Wanli Furnace

In the 20th year of Jiajing's reign, there was an extra stove in Nanjing. Not a wood-burning stove. It's cannibalistic. People who practice martial arts practice until their Qi cores are mature, and then they are harvested and refined into the emperor's elixir of immortality. There were seventy-two listeners on the Qinhuai River—those women who played the piano and performed arts. None of them could escape. My mother is the 72nd. My father starved himself to death with chronic poison so that I could be removed from the list. I was twelve years old that year. My name is Gu Jianshen. A scoundrel who squatted on the threshold of a teahouse and turned coins around. Master taught me to transform Qi, not to gather Qi but to disperse it. Others gather their energy and wait to be harvested, but I scatter it into the wind so that the stove cannot catch me. But the stove is bigger than I thought. Nanjing is the mouth of the kitchen, Jiangnan is the grain road, and the capital is the alchemy room. The mountains and rivers of the Ming Dynasty were full of stoves. They thought I was Chai. They say the seal is harder than a fist. Later I understood - there are rules. There is wind in the cracks. I'll just borrow that gust of wind. This book will start from Nanjing and pass through Jiangnan, northwest, Beijing, and Wudang. The young man plays chess and lives towards death. A game of chess can be played across thousands of miles of mountains and rivers. The bet is—— Can the furnace in this world be blown out by a gust of wind?