At daybreak, Chen Wuya woke up. He did not open his eyes; his ears twitched first as he heard footsteps approaching the woodpile outside. The steps were very light, but each landed half a beat slower than anyone else's, as though deliberately keeping a rhythm to draw attention.
He knew who it was.
After Old Wu Tou's parting words last night, he had understood that today would not be peaceful. Sure enough, less than half an hour later, the man had arrived.
He turned over and sat up. His shoulder tightened, and a dull pain spread through his ribs, as if an iron wire were tugging back and forth inside him. He made no sound, merely draped his outer garment over himself, lifted the curtain, and walked out.
The spy was standing beside the well, an empty wooden bucket in his hand, but his gaze had settled on Chen Wuya's feet. When he saw him come out, the man smiled. "Up early."
"I didn't sleep well." Chen Wuya rubbed his temples. "Someone kept chasing me in my dreams."
"Oh?" The spy set down the bucket and stepped closer. "Did the person chasing you walk strangely too? Lurching this way and that like a drunk?"
Chen Wuya's heart sank.
Here it comes.
But a smile spread across his face. "You got that exactly right! The man was limping and leaning on a cane, staggering all over the place, yet I just couldn't shake him. I panicked and started walking like him—hey, I got it in one try!"
The spy's eyes narrowed slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "So you learned your footwork from the person in your dream?"
"Isn't that the truth?" Chen Wuya slapped his trouser leg and casually picked up a shoulder pole. "The fellow was an immortal, an expert who specialized in teaching people how to stay alive. Would you believe it? A few days ago, I fell into a pit and was about to be crushed to death. Then I suddenly remembered that limping immortal's steps. I twisted and slipped like this, and somehow rolled right out!"
As he spoke, he even took two steps on the spot, dragging his left foot, rising onto his right toes, and leaning so far to one side that he almost fell.
The spy stared at him, a trace of suspicion flashing in his eyes.
"Aren't you afraid people will take you for a madman?"
"What if they do?" Chen Wuya grinned. "A living madman is far better than a dead clever man. Want to give it a try too? Tomorrow, I'll take you to pay respects to my master. I'll say you're my junior apprentice brother. I guarantee you'll dodge blades and arrows every time."
The spy's expression shifted, then he gave a cold snort. "Stop trying to fool people with that nonsense. That footwork of yours is clearly a way to break mechanisms. How could you have learned it in a dream?"
Chen Wuya shrugged. "You say it breaks mechanisms? I barely know a handful of characters. How would I understand mechanisms? All I know is that if I walk a little crooked, the pits beneath my feet have a harder time swallowing me. If you don't believe me, jump into a couple yourself later and see."
His tone was relaxed, and he spoke as though it were the absolute truth. The spy opened his mouth, but for a moment, he could not find an answer.
If he pressed further, he would only make himself look overly serious. Yet letting it go made him feel that something was wrong.
The two stood at an impasse for a moment. At last, the spy lifted his foot and walked away, tossing back one final line. "Don't think playing dumb will get you off the hook."
Chen Wuya watched his back, his smile slowly fading.
He knew he had made it through this hurdle. But his opponent would not give up easily.
He lowered his head and looked at his feet. The few steps he had taken seemed casual, but every one concealed the circulation of Misaligned Force; the path of borrowing strength and shedding momentum had long since been carved into his instincts. The system whispered in his ear: "Error determination: interpreting the 'Universe Reversal Step' as learned in a dream. Rationalization complete. Logical loop supplemented."
He ignored the system's rambling and turned toward the stove.
Old Wu Tou sat on the rim of the well, a pipe pinched in his hand as he tapped it against the stone edge again and again. Three taps, a pause, then three more.
The same rhythm as last night.
Chen Wuya walked over and placed the kettle of hot water by the old man's feet. "Old sir, have something hot to drink."
Old Wu Tou looked up at him. No emotion could be read in his eyes behind the smoke.
"That immortal in your dream..." he began slowly. "Did he have a surname?"
Chen Wuya smiled. "His surname was 'Misaligned.' His name was Misaligned Practice Connects to Spirit."
Old Wu Tou froze for a moment. Then a short sound came from his nose, like a laugh, or perhaps a sigh. He knocked his pipe against the ground, propped himself up with his cane, and turned to leave.
One step, two steps, three steps.
Each landed on the dirt road, unhurried yet utterly steady.
Chen Wuya stood where he was, unconsciously tapping his fingers against his knee. The rhythm was still disorderly, but this time, he sensed a certain echo.
He knew Old Wu Tou had understood.
