Misaligned Reasoning for Friendship, Old Wu Tou Reveals Mysteries

As dawn broke, the camp was still shrouded in a grayish-white haze. Chen Wuya emerged from his tent. The wound on his shoulder was no longer bleeding, but every time he moved his arm, it felt like a thin thread was pulling beneath his skin. He didn't go to the well or chop wood. Instead, he stood under the shed, staring at the dilapidated tent where Old Wu Tou lived.

Last night, that person had arrived with a lantern. They hadn't revealed everything, but they had hinted at his excursion outside the camp. It wasn't a simple warning or a probe. He needed to understand just how much the other party knew.

Before long, Old Wu Tou, leaning on his cane, emerged from his tent. His movements were slow, but his steps were steady. He walked to the well, set down the wooden bucket, and bent over to pull the rope. The veins on his hands bulged, and his knuckles were thick, not at all like an old man who hadn't done heavy labor for years.

Chen Wuya walked over and took the well rope. "I'll do it."

Old Wu Tou glanced at him, didn't refuse, and stepped back half a pace, leaning against the well's edge.

One bucket of water was pulled up. Chen Wuya poured it into the basin and then lifted the second bucket. As he worked, he said, "The wind stopped last night, so I slept soundly."

Old Wu Tou grunted, his gaze falling on the cloth wrapped around Chen Wuya's right arm. "You didn't sleep too soundly."

Chen Wuya smiled. "I fell a few times in my dream. When I woke up, I realized it hurt."

"You can practice martial arts in your dreams?" Old Wu Tou asked.

"Why not?" Chen Wuya wiped the water from his face. "You don't have to walk on the road; stepping in a mud puddle can save energy. You don't have to follow the forms when practicing martial arts; you can develop true strength even by falling. Don't you think so?"

Old Wu Tou didn't smile. Instead, he nodded. "That sounds absurd, but when you think about it... there's some logic to it."

Chen Wuya's heart stirred. Most people would dismiss such talk as a joke or think he was crazy. But this old man actually went along with it.

He decided to probe further. "I'm just thinking, things that can't be achieved through proper practice might be accomplished by stumbling around. Like my walking, it's crooked and uneven. Some people say it's a disability; I say it's a skill."

"Oh?" Old Wu Tou looked up at him. "Then where did you learn this 'skill'?"

The question had arrived.

Chen Wuya had anticipated this. He lowered his head, looking at his toes as if recalling something, then smiled. "No one taught me. In my dream, there was a limping old man, leaning on a cane and swaying back and forth. I followed him for three circles, and when I woke up, I knew how to do it."

Old Wu Tou stared at him, his gaze calm, as if trying to see through every word he spoke.

After a moment, he didn't press further, only saying slowly, "Learned in a dream? It's not that unusual. Some things can't be achieved through proper practice, but by stumbling around, you might find a way."

Chen Wuya's fingertips trembled slightly.

This wasn't a casual agreement. These were words only someone knowledgeable would say.

He was playing dumb, but the other party had, with a seemingly ordinary sentence, gently touched upon his hidden depths—neither exposing him nor letting him off the hook, as if waiting for him to make the next move.

The air fell silent for a moment.

Chen Wuya suddenly crouched down, picked up a piece of gravel, and drew two lines on the ground, crossing to form a crooked "X."

"You see, according to common sense, when two paths intersect, you have to choose one to follow," he said, pointing to the intersection. "But what if I refuse to choose? If I jump over the middle, isn't that also a way of traveling?"

Old Wu Tou looked down at the crooked line, remained silent for a few breaths, and then suddenly smiled. "Those who walk slowly don't necessarily walk the wrong way; those who walk fast don't necessarily arrive first."

Chen Wuya looked up. "What do you mean by that?"

"It means nothing," Old Wu Tou said, leaning on his cane and turning to leave. "I just think that some people, though they seem to stumble, actually have a sure footing."

Chen Wuya didn't move, still crouching in place, his fingers unconsciously tapping his knee. The rhythm was still off, but much steadier than a few days ago.

Old Wu Tou took a few steps and then suddenly stopped.

"You went outside the woods last night," he said, his tone calm, not like an accusation, but like stating a known fact.

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

"Did you see anything?"

"I did."

Old Wu Tou didn't turn around, his voice lowering slightly. "Then you should understand that not everyone can come out of this place alive."

Chen Wuya stood up. "So the fact that I'm still alive means I don't intend to talk about it."

"But many people are still alive," Old Wu Tou said slowly. "Some keep quiet, some speak up. Which kind are you going to be?"

Chen Wuya looked at his hunched back. "I want to live a little longer."

Old Wu Tou finally turned around, his gaze like nails piercing Chen Wuya's face. "Then you need to think clearly about when to play dumb and when to speak. Don't wait until it's too late to speak, or you'll lose your life."

With that, he walked away, his steps still slow, but each one landed firmly, as if stepping on invisible lines.

Chen Wuya stood by the well, saying nothing more.

He knew that the conversation just now wasn't a warning or an attempt to recruit him. It was a test.

The other party had sensed he wasn't ordinary and understood he had taken action last night. But he hadn't exposed him or stopped him. Instead, he had left an ambiguous reminder.

This old man was not simple.

He looked down at the "X" on the ground, now faded by the rain, and wiped it away with his hand, leaving no trace.

