Back Alley Pursuit, Qingfeng Pursuers Again

The teacup was placed on the table, a faint water ring around its edge. The moment Chen Wuya's fingertips left the rim, he felt a subtle tremor spread from his wrist to his shoulder—the lingering aftershock of overusing his misaligned energy. It felt like a stream washing over a long-parched, cracked riverbed, smooth yet faintly numb.

He calmly closed his five fingers, pressing his palm downwards on the corner of the table, using the pretense of blowing on his tea to suppress the surging energy within him. As the heat rose to his cheeks, his eyes had already swept across the street opposite.

The space under the eaves was empty.

The black shadow had retreated extremely quickly just moments ago, but the rhythm of its landing had betrayed it—light, steady, leaning forward with the back leg bearing less weight, clearly the technique of a sword cultivator moving stealthily. More importantly, the left foot had hesitated slightly upon landing, while the right foot exerted force. It was exactly the same as the Qingfeng disciple whose shoulder blade he had injured in the village that day.

The tattered page in his sleeve grew hot again, pressing against his skin as if a reminder.

He lowered his head and took a sip of tea, the bitterness rushing straight down his throat. He then stood up, coins lightly tapping the tabletop, just enough to pay the bill.

The street had become a bit quieter; the onlookers from earlier had mostly dispersed, leaving only a few vendors peeking out from behind their stalls. Chen Wuya walked slowly, his cloth shoes stepping on the bluestone slabs at an unhurried pace. He even stopped midway to look at an old man's stall selling herbs, casually popping a dried date into his mouth.

After walking about ten steps, he turned into a narrow alley.

The alley was winding, with piles of firewood baskets, broken pottery jars, and half-rotted logs on both sides, barely wide enough for one person to pass sideways. He deliberately slowed his pace, pausing for a moment at a fork, as if to get his bearings, but in reality, his ears twitched, listening to the rhythmic footsteps behind him, about ten steps away, trying hard to suppress them.

They're here.

The person was following too closely, not even fully concealing their breathing. As the corner of their robe brushed past the alley entrance, a flash of moon-white disappeared—the color of robes worn only by inner disciples of the Qingfeng Sect.

Chen Wuya's lips curled upwards, and he suddenly quickened his pace deeper into the alley. When he reached the third bend, he abruptly spun around, his feet executing the reverse motion of the "Canglang Misstep." He retreated like a boat sailing against the current, one step, two steps, three steps, each one landing on a beat outside the other's prediction.

Before the black shadow could react, a smiling face loomed before them.

"Is your left shoulder still hurting?" Chen Wuya asked, his voice not loud, but each word clear. "You fled too hastily last night, I didn't even get a chance to tell you—when practicing 'Tianshu Qi Induction,' don't press on the injured spot with your right hand. The more you press, the more it gets blocked."

The person's pupils constricted, and they instinctively took half a step back, only to be blocked by the pile of firewood behind them.

Moonlight sliced in diagonally, illuminating his face: young, with high cheekbones, a fierce gaze, and an unremoved bandage wrapped around his left shoulder. It was precisely the disciple who had failed his sneak attack in the village last night and fled.

"You dare to come back?" the other person gritted out, their hand already on their sword hilt.

"I shouldn't come back?" Chen Wuya tilted his head. "You've been chasing me all this way, shouldn't I at least ask why? Do you really think I'm a thief who stole your scriptures?"

"You hold tattered pages, misinterpret cultivation methods, and mislead the common folk. This is treason!" the person said sternly. "If I don't retrieve the tattered scroll today, how can I report to the Sect Master!"

"Report?" Chen Wuya laughed. "Does your Sect Master know you came down the mountain privately to abduct someone? Do you know you trespassed into the village at night and ganged up on people?"

The other person was speechless, their face turning ashen.

In this moment of tense stalemate, the sound of robes breaking through the air came from both sides of the alley entrance almost simultaneously.

One person leaped onto the low wall from the left, a long sword blocking the exit horizontally; another person emerged from behind a pile of junk on the right, crouching like a leopard, sealing off any escape route.

Chen Wuya's peripheral vision swept over them, his heart sinking slightly.

These two had steady breaths and condensed footwork. The swords at their waists were of ancient design, and the knotting of their sword tassels was different from Lin Xiao's and Xie Yun's. They were clearly inner disciples of a higher generation. Especially the one on the wall, his sword not yet drawn, yet a chilling aura already pressed down.

"Senior Brother Zhao," the injured person at the end of the alley breathed a sigh of relief, cupping his fist and murmuring.