The old man did not truly believe there was an immortal in his dream. He understood that Chen Wuya was using absurd words to conceal the truth. More importantly, he understood that choosing not to expose him was his way of answering that trust.
For the rest of the day, Chen Wuya worked as usual. He hauled water, chopped firewood, and patched the leaky shed roof. His movements were somewhat slower than usual, and he deliberately made his steps a little unsteady, as if he had slept poorly the night before and his injuries had flared up again.
The spy passed by several times, his gaze always lingering on Chen Wuya's feet. Once, as Chen Wuya bent to pick up firewood, the man suddenly asked, "Where did you work before?"
"At a tavern south of the city." Chen Wuya did not even raise his head. "I carried dishes for people. Later, I broke a bowl and got thrown out."
"A tavern?" The man sneered. "A dish carrier could learn this kind of footwork?"
"I didn't learn it either." Chen Wuya straightened up, looking utterly innocent. "Didn't I tell you? I learned it in a dream. If you don't believe me, try dreaming tonight. Maybe you'll even see my master and get him to teach you a couple of moves."
The man's face darkened, and he asked no more questions.
The sun gradually slanted westward, and cooking smoke rose through the camp. Several children chased one another across the open ground, their laughter coming and going. Chen Wuya leaned against the woodpile and pretended to doze, his eyelids half lowered while his ears remained pricked.
He knew the real probing was not over yet.
Sure enough, the spy came again toward evening. This time, he carried a chipped pottery bowl filled with half a bowl of murky soup.
"Here." He held out the bowl. "Everyone chipped in. Have some."
Chen Wuya took the bowl and smelled it. It carried the scent of pickled vegetables mixed with the musty fragrance of moldy rice. There seemed to be nothing unusual.
But he did not drink.
"Thanks." He placed the bowl beside him. "I'll drink it later. I'm not hungry right now."
The spy stared at him. "You don't trust me?"
"How could I not?" Chen Wuya said with a smile and shook his head. "It's just that I've eaten too much coarse grain these past two days. The sight of soup turns my stomach. Don't take it personally."
The spy let out a cold laugh and turned away.
Chen Wuya watched the bowl of soup without changing expression. Only after the man had gone far did he lightly stir the bottom with the tip of his chopstick. Several grains of fine sand had settled there, gray in color and unlike dust that had gotten in naturally.
His eyes narrowed.
It was not poison, but marking powder. Once swallowed, it would discolor the urine, leaving traces wherever the person urinated at night and making him easy to track.
What a vicious trick.
He quietly moved the bowl behind the woodpile, then grabbed a handful of wet mud and smeared it along the rim, making it look as though he had accidentally knocked it over.
Once night had fallen completely, the camp grew much quieter. Most people had already gone to sleep, and only a few oil lamps still burned. Chen Wuya lay inside the tent with his eyes closed and his breathing steady.
In truth, he was wide awake.
His fingers tapped lightly against his knee as he repeatedly simulated the sequence of force exertion for the "Universe Reversal Step." Misaligned Force moved slowly through his body like a dormant snake, ready to strike at any moment.
He knew there might be new tricks tomorrow. Perhaps someone would pretend to fall and lure him into helping, then take the chance to test his reaction speed. Perhaps a stranger would suddenly call his name from behind and see whether he dodged instinctively.
But he was not afraid.
The more absurd the question, the more absurd the answer he had to use to slam it shut. As long as he did not tell the truth, no one could seize upon a flaw.
He turned over and felt the fragment of stone at the corner of the tent. He had left it there while drawing an "X" during the day, and had deliberately added another slanted line to make the shape look even more chaotic.
If the spy truly understood the terminology of mechanisms, he would know it represented "parallel lines, false main route." But Chen Wuya could not admit that he understood it; otherwise, he would be exposing his identity.
This contest was not about martial arts. It was about brains.
He suddenly recalled the rhythm of Old Wu Tou tapping his pipe.
Three taps, a pause, then three taps.
It was not a mark, but a code. It meant, "Someone is watching you. Respond with care."
But why three?
He pondered for a moment, then suddenly opened his eyes.
Three suspicious people had appeared in the camp: A Qi, the thin man with the basket, and the spy before him. Three people, three lines, each operating independently.
And Old Wu Tou had seen through everything long ago.
He slowly exhaled and clenched the fragment of stone in his palm.
Outside the window, the wind swept across the shed roof with a rustling sound.
He sat up and gently moved his shoulder. The pain remained, but it no longer hindered his movements.
Tomorrow, he would investigate something.
Every time the spy approached the eastern wall, he lowered his head to look at a certain spot on the ground. There had to be something there—a crucial mark he used to confirm contact signals.
He had to see with his own eyes what it was.
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