Settling In Camp, Foreign Race Spies Hidden Within

Rain dripped from the edge of the tent, forming small puddles on the muddy ground. Chen Wuya opened his eyes. The wound on his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but a dull ache still pulsed beneath his ribs with every breath, like being crushed by a blunt object. He slowly sat up. The misaligned energy circulated through his meridians, much more stable than the night before.

He lifted the tent flap and stepped outside. Dawn was just breaking, and a few wisps of cooking smoke were already rising from the camp. Several refugees squatted by the stove, boiling water with slow movements and listless expressions. He stood at the entrance, took a deep breath, and walked towards the well.

The well rope was rough, and the wooden bucket was heavy. After pulling a few times with one hand, his right arm went numb. He switched to his left, pulling up a bucket of water and pouring it into a wooden basin nearby. An old woman standing next to him glanced at him and said in a dry voice, "Thank you."

He didn't respond, only nodded, and went to chop firewood. The axe was dull, and the wood was wet and heavy. After a few swings, blisters broke on his palms. He gritted his teeth and continued until a neat pile of firewood was stacked.

After finishing, he sat down under a shed, leaning against a pillar to catch his breath. Just then, Old Wu Tou approached, leaning on his cane. His steps were still steady as he stopped in front of Chen Wuya. His gaze swept over the pile of firewood, then landed on Chen Wuya's hand, which was wrapped in a bandage.

"You shouldn't use your hand like that."

Chen Wuya looked up. "I have to do something. I can't just live here for free."

Old Wu Tou snorted. "Live here for free? No one lives here for free. Everyone who gets in alive has paid a price."

Chen Wuya smiled faintly. "Then my life has paid its rent."

Old Wu Tou stared at him for a moment, then suddenly said, "You didn't sleep well last night."

It wasn't a question, but a statement.

Chen Wuya's heart tightened slightly, but his expression remained unchanged. "The wind was strong and noisy."

"The wind wasn't strong," Old Wu Tou said slowly. "Your lamp went out late."

Chen Wuya didn't reply. He knew the old man was probing. That night, he had indeed been secretly meditating, the misaligned energy repeatedly clearing his meridians to restore his combat strength as quickly as possible. But he couldn't say that.

Old Wu Tou didn't press further. He took a couple of steps away, then stopped. "The man in the second tent from the east, his name is A Qi. He doesn't talk much, so you'd best not bother him."

He then walked away, his back hunched but his steps remarkably steady.

Chen Wuya watched his retreating figure, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee. The rhythm was irregular, but it was the beat of his misaligned energy circulating. A Qi? He remembered that during his patrol last night, the shoe prints outside that man's tent were facing outwards, while everyone else's were placed facing inwards. Also, in the corner of the tent, there was half a charcoal pencil, something a refugee wouldn't have.

He looked down at his hand. The blister had broken, oozing a pale yellow liquid. It hurt, but he could still move.

Over the next few days, he continued his chores as usual: carrying water, repairing sheds, moving grain sacks. With each task, people nodded at him, their gazes gradually losing their wariness. He also took the opportunity to memorize the camp's layout: the granary was to the north, the sickbay to the south, the west side was a slope, and the east side was closest to the forest.

And A Qi remained a loner.

He hardly went out during the day, with others delivering his meals. At night, after everyone else had extinguished their lamps, a faint light would flicker in his tent, as if he were writing something.

On the third night, midnight was approaching.

Chen Wuya lay down early, closing his eyes to rest. When the camp had fallen completely silent, he quietly got up, put on his outer clothes, and stepped barefoot onto the ground. Using the slanted footwork of the Universe Reversal Step, he moved along the base of the walls.

He hid behind the woodpile, his gaze fixed on A Qi's tent.

After a short while, the tent flap was pushed open a crack, and A Qi peeked out. He looked around, then quickly walked towards the eastern perimeter wall of the camp. His movements as he climbed over were light, clearly indicating he had martial training.

Chen Wuya did not follow immediately. He waited for about fifteen minutes before slowly getting up. He gathered his misaligned energy to conceal his presence, his footsteps landing on the wet mud without making a sound.

