Before the Refugee Camp, Encountering Mechanical Traps Again

Rainwater dripped down Chen Wuya's fingers, the sensation of his palm against the muddy ground still vivid. He could feel the direction of the iron cables underground, spreading out like a spiderweb, each node hiding a killing intent. The misaligned energy flowed slowly through his meridians, no longer frantic, but instead steady and sharp, as if it could burrow deeper through the cracks in the soil.

Three pressure points, two tripwire mechanisms, the main shaft buried deepest, clearly intended to force people down the middle. But the more obvious the path, the less one should touch it.

He slowly withdrew his hand, fingertips stained with wet mud, and wiped them on his trousers. The wound on his right arm was still bleeding, but he couldn't tend to it now. He stared at the small path ahead, half-hidden by weeds—the way Old Wu Tou usually entered. The ground there was slightly higher, with less standing water, and the direction the grass blades lay was different from elsewhere, as if often trampled.

This was the path.

He pushed himself up, his movements gentle, not stepping immediately. He first lightly tapped the mud surface ahead with the tip of his left foot. The ground sank slightly but triggered no unusual sound. Moving forward another half-foot, he tested it again. One step at a time, as if measuring the distance between life and death.

Approaching the first flipping trapdoor, the mud underfoot became noticeably soft. He remembered the Academy teacher saying, "If your center of gravity doesn't shift, your body won't tilt," but now, he had to do the opposite. He pulled in his waist and back, shifting his weight backward, his left foot dragging along the ground and sliding out, his sole grazing the mud and cutting diagonally, like sand being carried away by the current during low tide, leaving no trace.

His body tilted, almost falling, but at the instant he was about to trigger the mechanism, he shed all his weight. He used the misaligned energy within his body to turn, guiding the force to the left. His right foot lightly touched a half-buried stone slab to the side, and with a gentle leap, he was over the edge of the pit.

He landed without a sound.

The second was a tripwire with hanging bells. Copper bells hung from the top of a broken wooden stake, swaying gently in the wind. The iron wire below was almost level with the ground; if not for a careful look, it would be easily missed. He crouched down and took a small stone from his bosom. With a flick of his knuckles, the stone flew towards an open space ahead.

The bells rang out loudly.

The instant the sound exploded, he had already lowered his body and rolled into the grass to his right, sliding several feet forward to avoid any potential blind spots. The grass blades cut across his cheek, carrying the coolness of the rain. Only when the ringing stopped and silence returned to the surroundings did he slowly raise his head, his gaze sweeping over the campsite entrance.

A few dilapidated tents were scattered around, some patched with oilcloth, others propped up with branches. The outer wooden stakes were askew, the trenches collapsed, giving a look of utter ruin. But he knew that beneath this surface desolation lay new dangers.

He stood up, patted the mud and water off his shoulders, deliberately making some noise, and even heavying his footsteps. Just as he reached the inside of the camp gate, a cough came from behind him.

Turning around, he saw a thin, old man leaning on a jujube wood staff standing in front of the nearest tent. His gray-white hair was plastered to his temples, his face a network of wrinkles, but his eyes were not as cloudy as those of an ordinary elder; instead, they held an indescribable clarity.

They looked at each other for a moment.

Chen Wuya smiled, raising his hand to wipe the rain from his face. "This damned weather, I almost fell into a pit."

Old Wu Tou didn't reply. His gaze fell on the ground Chen Wuya had just passed. His lips moved, and he murmured, "The way you walked... was cleverly crooked."

Chen Wuya's heart tightened, but his expression remained unchanged. He scratched his head. "Grandpa, what are you talking about? I was just walking randomly. After falling so many times, I naturally learned how not to fall."

Old Wu Tou narrowed his eyes and sized him up for a while before suddenly nodding. "Anyone who can reach here alive is no ordinary person." With that, he turned and walked inward, his steps steady and unhurried.

After a few steps, he stopped again, speaking with his back to Chen Wuya, "The third tent from the east is empty. If you want to stay, go in yourself."

As the words fell, he disappeared into the rain.

