Wilderness Sprint, Misaligned Energy Aids the Journey Again

As the lightning flashed, Chen Wuya's palm twitched slightly. A wisp of residual lightning energy slid silently along the muddy ground, snaking several feet through the rainwater before exploding with a roar. Mud splashed up, as if someone had stumbled and fallen in the distance. The guard frowned, gripped his sword, and turned, striding quickly towards the sound.

The moment he stepped, Chen Wuya's right leg exerted force, and he sprang from the bushes like an arrow released from a bow. He didn't choose to go around, but charged straight for the edge of the forest, crushing wet branches underfoot and splashing muddy water. The guard heard the commotion and turned back, only to see a dark silhouette burst through the rain, moving too fast to be an injured person.

"He's here—!"

Before the roar even finished, Chen Wuya had leaped over the ditch. His body stumbled, and his left shoulder slammed heavily against a slanted tree trunk. Sharp pain shot up his arm to his forehead, but he didn't stop. He pushed off with his left hand, using the leverage to surge forward again. Rain blurred his vision, and the wound on his right arm tore open with the movement, blood mixing with the rain and streaming down. Yet, the misaligned energy within him began to change at this very moment.

Deep within his dantian, the dormant lightning serpent suddenly trembled, resonating faintly with the spot where the tattered pages were. A System voice appeared in his mind: [Detected complete operational trajectory of Canglang Art, misaligned energy fusion degree increased to 37%. Recommend reverse invocation of residual lightning tribulation power to optimize movement efficiency.]

He didn't have time to think, only knowing that any slower and he'd be caught. The terrain ahead dropped sharply, and a waterlogged depression lay before him, its surface covered with dead leaves and broken branches, its depth unclear. Normally, he would have carefully scouted the path, but now, he gritted his teeth and charged in.

His foot sank into the mud, and he lungled forward. But just as he was about to sink into the mud, he deliberately pressed his left foot down hard, slamming his entire weight into the mud pit. The misaligned energy erupted, pushing him forward like a wave lifting a boat. He rose half a foot into the air, and upon landing, his right foot tapped the ground and he was off again, skimming over the water's surface as if on a dash.

This footwork was chaotic, uneven, and jerky, yet incredibly fast. Every step looked like a fall, but he was pulled forward by some invisible force. His breathing was heavy, his lungs feeling like they were stuffed with sand, yet his legs grew lighter and lighter, as if it wasn't him running, but the misaligned energy propelling him forward.

The sound of pursuing footsteps behind him gradually faded.

He didn't look back, his gaze fixed firmly ahead. In his memory, Old Wu Tou's wrinkled face appeared—on the dirt slope outside the refugee camp, there was always an oil lamp, burning through the night. As long as he could see that light, it meant there was a place to catch his breath.

But his consciousness began to drift. The pain in his right arm came in waves, like iron hooks churning inside. He remembered the exam paper the Academy teacher had thrown at his face: "You copied the characters wrong, and you still think you can solve the problem?" Back then, he had looked down at the paper filled with red circles, but his mind had thought: If calculating it the normal way doesn't work, then I'll work backward.

It was the same now.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his gaze had changed. It wasn't despair, nor was it forced endurance, but a stubbornness that bordered on calm. He treated his body as a flawed problem, his injuries as conditions, and the impossible as the answer.

The misaligned energy circulated again. This time, he no longer suppressed the residual lightning and fire; instead, he actively guided it into his damaged meridians. Most people would never dare to do this—true energy flowing backward was already dangerous, let alone electrified energy? But he knew that the rules of Misaligned Practice Connects to Spirit were never about "safety," but about "reasonableness."

Even if this reasonableness was something only a madman would do in the eyes of others.

A searing heat surged down from his shoulder, coursing through his arm to his fingertips. He grunted, his knees buckling, almost falling to his knees. But the next instant, that power flowed back along the meridians of his legs, converging in his lower limbs. His speed suddenly increased!

