Night Reconnaissance for Spies, Twisted Logic Saves a Life Again

The night wind swept low across the ground. Chen Wuya rose from behind a pile of firewood, his shoulder sinking as an old injury felt like a blunt knife slowly pressing inward. He didn't stop, his steps so light they barely disturbed the dust as he crept along the eastern wall. The crack in the ground, which the spy had looked down at three times during the day, was right before him.

He squatted down, his fingertips brushing the fissure. The soil was newly turned. Buried beneath was half a charcoal stick, which had drawn a crooked "X," and next to it, a diagonal line—exactly like the one he had deliberately drawn during the day. It wasn't a coincidence; it was a response. The other party was confirming whether the signal had been tampered with.

He withdrew his hand, his breathing slowing further.

The tent was in the northeast corner of the camp, far from the main shelter area, yet it offered a clear view of the well and the grain pile. The spy had chosen this location to monitor the entire area while also being able to escape at any time. A few dry branches were scattered outside the tent, appearing random, but stepping on them would inevitably make a sound. He circled around to the leeward side, his toes barely touching the ground. Misaligned energy flowed down his leg veins, dissipating seven-tenths of his force, landing without a sound.

A seam in the tent corner was lifted, and he squinted inside.

Two figures sat on a felt carpet. One, his back to the tent flap, was wrapped in a dark brown fur cloak, a scar running across his face. The other was the spy who had brought soup during the day, holding half a piece of paper and speaking in a low voice.

"...Tomorrow, at the third watch of the morning, you'll lead your men down from the west slope," the spy said. "I'll light a signal fire, burning dry thatch, producing black smoke. They'll think it's a fire and won't be on guard."

The man with the Northern Desert accent nodded. "How many men are in the camp?"

"Over sixty, mostly old and weak. Fewer than twenty can fight. There's a young man, walks strangely, but he looks badly injured. He won't be a threat."

Chen Wuya's eyelids twitched.

"Once the smoke rises, you'll immediately seal the east entrance and the gap to the south," the spy continued. "I've already increased the dosage of the sleeping medicine. After tonight, they won't even be able to crawl. At that time, leave no one alive."

"The King wants them alive," the scarred man said in a low voice. "Especially the woman who uses the soft sword. If she really comes, make sure to capture her alive."

Chen Wuya's heart tightened.

Bai Zhi hadn't arrived yet, but they were already waiting for her.

"Don't concern yourself with the woman's affairs," the spy sneered. "I'm only responsible for clearing the path. We'll act tomorrow and round up the entire refugee camp. Are your men ready?"

"We'll be at the west slope before noon," the scarred man stood up. "Remember, after the job is done, the official position you want, our Northern Prefecture will definitely fulfill."

After exchanging a few more coded phrases, the scarred man stood up, lifted the tent flap, and quickly disappeared into the night.

Chen Wuya remained crouched, not moving.

He knew he should leave, but his eyes were still fixed on the half-piece of paper. It depicted a simple map of the camp, with markings for the granary, well, and stove. Only his third tent from the east was circled in red.

That was the mark of a death trap.

He reached out, wanting to snatch the paper. As his fingertips brushed the tent cloth, his foot suddenly slipped.

The ceramic pot in the corner had come loose at the bottom at some point. His knee bumped it, and the pot tipped over, hitting the iron pot with a "clang." It wasn't loud, but in the dead silence of the night, it sounded like a pebble dropped into a deep well.

The tent instantly fell silent.

The spy looked up sharply. "Who?"

Chen Wuya held his breath, pressing his body close to the ground, misaligned energy flowing through him, even suppressing his heartbeat to its lowest point.

Two breaths passed, and there was no movement inside the tent.

Another breath, and the scarred man's voice came from outside: "A cat."

"A wild cat?" the spy sneered. "Where would there be a cat in this godforsaken place?"

"It just cried out," the scarred man said. "It was in heat, sounded awful."

The spy grunted. "There have been a lot of strange things lately. Guard the west slope well, don't let anything go wrong."

Footsteps receded, the tent flap swayed, and then fell back into place.

Chen Wuya slowly exhaled, his fingers digging into the soil, inching backward. He didn't dare to move quickly, afraid of making another sound. Only when he was three zhang away did he use the bushes for cover, roll over, and get behind the pile of firewood.

He leaned against the damp mud wall, his chest heaving. The pain in his ribs felt like someone was grinding them with a sand wheel. He raised his hand to wipe his face; his palm was covered in sweat.

Danger.

He had almost become a trapped beast.