Chen Wuya stood in place, not moving immediately. He gazed in the direction Old Wu Tou had left, his fingers unconsciously stroking the blue cloth belt at his waist. That footwork was something he had learned in the alleys of the marketplace when he skipped school years ago. It was called the "Universe Reversal Step," and it was essentially piecing together all the uncoordinated movements and forcefully linking them with misaligned energy, forming a strange yet effective way of moving. Even he couldn't explain the principle, only feeling that the more awkward it was, the better he could avoid danger.

But with that one glance, Old Wu Tou had seen too clearly.

He shook his head, no longer thinking about it, and walked towards the east end. The third tent stood alone in a corner, with firewood piled next to it. The door curtain was a darkened piece of burlap, making a slight tearing sound as he lifted it.

Inside, there was only a low bed and a broken pottery jar. In the corner, there was a chipped earthenware lamp. He walked in and lowered the curtain, shutting out the wind and rain. The air smelled musty, mixed with the scent of dry grass, not pleasant, but at least it offered shelter from the elements.

He sat down by the edge of the bed, and the pain in his right arm truly surged then. He untied the cloth strip and saw that the wound had turned red, the edges slightly swollen. He rummaged through his pack for a small porcelain bottle, poured some pale yellow powder onto the wound, and re-bandaged it.

The misaligned energy circulated slowly within his body. The electric snake deep in his dantian was still dormant, but it was much more stable than before. The System hadn't given any notifications, but he could feel the changes brought by the lightning tribulation gradually integrating. With every breath, his meridians felt as if they were being reorganized; even with the injury, they were more open than before.

He closed his eyes to regulate his breathing for a moment, then suddenly heard movement outside.

Not footsteps, but a faint metallic scraping sound, extremely subtle, which he would have barely noticed if he weren't so highly concentrated at the moment. He opened his eyes and stared at the gap in the tent door.

A shadow flickered past.

It wasn't a human silhouette, but a strangely shaped device set up between two tents. A horizontal bar extended out, with a piece of black iron hanging from its end, pressing down on a taut line that led to somewhere on the ground. He recognized the structure—it was a modified crossbow trigger. Once someone stepped on the tripwire, the iron block would fall, pulling the mechanism and firing a hidden arrow.

And there was more than one.

He had witnessed Mo Feng's mechanical skills when he was in the ruined temple. Although these were not as exquisite as his, the arrangement was more patient, as if designed for someone to walk right into it step by step.

Who was it?

A Qingfeng disciple? Or someone else?

He remembered Old Wu Tou's words earlier, "Anyone who can reach here alive is no ordinary person." The tone wasn't one of praise, but more like confirmation of something.

He stood up, walked to the door, and gently lifted a seam. The rain had lessened slightly, and the campsite was still quiet, with only smoke rising from a few cooking stoves, twisting and dissipating in the cold, damp air. A few people who looked like refugees were huddled in front of their tents, heads bowed as they gnawed on coarse grain cakes, no one speaking.

Everything seemed ordinary.

But he knew some things couldn't be hidden.

Like the iron wire that shouldn't have been there, like the crossbow positioned at a tricky angle, like the look in Old Wu Tou's eyes.

He retreated back inside, sat down cross-legged, placed his hands on his knees, and slowly sank his internal energy into his dantian. He couldn't act rashly now, nor could he reveal that he had already noticed the anomaly. He needed time, and he needed an identity.

At least here in this camp, he needed to survive first.

The rain outside continued to fall, pattering against the tent roof.

He suddenly thought that he had been fleeing for his life, hunted, accidentally learned a miraculous skill, and now even walking required calculating traps. Was it ridiculous? Perhaps.

But he had survived.

And he was increasingly understanding one thing: a path that others considered wrong might not necessarily be impassable.

As long as one walked crookedly enough, to the extreme, it could become the only path to survival.

He opened his eyes and looked at the earthenware lamp in the corner.

The wick was almost extinguished, the flame flickering, casting a trembling crack on the wall.

He reached out, picked up the pottery jar, poured out half a bowl of clear water, and slowly took a sip. The water was a bit bitter, with a muddy taste, but he drank it steadily.

Then he put down the bowl and closed his eyes again.

The misaligned energy circulated silently in his meridians, along the new paths opened by the lightning tribulation, one circle, then another.

Outside the door, the sound of the rain gradually subsided.