The man on the wall nodded slightly, but his gaze remained locked on Chen Wuya. "Is it him?"

"It is," the injured person gritted out. "He injured our fellow disciple in the village last night and set a trap here to counter us today."

"Set a trap?" Chen Wuya spread his hands. "I'm standing here talking, and you ran into me yourself. On the other hand, the three of you, attacking from front and back, cornering someone in a dead-end alley, doesn't sound like the Qingfeng Sect's style if word gets out."

"Stop with your clever words," the man on the wall said coldly. "Hand over the tattered pages of the Canglang Art, abolish the evil techniques you've learned, and you can keep your life."

"Evil techniques?" Chen Wuya shook his head. "You practice the orthodox way, I practice a deviant path. But you can't hit me, yet I can knock away your swords—do you call this evil, or are you just too rigid?"

"Shut up!" the injured person roared, drawing his sword to attack.

"Stand down," the man on the wall raised his hand to stop him. "This person is strange; do not engage rashly."

The other person, crouching to the side, had remained silent. They slowly drew half a blade, the surface reflecting the faint light, revealing a blue pattern.

Chen Wuya slowly flexed his wrists, channeling his coiled energy from his dantian into his limbs, his fingertips growing slightly warm. He knew this battle was unavoidable.

But he had no intention of avoiding it.

"It's good that the three of you are coming at once," he took half a step forward, his blue sash fluttering in the wind blowing through the alley. "It saves me from having to find you one by one and ask—why is a fragmented cultivation method making you all go mad like this?"

"You're seeking death!" the injured person could no longer hold back, his sword light erupting, thrusting directly at Chen Wuya's throat.

Chen Wuya advanced instead of retreating, sliding into a misstep and moving directly towards the sword tip along the center line. The opponent's wrist flicked, changing the thrust to a slash, the blade grazing Chen Wuya's neck.

At the critical moment, he suddenly raised his left hand, fingers spread, palm facing the sword's spine, and his misaligned energy erupted fiercely.

With a dull "clang," the sword body vibrated violently, being deflected by several inches by a strange force.

The injured person's tiger's mouth ached intensely, almost losing his grip on the sword hilt.

At this moment, the man on the wall finally moved.

He leaped down, his long sword unsheathed by three inches, sword energy like frost spreading across the ground. Simultaneously, the crouching person lunged forward, their sword tip angling upwards from below towards Chen Wuya's ribs.

Two killing intents intertwined, sealing off all escape routes.

Chen Wuya's feet planted firmly, channeling his misaligned energy into his legs. His body suddenly sank, completing an almost contorted twist in the narrow space—his shoulder moved first, then his hip shifted back, his entire body like a tightened rope suddenly released.

The sword light grazed past him.

Using the momentum, he spun, his right palm cutting towards the wrist of the injured person holding the sword. Before the edge of his palm even arrived, his misaligned energy had already penetrated the other's body.

The person's arm went limp, and the sword almost flew out of their hand.

But at this very moment, the man on the wall's sword was finally fully drawn.

The green light surged, and before the sword's momentum even arrived, the biting cold already stung Chen Wuya's face.

Chen Wuya's pupils constricted. The misaligned energy instantly flowed back into his dantian, preparing to take the blow head-on.

However, the anticipated heavy impact never came.

The sword stopped in mid-air, no more than three inches from his chest.

The man holding the sword frowned, staring into his eyes, and suddenly asked in a low voice, "You... you haven't practiced the Canglang Art at all?"

Chen Wuya froze.

"The orthodox method enters from the Shaoyang meridian to the Jueyin, but you're going against the Taiyin to the Yangming," the man's voice deepened slightly. "This isn't a mispractice, it's completely reversed."

"So what if it's reversed?" Chen Wuya sneered. "As long as I can move, it's a path to survival."

"Absurd!" the crouching figure roared, swinging his sword again.

This time, the three no longer held back.

Sword shadows intertwined, cold light wove a net, and three figures trapped him firmly in the center of the alley. With every block, the misaligned energy reverberated and rebounded within his body, his arms growing numb.

Chen Wuya leaned against the broken wall, taking a breath. He watched the three reposition themselves—a pincer attack from the front, left, and right, leaving no blind spots.

He suddenly smiled.

"Have you ever had your fortune told?" he asked softly.

The three were taken aback.

"I said, you guys—" He raised his palm, the misaligned energy swirling in his palm with a faint crackling sound, "—believe it or not, I can predict which one of you will strike first?"