Celebration in the Camp, Twisted Logic Sparks Discussion

The medicine bowl was placed by the woodpile, its rim still smeared with half-dried mud. Chen Wuya sat leaning against it, a new bandage wrapped around his shoulder. His fingertips trembled slightly, and blood beads seeping from his palm slid down his fingers, blooming into several dark red spots on the coarse cloth.

He didn't move, just closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, a smile had appeared. Several children gathered around, holding steaming bowls of rice. One brave one stuffed a rice ball into his hand: "Brother Chen, eat something! Old Wu Tou said you need to regain your strength."

He took the rice ball and took a bite. The grains were rough and hard to chew, but he chewed them earnestly. The crowd gradually gathered, and laughter surged from all directions. Someone brought out a jar of homemade rice wine, broke the seal, and poured it into a bowl, handing it to him: "This bowl is for you, for shielding us from disaster!"

He waved his hands in refusal: "This wine is strong. If I drink it, I'll probably be bedridden for three days."

Someone beside him laughed: "Then you absolutely must drink it. Otherwise, who will go to the wilderness tomorrow to pick up that black saber?"

The crowd burst into laughter. Chen Wuya also laughed, a dimple appearing on his left cheek, though the corner of his eye twitched almost imperceptibly. The stagnation in his meridians persisted, the misaligned energy like sand and stones stuck in a riverbed, causing a dull ache deep in his ribs with every circulation. He remained composed, using the motion of lowering his head to eat to force the residual toxins towards his palm, secretly wiping them on his sleeve.

Old Wu Tou walked over, leaning on his cane, and stood by the campfire without speaking. His gaze swept over Chen Wuya's bandaged shoulder before settling on his right hand, which remained half-clenched.

"That palm of yours," he suddenly said, his voice not loud but silencing the surrounding noise, "wasn't from luck."

The crowd grew quiet.

"Nor was it sorcery," Old Wu Tou stared at him. "It was the skill of survival. Tell me, how exactly did you cultivate it?"

Chen Wuya paused his chewing, looked up at him, and then grinned: "You all like to walk straight paths. I prefer to take detours. You practice cultivation by progressing step-by-step; I do the opposite. The result? The one who took the wrong path can actually see the entire wilderness."

Someone muttered in a low voice: "Chaos can also achieve things? Then anyone could become a master?"

Chen Wuya wasn't annoyed. He turned to the man: "When you farm and encounter a drought, what do you do? Stick to the old ways and wait for rain, or switch to planting drought-resistant millet?"

The man opened his mouth but didn't answer.

"It's the same with martial arts," he patted his chest. "The orthodox path from ninth grade to first grade is like a highway, steady and reliable. But what if my legs are weak and I can't walk it? Then I'll forge my own muddy path."

The campfire crackled and popped, sending sparks flying.

"Misaligned energy isn't about messing around," he said slowly. "It's about treating the 'impossible' as 'possible' and trying it. After trying enough, it becomes your own path."

A young man squatted on the ground, twirling a blade of grass in his hand, listening intently. He suddenly asked, "But if everyone disregards the rules and walks their own path, won't the martial world fall into chaos?"

Chen Wuya looked at him and smiled: "Do you think the martial world is very orderly now?"

The man was speechless.

"Foreign race spies wearing black robes to poison us – do they follow the rules?" His voice softened. "They pick on the weak, wait until you're out of water and food, then burn your camp. At that time, no one will talk about rules with you. My energy might be crooked, but it protected people."

He paused, then raised his right hand, palm open. The wound hadn't scabbed over yet, crisscrossed with bloodstains, and purplish-blue patterns pulsed faintly beneath the skin.

"Look at this. It doesn't resemble internal energy, nor true energy. It's wrong, wrong from the very beginning. But precisely because it's wrong, it can tread paths others dare not, and strike moves others cannot imagine."

Old Wu Tou nodded slowly: "Just like that footwork I used back then. My peers called me a heretic who abandoned the orthodox path. But in that battle, if I hadn't used that crooked footwork, the caravan would have been torn to shreds by the Northern Desert Wolf Riders."

"Exactly," Chen Wuya chimed in. "So don't ask me if I'm walking an evil path. I only ask one thing – is it useful?"

The firelight flickered across his face, casting it in alternating light and shadow. He surveyed the crowd: "The Academy didn't want me, sects wouldn't take me, and I had to rely on 'wrongness' to survive even my training. But as long as I can win, who cares if I'm crooked or not?"

The crowd was silent for a moment, then an old man murmured, "A path that leads nowhere... so you forge one yourself?"

"That's right," Chen Wuya nodded. "Tread enough muddy paths, and they can become great roads."

The children crowded at the front, their eyes shining. A little girl looked up and asked, "Brother Chen, can I learn too?"

He froze for a moment, then smiled and ruffled her hair: "You're still young. When you find that the methods others teach don't work, but the ones you come up with yourself do – that's when you'll understand."

She nodded, as if understanding but not quite.

Laughter erupted again. Someone raised a wine bowl and toasted him. This time, Chen Wuya didn't refuse, but took it with his left hand and gently touched the rim of the bowl: "I'll take a sip, as thanks."

He took a small sip, the spiciness rushing straight down his throat, making him cough. The crowd laughed again.

Old Wu Tou stood for a while longer, then turned and walked silently towards his shed. As he passed, his steps paused briefly, and he said in a low voice, "Don't sleep too deeply tonight."

Chen Wuya nodded and watched his back disappear into the depths of the lamplight.

The celebration continued. People drank, chatted, and recounted how they had avoided poisoning that night, and how they had listened to the sounds of fighting with bated breath. Someone suggested erecting a memorial tablet for Chen Wuya, which drew a burst of laughter.

He listened, occasionally responding, but mostly just sat there. His shoulder injury ached faintly, and the misaligned energy flowed slowly within him, like a winding stream bypassing blocked rock layers, gradually clearing the accumulated silt.

The night wind swept through the camp, making the campfire flicker unstably. A bird flew overhead, the sound of its wings beating clearly audible.

He narrowed his eyes, staring at the bird's silhouette.

Its flight path was wrong – not a straight line, nor a common arc, but fluctuating up and down, as if dodging something invisible.

His heart skipped a beat.

That bird was flying with the rhythm of the Universe Reversal Step.

He remained composed, tapping his knee lightly three times with his fingers, then stopping, then tapping three more times.

In the distance, at the entrance of Old Wu Tou's shed, a figure paused, then slowly put down the bucket in his hand.

Chen Wuya withdrew his gaze and looked down at his palm. The purplish-blue patterns beneath the skin slowly faded, and the temperature of his palm gradually returned to normal.

Someone brought a bowl of hot soup and placed it beside him. He reached for it, and as his fingertips touched the rim of the bowl, he suddenly sensed a pair of eyes fixed on him from within the crowd.

He remained expressionless, slowly lifting the bowl and taking a sip.

His peripheral vision caught sight of a stranger's face, huddled at the edge of the crowd, wearing a tattered cloak, head bowed, clutching half a cold biscuit.

But those hands were too clean.

No one in the refugee camp had such clean hands.

He put down the bowl, calmly hiding a piece of broken pottery in his sleeve.

The campfire crackled, and the laughter remained boisterous.

Leaning against the woodpile, he seemed to relax and closed his eyes.

The bird circled once, then suddenly swooped down, landing on the tip of a withered tree not far away, its wings slightly spread, its tail feathers gently swaying.

The rhythm of the sway was exactly the same as the frequency with which he had just tapped his knee.