Rainwater dripped along the tent's edge, pounding little pits into the mud. Chen Wuya opened his eyes. The wound in his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but every breath still brought a dull ache beneath his ribs, as if it had been crushed under a blunt weapon. He slowly sat up, and the Misaligned Force circulated once through his meridians. It was far more stable than the night before.
He lifted the tent flap and walked out. Dawn had only just begun to break, yet several wisps of cooking smoke were already rising through the camp. A few refugees crouched before the stoves, boiling water with sluggish movements and lifeless faces. He stood at the entrance, drew a deep breath, and headed toward the well.
The well rope was coarse, and the wooden bucket was heavy. After a few pulls with one hand, his right arm went numb, so he simply switched to his left and hauled up a bucket of water, pouring it into the wooden basin beside him. An old woman nearby glanced at him and said softly, "Thank you." Her voice was dry and hoarse.
He did not answer, merely nodded before going to chop firewood. The axe was not sharp, and the wood was wet and heavy. After a few swings, his palms had already blistered and bled. He gritted his teeth and continued until the firewood was stacked in a neat pile.
Once he finished, he sat beneath the shed, leaning against a post as he caught his breath. Just then, Old Wu Tou came over from across the way, leaning on his cane. His steps remained steady. He stopped before Chen Wuya, his gaze sweeping over the pile of firewood before settling on the hand wrapped in cloth strips.
"You shouldn't be using that hand like this."
Chen Wuya looked up. "I have to do something. Otherwise, I'd be staying here for nothing."
Old Wu Tou snorted. "Staying for nothing? No one stays here for nothing. Everyone who makes it in alive has paid a price."
Chen Wuya smiled. "Then I suppose I've paid the rent with my life."
Old Wu Tou stared at him for a moment before suddenly saying, "You didn't sleep well last night."
It was not a question, but a statement.
Chen Wuya's heart tightened, but his expression did not change. "The wind was strong. It was noisy."
"The wind wasn't strong." Old Wu Tou spoke slowly. "The lamp in your room was what stayed lit until late."
Chen Wuya said nothing. He knew the other man was testing him—he truly had been meditating and regulating his breathing in secret that night, repeatedly smoothing out his meridians with the Misaligned Force in order to recover his combat strength as quickly as possible. But he could not say that.
Old Wu Tou did not press further. He turned and walked two steps before stopping. "The person in the second tent to the east is called A Qi. He doesn't like to talk, so don't go bothering him either."
With that, he left. His back was stooped, yet his steps remained remarkably steady.
Chen Wuya watched his retreating back and lightly tapped his fingers against his knee. The rhythm was chaotic, yet it was the cadence of the Misaligned Force's circulation. A Qi? He remembered that during last night's patrol, the footprints outside that man's tent pointed outward, while everyone else's shoes had been placed facing inward. There was also half a charcoal pencil in the corner of the tent, something no refugee should have had.
He lowered his head and looked at his hand. The blister had burst, oozing pale yellow fluid. It hurt, but he could still move it.
Over the next few days, he continued working as usual—drawing water, repairing sheds, and carrying grain sacks. Each time he finished a task, someone would nod at him, and the wariness in their eyes gradually faded. He also used the opportunity to memorize the camp's layout: the granary was to the north, the sick ward to the south, the western side bordered a slope, and the woods were closest to the east.
As for A Qi, he always kept to himself.
He hardly ever came out during the day, and others delivered his meals to him. At night, after everyone else had extinguished their lamps, a faint light would always flicker inside his tent, as if he were writing something.
On the third night, midnight was drawing near.
Chen Wuya lay down early and rested with his eyes closed. Once the camp had fallen completely silent, he quietly rose, draped on his outer garment, and stepped barefoot onto the ground. Using the crooked footwork of the Universe Reversal Step, he moved along the base of the wall.
He circled behind the woodpile and concealed himself, his line of sight aimed directly at A Qi's tent.
Before long, the tent flap opened a crack. A Qi poked his head out, looked left and right, then hurried toward the wall on the eastern side of the camp. He climbed over it with such lightness that he had clearly trained in martial arts.
Chen Wuya did not follow at once. He waited for the time it took half a tea cup to cool before slowly rising. The Misaligned Force gathered in his entire body, and his feet landed on the wet mud without making the slightest sound.