He pursued for three hundred paces, reaching the edge of the forest ahead, where a figure stood.

It was a Northern Desert man in a fur coat, a curved saber hanging at his waist, its hilt inlaid with red stones. The man had his back to Chen Wuya and was speaking in low tones with A Qi.

"Have the markers been delivered?"

"Three weak points have been clearly marked: the granary, the water source, and the guard rotation times," A Qi said, handing over a piece of paper. "They won't be patrolling the forest tonight. They'll be most lax before the shift change tomorrow."

"Very good," the foreign race man said, taking the paper and tucking it into his robe. "The King's Tent has ordered us to act within three days. Burn the grain supply and cut off reinforcements."

"Do I need to stay here?" A Qi asked.

"Of course. When the army arrives, you will know the next step."

As the words fell, the foreign race man turned and left, his figure quickly disappearing into the woods.

A Qi stood in place for a moment before returning to the camp.

Chen Wuya lay hidden in the bushes, motionless. Only when both figures had completely vanished did he slowly exhale, a tightness in his chest.

He looked down at his hands, his fingertips trembling slightly. It wasn't fear, but anger.

This was no refugee camp. It was clearly an observation post established by the foreign race deep within the Central Plains. A Qi wasn't a spy, but a vanguard. What he had drawn wasn't a route map, but a death trap.

But he couldn't act.

Any move would alert them. Old Wu Tou's intentions were unclear, and the other people in the camp might not be innocent. If he exposed them now, he might be accused of "spreading rumors" and driven out of the camp, or even hunted down.

He slowly stood up, guiding his misaligned energy back to his dantian, his steps light as he retraced his path.

Back in his tent, he sat on the edge of his cot without lighting a lamp. In the darkness, his fingers tapped his knee again, the rhythm still irregular but becoming steadier.

He recalled Old Wu Tou's words from earlier that day: "So you'd best not bother him."

Was it a warning? Or a reminder?

If it was a warning, why specifically name A Qi? If it was a reminder, why not be more explicit?

He closed his eyes, the image of A Qi handing over the paper flashing in his mind. What was written on that paper was likely more than just locations. It probably included troop numbers, food supplies, guard rotations... If this information reached the Northern Desert, the border defenses could collapse overnight.

But he could do nothing now.

He could only wait.

He had to wait for an opportunity, an opportunity to reveal the truth without being considered insane.

The wind outside had stopped, and the rain had ceased. A dog barked in the distance, then quickly fell silent.

He suddenly realized there wasn't even a dog in the camp.

He opened his eyes and stared at the hole in the tent ceiling. Moonlight leaked through, illuminating a clay pot in the corner. The water's surface rippled slightly, reflecting a long, thin streak of light.

He reached out, picked up the pot, and took a drink. The water was cold and tasted earthy, but he swallowed it slowly.

Then he put the pot down, sat cross-legged, and circulated the misaligned energy again.

This time, he didn't rush to heal his injuries. Instead, he slowly guided his true energy to the tips of his limbs, over and over, as if honing a knife he'd kept for a long time.

Outside the tent, footsteps approached from a distance.

They stopped right outside his tent.

The tent flap was lifted slightly.

Old Wu Tou stood there, holding an oil lamp. The flame flickered, casting shadows on his deeply wrinkled face.

"Not asleep yet?" he asked.

Chen Wuya looked up. "Waiting for you."

Old Wu Tou narrowed his eyes. "You knew I would come?"

"No," Chen Wuya shook his head. "But I guessed you'd be checking on us tonight."

Old Wu Tou didn't move. The lamplight shone on Chen Wuya's face, then slowly moved away, scanning every inch of the tent's interior.

Finally, he said in a low voice, "You went outside the forest last night?"

Chen Wuya didn't deny it. "I did."

"Did you see?"

"I saw."

Silence fell in the tent. The oil lamp's flame flickered.

Old Wu Tou spoke slowly. "Then do you know why I had you stay here?"

Chen Wuya looked at him. "Because you knew I would take that path."

"No," Old Wu Tou shook his head. "Because I could see you weren't trying to escape."