He looked down at his hands; they were still trembling. Not from fear, but from being tense for too long, his muscles aching. He moved his shoulder, and the misaligned energy circulated through his meridians, slightly easing the pain.

Tomorrow, at the third watch of the morning, enemies would come from the west slope, the east entrance would be sealed, the granary set ablaze, and the entire camp poisoned—a meticulous plan, every step a killing blow.

But he knew the time, he knew the route, he knew how many enemies there were.

That was enough.

He pushed himself up, about to leave, when he suddenly heard a movement behind him.

Turning around, he saw the spy had emerged from the tent again, carrying a small oil lamp, walking towards the east wall.

Chen Wuya immediately flattened himself, shrinking into the gaps of the firewood pile. The person walked slowly but headed straight for the crack in the ground. He squatted down, his fingers brushing away the loose soil, and frowned when he saw the diagonal line.

He was suspicious.

Chen Wuya held his breath, misaligned energy gathering in his palm, ready to force his way out if discovered.

The spy stared at the line for a long time, then finally took out a charcoal stick and added a short horizontal stroke next to it.

Signal corrected.

After doing this, he stood up, looked around with the lamp, and paused as his gaze swept over the pile of firewood.

Chen Wuya remained as still as stone.

A moment later, the spy turned and went back into the tent. The tent flap fell, and the lamplight was extinguished.

The camp returned to darkness.

Chen Wuya waited for the time it took a stick of incense to burn before rising from his hiding spot. He didn't return directly to his own tent but instead circled around to the area of low sheds where Old Wu Tou lived.

The old man's tent was dark. His jujube wood walking stick leaned against a post by the entrance, just like always.

He stood five paces away, not approaching.

He knew Old Wu Tou might be awake, or might have been waiting for him all along.

But he couldn't speak, nor could he ask.

He raised his hand and lightly tapped the air three times, paused, then tapped three more times—the same rhythm Old Wu Tou had used to tap his pipe last night.

Then he turned and left.

After walking ten paces, he heard a faint sound from behind him.

It was the sound of a walking stick tapping the ground.

One tap, two taps, three taps.

A response.

He quickened his pace, returned to his own tent, lifted the flap, and went inside, pulling the curtain shut behind him and securing it with a wooden peg. He took a piece of cloth from his bosom, spread it out. It was a map of the encampment he had memorized during the day. Now, he drew a circle on the west slope and a horizontal line at the east entrance.

Fire, poison, surround, kill.

Death on all four sides.

But he was still alive.

And he knew where the Gate of Death was.

He sat down cross-legged, the misaligned energy slowly circulating through his body, healing the internal injuries accumulated from the day's labor. The System grumbled in his consciousness, "Error in judgment: 'Universe Reversal Step' interpreted as learned in a dream. Rationalization complete." He ignored it. The more he used this ability, the more he almost believed that absurd talk himself.

But right now, absurd talk wouldn't save anyone.

He needed a plan.

He stared at the map on the ground and suddenly thought of something. He pulled a dirty rag from the bottom of his pack and unfolded it—it was a table cloth he'd "borrowed" from a restaurant before entering the city. It was made of coarse hemp, with a "Zhao" character embroidered on the corner.

The mark of the Sky Eagle Escort Agency.

Zhao Tianying had once said that if he had an urgent matter, he could use this cloth to find their hidden stashes.

But this place was still a two-day journey from the nearest escort agency outpost.

He pinched the corner of the cloth, his fingertips pressing hard, and the fabric made a faint tearing sound.

Wait.

He suddenly looked up.

The spy had asked him during the day if he worked at the restaurant in the southern part of the city. He had casually made something up. But why had the other person asked that specifically?

Could it be...

He suddenly remembered the grit and sand in that bowl of soup.

It wasn't tracking powder, but a body-identification agent. If someone with a specific mark drank it, their urine would turn slightly green. And that kind of mark would only be acquired by those who had long-term contact with the escort agency's secret codes.

The spy was investigating his identity.

And he happened to have a piece of escort agency cloth.

This wasn't a coincidence; it was a test.

He grinned, a smile spreading across his face.

The other side thought he was playing dumb, but in reality, he himself was also gambling.

Gambling that this piece of cloth could buy him another day of life.

He stuffed the cloth back into his pack, lay down, and closed his eyes. But his ears were pricked, listening for every subtle sound outside.

After an unknown amount of time, a cat's meow came from the distance.

Long and hoarse, the tail end drawn out high.

Exactly like what he had learned tonight.

He abruptly opened his eyes.

Outside the tent, the wind blew through the cracks in the roof, making the oil lamp flicker.

A wick suddenly popped, and sparks splashed onto the edge of a ledger, burning a small hole.