He pursued him for three hundred paces. At the edge of the woods ahead, a figure stood motionless.
The person wore a Northern Desert leather robe and carried a curved saber at his waist, its hilt inlaid with a red stone. With his back to Chen Wuya, he was speaking in a low voice with A Qi.
"Have all the markers been sent out?"
"The three weak points have been marked clearly: the granary, the water source, and the sentry rotation schedule." A Qi handed over a sheet of paper. "They won't patrol the woods tonight. They'll be at their most lax before the shift changes tomorrow."
"Excellent." The foreign tribesman took the note and tucked it into his robe. "The royal tent has ordered us to act within three days. Burn the grain route and cut off the reinforcements."
"Do I still need to remain here?" A Qi asked.
"Of course. Once the army presses in, you'll know the next step."
The moment his voice fell, the foreign tribesman turned and left, his figure quickly vanishing into the woods.
A Qi stood there for a moment before turning back toward the camp.
Chen Wuya lay hidden behind the bushes, not moving an inch. Only after the two had completely disappeared did he slowly exhale, his chest tight with suffocation.
He lowered his head and stared at his hand, his fingertips trembling faintly. It was not fear, but fury.
What kind of refugee camp was this? It was clearly an intelligence outpost planted by the foreign tribes in the heartland of the Central Plains. A Qi was not a spy. He was a vanguard. What he had drawn was not a map of routes, but a death trap.
Yet Chen Wuya could not act.
If he moved, he would alert the enemy. Old Wu Tou's attitude was unclear, and the other people in the camp might not be innocent either. If he exposed them now, he might instead be accused of "spreading rumors and causing trouble," driven out of the camp, or even surrounded and killed.
He slowly rose, returned the Misaligned Force to his dantian, lightened his steps, and retraced his path.
Back in his tent, he sat on the edge of the bed without lighting the lamp. In the darkness, his fingers tapped against his knee once more. The rhythm was still chaotic, yet it grew steadier and steadier.
He remembered what Old Wu Tou had said during the day: "Don't go bothering him either."
Was that a warning? Or a reminder?
If it was a warning, why had he gone out of his way to name A Qi? If it was a reminder, why had he not explained it plainly?
He closed his eyes, and the scene of A Qi handing over the note surfaced in his mind. What was written on that piece of paper was probably more than just locations. There would also be troop numbers, grain reserves, guard rotations... Once that information reached the Northern Desert, the border defenses might collapse overnight.
Yet he could do nothing now.
He could only wait.
He had to wait for an opportunity—one that would let him reveal the truth without being treated as a madman.
The wind outside had stopped, and the rain had ceased as well. A dog barked in the distance, then quickly fell silent.
He suddenly realized that there were not even any dogs in this camp.
He opened his eyes and stared at the hole in the top of the tent. Moonlight leaked through it, shining on the clay jar in the corner. The water's surface rippled faintly, reflecting a slender streak of light.
He reached out and picked up the jar, taking a sip. The water was cold and carried the earthy smell of mud, but he swallowed it slowly.
Then he set the jar down, sat cross-legged, and circulated the Misaligned Force once more.
This time, he was no longer in a hurry to heal his injuries. Instead, he slowly guided his true qi toward the tips of his limbs, again and again, as if honing a blade that had been hidden away for a long time.
Outside the tent, footsteps approached from far away.
They stopped outside his tent.
The flap was gently lifted at one corner.
Old Wu Tou stood there, holding an oil lamp. The wavering firelight illuminated his face, crisscrossed with wrinkles.
"Not asleep yet?" he asked.
Chen Wuya looked up. "I was waiting for you."
Old Wu Tou narrowed his eyes slightly. "You knew I would come?"
"No." Chen Wuya shook his head. "But I guessed you would inspect the camp tonight."
Old Wu Tou did not move. The lamplight shone across Chen Wuya's face, then slowly shifted away, sweeping over every inch of the room.
At last, he said in a low voice, "You went outside the woods last night?"
Chen Wuya did not deny it. "I did."
"You saw them?"
"I did."
Silence fell inside the tent. The oil-lamp flame flickered once.
Old Wu Tou slowly began, "Do you know why I let 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 tell you weren't running for your life."
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