he smelled the meat, finally gathered the courage to step forward.
“Call it fire. Fire.”
“Vire,” the child managed, his voice labored with a rough accent.
Hearing the slightly imperfect pronunciation, Yang Zicang smiled and nodded, then passed a roasted skewer of meat to the child.
A Wu swallowed his saliva as he gazed at the “divine man” ahead.
He never stopped yearning for that taste of sweet potato from years ago.
Under the focus of dozens of pair of eyes, filled with myriad emotions, the slender young boy, swallowing saliva, hesitantly stared at the skewer held by Yang Zicang before slowly stretching out his dark little hand to take it.
The boy sniffed it, then attempted to tear off a piece of meat with his teeth—only to freeze in place, as if turned to stone.
The surrounding savages watched nervously. Two or three seconds later, the child let out a howl and wolfed down the roasted meat into his mouth. Before finishing chewing, the boy stared intently at the other pieces of meat on the campfire, gasping heavily, his eyes like that of a little tiger locking onto its target.
With an example set, more people stepped forward. They painstakingly tried to pronounce the word “fire.” As long as they succeeded, they were rewarded with meat personally roasted by Yang Zicang.
Before long, everyone in the entire primitive tribe started jumping around as if a monkey nest had been disturbed.
Yang Zicang, who had brought such “deliciousness,” was now worshipped by the crowd. They desperately wanted more of this kind of food.
……
Over the next few days, Yang Zicang patiently taught these people how to make fire, sharpen stone knives, and roast meat.
They already knew how to use vines as ropes, so their intelligence wasn’t entirely hopeless. With someone guiding them hand by hand, some among them finally began to show talent—especially the children, who picked up simple skills quickly.
“From now on, this is for you.”
Before leaving, Yang Zicang placed two flints into the rough palms of A Wu, who crouched in front of him.
The savages stared in disbelief at this scene—this incredible man had given their fellow clan member something that could produce “the light that illuminates the dark.”
“Ah hoo!” “Sha hur!” “See muh!” “Wu wuh!”
They imitated Yang Zicang’s pronunciation, shouting and dancing around him.
A Wu looked down at the stones in his hand, his brain slow to react. When he lifted his head again, the figure before him had vanished, just like that unforgettable night.
A few years later, YangZicang, leaning on a staff and with a water jug dangling by his side, walked through the Gobi Desert.
This clay water jug was not for himself—whenever he encountered people fleeing from giant desert centipedes and losing their way, he would feed them a few mouthfuls of clear water from the jug to replenish their strength.
Before him stretched an endless expanse of yellow sand.
“There are no statues or ruins here either. Have I truly come to the wrong dream?”
[I actually doubted the power of the royal court—the very thought is laughable.]
YangZicang shook his head in speech disbelief.
Every time he tried to wake up, the model would behave like this.
“You won’t let me wake, but you also won’t take me to the place of statues. Why create such a vast dream if not to show off your wondrous might?”
“Hata!”
A voice came from beside him.
YangZicang turned to look and saw a little girl with green leaves on her head.
“It’s you—you’ve followed me all this way. What an energetic little one you are.”
Her small face was flushed red from the sun as she stared intently at the water jug hung on the wooden staff.
“Want some?”
YangZicang smiled, took it off, swished it around a bit, and handed it to the child.
“Eh? A-me?” She pointed at herself.
“It’s a gift for you. Be careful not to break it, though—it won’t survive a drop.”
The child set the green leaf aside, picked up the water pot on the sand pile, and shook it while holding it.
After Yang Zicang reached over and removed the cork cap, the child quickly peered into the opening with one eye, tilting the water pot up as if hoping the sunlight could help see the inside more clearly.
Then the first mouthful was drunk by her eyes.
“Wa-wah!”
The child was astonished.
“A-mo, a-yo wa.”
Pointing at the magical gourd-shaped pottery pot in her arms, the child spoke with disbelief.
“You’re pretty polite, you know, little brat.”
Yang Zicang rubbed her head: “Go ahead, take it. Uncle said I’m giving it to you, so it’s for you.”
After saying this, he stood up—tall and straight—and walked forward. The other party might not understand his words, but she would definitely catch the gesture.
The child looked at the water pot, then at Yang Zicang, trailing behind with a few more “ah-ya-ya” sounds before clutching the pot and, with the green leaf on her head, scampered off into the distance.
Suddenly, there was a crack—a smack.
Yang Zicang turned his head to look. The child—whether from too much excitement, or the hot sand being too slick and uneven—had fallen to the ground. The clay water pot was shattered into many pieces. The remaining clean water seeped quickly into the sand and vanished.
The child paused for a moment, then burst into loud, wailing sobs.
In the middle of the desert, to have obtained such a peculiar water container—this was a treasure never seen before—but she had screwed it up.
Far away, Yang Zicang watched her with a smile, arms folded, as the child continued crying for several minutes. “Ah, forget it. Looks like I’ll have to start a pottery class.”