He was like a beast running wild in the downpour, his body leaping and bounding through the mud. Every landing sent up a sheet of water. He kicked through the puddles in the low-lying areas, scattering water everywhere, and vaulted over areas strewn with broken wood with bizarre agility. Several times, he looked like he was about to fall, so he simply rolled forward, the misaligned energy rebounding upon contact with the ground, turning a fall into a leap and widening the distance.

System notifications flashed continuously:

[Misaligned energy fusion degree 41%]

[Unconventional exertion mode recorded]

[Recommend sustained output to form inertial path]

He ignored them, focusing only on the rhythm beneath his feet. Left step, right spring, forward lunge, slight lean—these actions, originally independent, were now connected by the misaligned energy into a unique method of assault. It was as if all the mistakes were pieced together, and in doing so, a new path was forged.

The sky remained overcast, and the rain showed no sign of letting up. The distant mountain ridge was faintly visible, and the edge of the forest finally appeared. He sprinted up the last slope, his steps finally slowing.

Ahead lay an open area, with scattered low tents and wisps of cooking smoke struggling to rise in the rain before being blown away by the wind. The camp's perimeter was marked with sharpened wooden stakes, some of which were tilted or broken. Further away, the familiar oil lamp was indeed still lit, flickering unsteadily in the gray, misty rain.

Ten miles away, perhaps less.

He leaned against a partially buried stone tablet, gasping for breath, his right hand supporting him on the ground, his knuckles trembling slightly from excessive force. His clothes were soaked through, clinging to him, chilling him to the bone. The cloth strip on his right arm was soaked with blood, its color darkened, and every heartbeat brought a dull ache.

But his eyes were bright.

Not because he saw the camp, but because he clearly sensed that a transformation was occurring within his misaligned energy. It was no longer just a desperate trick, nor a means to barely maintain his actions, but had truly become the strength supporting his forward momentum.

He raised his left hand, watching the rainwater slide off his fingertips. Then, he slowly clenched his fist, and the misaligned energy condensed in his palm, weak but stable.

"So..." he murmured, "getting injured can also become an advantage."

As the words fell, he took a deep breath, preparing to get up and continue forward, when he suddenly sensed something unusual.

A faint vibration came from the ground, like someone running in the distance, but the rhythm was wrong. It wasn't the hurried footsteps of pursuers, but a slow, regular movement accompanied by the sound of metal friction. It sounded like gears engaging when a mechanism is activated.

He frowned and looked towards the outer perimeter of the camp. As far as he could see, a previously fallen wooden stake was slowly rising, a bronze bell tied to its tip gently swaying. Immediately after, at the bottom of a collapsed trench nearby, the soil loosened, revealing half a section of iron chain.

These were not natural formations.

He remembered Old Wu Tou saying that after the refugee camp was attacked in its early years, several defensive mechanisms were set up, but most had fallen into disrepair over the years and were destroyed. But now, it seemed someone had tampered with them.

And not repaired, but reconfigured.

He stared at the iron chain, suddenly realizing something. All the way here, he had only been focused on escaping, neglecting the most crucial question—why did the Qingfeng disciples only send one person to track him? The other one clearly said he was going to "send a message back," but if they truly intended to capture him, why had no reinforcements arrived yet?

Unless...

They never intended to capture him.

But to lure him to a specific location.

He looked up sharply, towards the depths of the camp. The oil lamp was still lit, but at the edge of its halo, there seemed to be a shadow that shouldn't be there—not a human silhouette, but a strangely shaped device mounted between two tents, resembling a crossbow or some kind of trigger trap.

The rain was still falling.

He stood on the dirt slope, wet and cold, his right arm bleeding, his breathing still uneven. But at this moment, he didn't move forward, nor did he retreat.

Instead, he slowly crouched down, placing his palm on the muddy ground.

The misaligned energy sank into the earth, extending outwards in the direction the rainwater permeated. Ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet... until it touched the first hidden mechanism node.

The thing was buried deep, its structure complex, clearly not part of the original design of the refugee camp.

He withdrew his hand, wiped the rain from his face, and his eyes gradually grew cold.

"You want me to walk in?" he said softly. "Then let's see who's waiting for whom."

He pushed himself up, not towards the main entrance of the camp, but along a small path overgrown with wild grass on the side of the slope, quietly closing in.