The night wind skimmed over the ground. Chen Wuya rose from behind the woodpile, his shoulder sinking as an old wound was slowly pressed inward by a blunt knife. He did not stop. His footsteps were so light they barely stirred the dust as he edged along the base of the eastern wall. The crack in the ground the spy had looked down at three times during the day was right before him.
He crouched and ran his fingertips over the crack. The soil had been freshly turned. Half a charcoal stick was buried beneath it, drawing a crooked "X," and beside it was an extra slash—the exact same one he had deliberately drawn during the day. It was not a coincidence, but a response. The other party was confirming whether the signal had been tampered with.
He withdrew his hand and slowed his breathing even further.
The tent stood in the northeastern corner of the camp, far from the main tent area, yet with a clear view of both the well and the grain pile. The spy had chosen this position so he could monitor the whole camp while escaping at any time. Several dead branches lay scattered outside the tent. They seemed casually placed, but stepping on them would certainly make noise. Chen Wuya circled around to the windless side, touched his toes to the ground, and let Misaligned Force slide down through his leg meridians, shedding seven-tenths of his strength as he landed without a sound.
He lifted a corner of the tent flap and narrowed his eyes as he peered inside.
Two figures sat on a felt rug. One had his back to the tent entrance, wrapped in a dark-brown wool cloak, with a scar running across his face. The other was the spy who had delivered soup during the day, clutching half a sheet of paper and speaking in a low voice.
"...At a quarter past the hour of the Dragon tomorrow, bring your men down from the western slope," the spy said. "I'll set the fire as the signal. It'll be dry straw, so it'll give off black smoke. They'll think it's an accidental fire and won't be on guard."
The man with the Northern Desert accent nodded. "How many people are in the camp?"
"More than sixty, mostly old and weak. No more than twenty can still move. There's a young man who walks strangely, but he looks badly injured. He's no threat."
Chen Wuya's eyelid twitched.
"Once the smoke rises, seal off the eastern entrance and the gap to the south at once," the spy continued. "I already increased the dosage in the night watchmen's medicine. After tonight, they won't even be able to crawl. When the time comes, leave no one alive."
"The king wants prisoners alive," the scar-faced man said in a low voice. "Especially the woman who uses a soft sword. If she really comes, make sure to capture her alive."
Chen Wuya's heart clenched.
Bai Zhi had not arrived yet, but they were already waiting for her.
"Don't concern yourself with the woman," the spy sneered. "I'm only responsible for clearing the path. We'll move tomorrow and wipe out the refugee camp in one sweep. Are your men ready?"
"They'll reach the western slope before noon." The scar-faced man rose. "Remember, once this is done, Northern Prefecture will certainly make good on the official post you want."
After exchanging a few more lines of their rendezvous code, the scar-faced man lifted the tent flap and left. His figure quickly vanished into the night.
Chen Wuya lay prone where he was without moving.
He knew he should leave, but his eyes remained fixed on the half sheet of paper. A rough map of the camp was drawn on it, with marks indicating the granary, well, and cooking area. Only the third tent on the eastern end, where he stayed, had been circled with a red dot.
It was the mark of a dead end.
He reached out to hook the paper, but just as his fingertips touched the tent cloth, his foot suddenly slipped.
At some point, the bottom of the clay jar in the corner had come loose. His knee struck it, and the jar toppled over, banging against the iron pot with a clang. The sound was not loud, but in the dead silence of the night, it was like a stone dropped into a deep well.
The tent fell silent at once.
The spy abruptly raised his head. "Who's there?"
Chen Wuya held his breath and pressed his body against the ground. Misaligned Force circulated through him, forcing even his heartbeat down to its lowest point.
Two breaths passed, and there was no movement inside the tent.
After another breath, the scar-faced man's voice came from outside. "A cat."
"A wild cat?" the spy sneered. "Where would a cat come from in this miserable place?"
"It meowed just now," the scar-faced man said. "A female in heat. Ugly sound."
The spy snorted. "Strange things have been happening lately. Guard the western slope properly and don't let anything go wrong."
The footsteps receded. The tent cloth swayed, then fell back into place.
Chen Wuya slowly exhaled. His fingers dug into the mud as he inched backward bit by bit. He did not dare move quickly, afraid of making another sound. Only after retreating three zhang did he use the bushes for cover and roll behind the woodpile.
He leaned against the damp mud wall, his chest heaving. The pain around his ribs felt as though someone were grinding them with a wheel of sandpaper. He raised a hand and wiped his face, finding his palm covered in sweat.
That was close.
Just a little more, and he would have become a turtle trapped in a jar.
He lowered his head and looked at his hands. They were still trembling. It was not fear, but the result of being wound too tight for too long, leaving his muscles and bones aching. He rolled his shoulder, and Misaligned Force made a circuit through his meridians, easing the pain somewhat.
