The mountain road is rugged and shrouded in smoke, and the rice fields spread out like a mirror, hiding the sound of the river. Ju Fufu does not belong to such a field, but her figure unexpectedly looks natural here. Just like the “popcorn pot”, it is out of place but still alive. To find a way to survive in the wilderness, people always think of that wisp of fire, even if it sways, it will light up the eyes.
Her “normal attack” is to step on the ridge of the field one by one, stepping on the mud and staining her shoes, but every step is steady. She is not a knight wielding a long sword, but just holding the pot, staggering but holding on. You see her standing by the rice field, the light shines through the gap in the pot lid, and a little firelight flickers. That calmness is the kung fu practiced in the countryside.
Her “dodge” is not the graceful sword dance in the castle, but using her body to block the flying sand in the biting cold wind, and still being able to turn around on the straw braids. This kind of dodge is the perception of life and the reaction to the present, which teaches her how to find her place in the chaos. Wild dogs bark and sparrows fly away in panic, but she can keep her brows straight.
Her special skills are like the old well in the village. At first glance, it doesn’t look powerful, but as long as you interact with the well water, you will find that it is a bottomless power. She uses the pot to raise the heat and cuts a knife in the heat, not to kill the enemy, but to destroy the fear and indifference in her heart.
The joint skills are not a joke, it is the simplest and most primitive cooperation between heaven and earth-the pot touches the ground, and the flames rise. It is a reverence for the land and a call to the heart. The flame is not a thing, but a resonance: you light the pot, I catch the fire, and I pass it on. It is the most like the friendship of crickets singing in unison in the straw pile.
Her finishing move, two falling attacks, is like late autumn rice bending over and having no more strength. The pot hits the ground, the soil rolls up, the sparks are like moths flying into the fire, and like insects chirping at night. At that moment, she is not hot, but sober, acknowledging the true nature of life – even if it is heavy, it must land with a sound.
And in the support skills, she will appear when others are the weakest. The adult fell into the ditch, and she appeared behind him. Her hands holding the pot were soaked in mud and water, but she walked over step by step and helped the man up without saying a word. That is the so-called “big fire is hot”, not to return, but instinctively like the land, nurturing everything and taking responsibility for everything.
Her core skill makes the pot attack automatically, as if she has planted hope in the field, and even if she leaves, there is residual warmth. After she leaves, the fire in the pot continues to fight against termites, waterlogging, and invisible erosion. That is her shadow, left on the land.
The addition in the imagery is like the story told by the old man in the village meeting, plain but with awe. With one button, the finishing move breaks through; with one push, the persistence of years and years has a qualitative leap. Her light and heat infect the surroundings, allowing her companions’ finishing moves to have a farther voice.
The story of Ju Fufu is the most common scenery in the village: not gorgeous, but real. She uses fire, pots, and the heat in the ruins to resist flying sand and rocks, cold rain, frost and snow. Her firelight is reflected in the dusk, bringing out the faint fragrance of the straw barn.
You asked her why? She didn’t answer. But you can see that what she said was: “My pot can be a torch, and my fire can illuminate you.” When people’s hearts are trapped and the land is scorched, this kind of power is not high-profile, but it makes people feel at ease.
Her life, like crops in the wild, can survive in fire and frost. Even if there is no harvest, there is persistence to grow roots. Ju Fufu is not a hero, she is just alive, with dignity, temperature, and heat. Her flame is like the smoke at dusk in the countryside, ethereal but real; like the wild flowers left in the rice fields, silent but stubborn.
In the city, the pot may be sold to the exhibition hall; on the battlefield, she may be an unknown behind-the-scenes person. But here, she is the child of the land and the guardian of fire. She uses her skills and flames to connect the land and people’s hearts, hope and reality, and wilderness and home.
Between fire and land, her tenacity is like the most stubborn crops in the wild. She can become the warmth of the day without making a debut. She can leave a light on the loess without making a high-profile appearance.