In the days that followed, he continued to fetch water, chop wood, and repair the shed. During the day, he worked like everyone else. At night, he sat cross-legged to regulate his breathing, circulating the misaligned energy through his meridians, healing the hidden injuries left by the residual power of lightning and fire.

He also began to observe Old Wu Tou's routine. Every morning, at the fifth watch, the old man would walk alone to the east side of the camp wall and sit for the time it took half an incense stick to burn, holding his jujube wood cane.

One time, Chen Wuya deliberately woke up late and took a detour past that spot. Old Wu Tou was already gone, but a shallow imprint remained on the ground—a small pit made by the tip of his cane, consistent in depth and uniform in spacing, like some kind of mark.

He crouched down and measured the distance with his fingers.

Seven inches and three fen.

Exactly.

He remembered the tattered pages of the Canglang Art mentioning that in the old days of the martial world, messages were often sent using "Seven-Inch Step" as a coded unit, where one step represented one person and seven inches equaled one squad. If this was indeed a marker, then what Old Wu Tou left daily might indicate changes in personnel?

Once the thought arose, he couldn't suppress it.

That night, he took advantage of the darkness to quietly approach the east wall. The moonlight was obscured by clouds, and the camp was unnaturally quiet. He crouched behind a pile of firewood, staring at the dirt wall.

Just past midnight, Old Wu Tou appeared.

He leaned on his cane and walked over, his movements still slow. Reaching the corner of the wall, he stopped, raised his cane, and tapped the ground three times.

The sound was extremely faint, almost lost in the wind.

But Chen Wuya heard it clearly.

Three taps, with equal intervals and consistent force.

Then, Old Wu Tou sat down against the wall, closed his eyes to rest, as if waiting for someone.

Chen Wuya held his breath, daring not to move.

After about the time it takes to brew a cup of tea, a black figure flashed at the edge of the distant woods.

It wasn't A Qi.

The person wore coarse cloth, was small in stature, carried a bamboo basket, and furtively climbed over the wall, heading straight for the granary to the north.

Old Wu Tou opened his eyes, glanced at the figure, and then closed them again.

Chen Wuya's heart jolted.

So there was more than one spy.

A Qi was from the Northern Desert, but this newcomer was clearly from another faction. And Old Wu Tou seemed to have known all along.

He quietly retreated, returning to his tent, and sat on the edge of the bed without lighting a lamp.

In the darkness, he circulated the misaligned energy again, his true energy slowly flowing through his limbs. This time, he guided a thread of power to the soles of his feet, mimicking the force generation method of the Universe Reversal Step.

Left foot dragging lightly, center of gravity shifting back, right foot tapping and lifting off—

Just as he was about to complete the third step, footsteps sounded outside the door.

Very light, but with a distinct rhythm.

He immediately stopped his movement and leaned against the wall.

The tent flap was lifted, and Old Wu Tou stood at the entrance. He wasn't carrying a lamp, but his eyes glinted in the dark.

"Are you practicing that footwork?" he asked.

Chen Wuya didn't move. "Just practicing for fun."

Old Wu Tou walked in, surveyed the room, and his gaze fell on Chen Wuya's feet. "Your footwork is quite crooked, but somehow... it avoids the Gate of Death."

Chen Wuya's heart tightened.

Gate of Death? That was a term from the Thirteen Routes of Tiangang, specifically referring to the core trigger point of traps and mechanisms. Ordinary refugees wouldn't know it, and even many martial artists might not.

How would Old Wu Tou know about it?

"What Gate of Death are you talking about?" Chen Wuya feigned ignorance. "I'm just afraid of falling, so I walk a bit crookedly."

Old Wu Tou stared at him for a long time, then suddenly said, "Twenty years ago, there was an escort mission that traveled the Northern Desert route. Seventy-two people set out, and only three returned."

Chen Wuya didn't respond.

He knew this wasn't just idle chatter.

Old Wu Tou's voice lowered. "That night, the wind was also strong. They were ambushed behind a slope, waiting for the escort to cross the bridge. The leader wielded a Fang Tian Ji, protecting a box wrapped in red silk, fighting to the death."

He paused, his gaze becoming distant. "But no one expected that the only survivor would be an old escort with a broken leg. He didn't know martial arts, only how to walk—walking crookedly, walking backward, sliding close to the ground."

Chen Wuya's breath hitched.

Fang Tian Ji? Red silk box? Old escort with a broken leg?

These words pieced together pointed to a long-forgotten incident—the destruction of the Sky Eagle Escort Agency.

That was a major event fifteen years ago. The Sky Eagle Escort Agency was escorting a batch of secret documents north when they were ambushed by foreign races, and the entire group was wiped out. The sole survivor was said to be a handyman who later disappeared.

Could it be...

Old Wu Tou slowly raised his hand and drew an arc on the ground with the tip of his cane, from left to right, crookedly upward.

"See this path," he said. "Walking straight leads to a dead end. But if you walk crookedly, take a detour... perhaps you can get out."

Chen Wuya looked at the line, speechless for a long time.

He knew that the other party had finally revealed their true colors.

It wasn't a warning, not a test, but a handover.

Through a past event, a sentence, and a crooked line, he was told: I too have walked a dead end, and I too have survived by walking crookedly.

Outside the tent, the wind whistled over the roof, making a rustling sound.

Old Wu Tou leaned on his cane and turned, walking to the doorway, then stopped abruptly.

"If you want to know more," he said, "you have to survive tomorrow first."