At a quarter past the hour of the Dragon tomorrow, enemies would come from the western slope, the eastern entrance would be sealed, the granary would be set ablaze, and the entire camp would be poisoned—a meticulous plan with murderous traps at every step.
But he knew the time, the route, and the number of enemies.
That was enough.
He pushed himself up and was just about to leave when he suddenly heard movement behind him.
He turned and saw that the spy had left the tent again. Carrying a small oil lamp, he was walking toward the eastern wall.
Chen Wuya immediately lowered himself and tucked into a gap in the woodpile. The man's footsteps were not hurried, yet he went straight to the crack in the ground. He crouched, brushed away the loose soil with his fingers, and frowned when he saw the slash.
He was suspicious.
Chen Wuya held his breath. Misaligned Force gathered in his palm, ready to force a breakthrough the moment he was discovered.
The spy stared at the lines for a long while. At last, he took out a charcoal stick and added a stroke beside them—a short horizontal line.
The signal had been corrected.
After finishing, he rose and looked around with the lamp. His gaze paused when it swept over the woodpile.
Chen Wuya remained as still as a stone.
A moment later, the spy turned and returned to the tent. The curtain fell, and the lamplight went out.
The camp sank into darkness once more.
Chen Wuya waited a full hour before rising from his hiding place. He did not go straight back to his own tent, but instead circled around to the low sheds where Old Wu Tou lived.
The old man's tent was dark. The jujube-wood cane by the entrance leaned against the post as it usually did.
He stood five paces away without approaching.
He knew Old Wu Tou might be awake, or might have been waiting for him all along.
But he could neither speak nor ask.
He raised his hand and lightly knocked three times in the air, paused, then knocked three more—the same rhythm Old Wu Tou had used when tapping his tobacco pipe the previous night.
Then he turned and left.
After walking ten paces, he heard an extremely faint sound behind him.
It was the sound of a cane tapping the ground.
Once, twice, three times.
A response.
He quickened his pace and returned to his own tent. After lifting the flap and entering, he used a wooden peg to jam it shut from the inside. He took a scrap of cloth from his bosom and spread it out. On it was the map of the camp he had memorized during the day. Now he drew a circle around the western slope and a horizontal line across the eastern entrance.
Fire, poison, encirclement, slaughter.
Death on all four sides.
But he was still alive.
And now he knew where the death gate was.
He sat cross-legged, letting Misaligned Force slowly circulate through his body to repair the hidden injuries accumulated from the day's labor. The system muttered in his consciousness, "Error determination: interpreted 'Universe Reversal Step' as an ability learned in a dream. Rationalization complete." He ignored it. After using this ability so often, even he was almost starting to believe those absurd explanations.
But absurd explanations could not save anyone now.
He had to think of a plan.
He stared at the map on the ground. Suddenly, something occurred to him. He pulled a piece of worn cloth from the bottom of his pack and shook it open—it was a table-wiping cloth he had picked up from a restaurant before entering the city. It was woven from coarse hemp, with the character "Zhao" embroidered in one corner.
It bore the mark of the Sky Eagle Escort Agency.
Zhao Tianying had once told him that if he ever had an emergency, he could take this cloth to find one of his agency's hidden contacts.
But the nearest escort agency outpost was still two days away on foot.
He pinched the corner of the cloth, tightening his fingers until it made a faint ripping sound.
Wait.
He suddenly raised his head.
During the day, the spy had asked whether he worked at a restaurant in the southern part of the city. He had made up an answer offhandedly. But why had the other man asked about that in particular?
Could it be...
He suddenly remembered the gray grit in the bowl of soup.
It was not tracking powder, but a testing agent. After it was swallowed, if the person carried a specific mark, his urine would turn faintly blue. And that kind of mark could only be picked up through long-term contact with the secret texts of an escort agency.
The spy had been investigating his identity.
And as it happened, he really did have a piece of escort-agency cloth.
This was no coincidence, but a test.
He stretched his mouth into a grin and laughed.
The other party thought he was pretending to be foolish, but in truth, he was gambling too.
Gambling that this piece of cloth could buy him one more day of life.
He stuffed the cloth back into his pack, lay down, and closed his eyes. His ears remained pricked as he listened to every faint movement outside.
He did not know how much time passed before a cat called in the distance.
It was long and hoarse, with the final note drawn sharply upward.
It sounded exactly like the one he had imitated that night.
He suddenly opened his eyes.
Outside the tent, the wind passed through a crack in the roof, making the oil lamp flicker between light and darkness.
A wick suddenly burst. Sparks scattered onto the edge of the account book and burned a small hole.
Before you continue