Undercurrents Rise Again, Spy Remnants Not Eliminated

The campfire's light gradually dimmed, leaving only wisps of ash swirling in the wind. Chen Wuya leaned against the woodpile, his eyelids low and his breathing as steady as if he were asleep. Yet, the fingertips of his sleeve were pressed against the shard of pottery, unmoving.

The rhythm of the bird landing on the dead tree still echoed in his mind—three short taps, a pause, then three short taps again. It was the frequency of him tapping his knee, and also the first set of steps for the Universe Reversal Step. There was no such thing as coincidence. Could a wild bird understand human speech? Or was someone using it to send a message?

He didn't open his eyes, but his ears were on high alert. After the laughter faded, the camp quieted down, and footsteps retreated into the tents in waves. Only from the northwest corner came two soft sounds, like clods of earth falling to the bottom of a pit.

He slowly put the pottery shard back into the cloth bag, propping himself up with half his body as he turned over. Only a few drunken men remained by the campfire, slumped on the muddy ground, snoring. The crowd had completely dispersed.

Chen Wuya stood up, his feet firmly on the ground, and walked step by step towards the edge of the camp. He skirted the main path, moving close to the outside of the tents, his footsteps extremely light. Halfway there, he suddenly heard a rustling sound ahead. He looked down and saw that the soil had been disturbed, the grass roots upturned, and a large portion of the dead grass piled there was missing.

He crouched down, his fingers brushing the ground. The moisture had not yet dissipated; it had been dug up not long ago. Taking half a step forward, a broken reed stalk was inserted diagonally into the soil, its tip sharpened. The angle was just right, pointing towards the crooked-neck tree outside the camp. The moonlight shone on it, and the tip of the reed reflected a faint line of light.

He stared at the beam of light for a moment, then straightened up and walked towards Old Wu Tou's shack.

The old man was not asleep. He sat on a small stool in front of the door, holding the jujube wood cane, rubbing it back and forth with a coarse cloth. His fingers occasionally pressed down on a certain indentation on the head of the cane, as if testing some mechanism.

"Not resting yet?" Chen Wuya approached, his voice very low.

Old Wu Tou looked up at him. "You aren't resting either."

"I can't sleep soundly," Chen Wuya said, leaning against the shack's pillar. "That bird just now, its flight was a bit off."

Old Wu Tou's hand paused, but he didn't reply.

"The number of times it flicked its tail matched the rhythm of me tapping my leg," Chen Wuya stared at him. "You've traveled all over the place with the escort agency for so many years, have you ever seen birds used to send messages?"

Old Wu Tou slowly put down his cane. "I've seen paper notes tied to kite strings, and I've seen trained pigeons. But using wild birds as messengers... unless the bird has been tamed, or... someone is waiting for a signal."

"I've already given the signal," Chen Wuya sneered. "I tapped three times, and it came."

Old Wu Tou was silent for a moment before saying, "Some footprints, stepping once is accidental. Stepping twice means it's a path."

Chen Wuya nodded. "The problem now is, where does this path lead?"

The two said no more. The night wind swept through the camp, causing the tents to bulge slightly. A night watchman in the distance walked by with a lantern, his shadow stretching and shrinking on the ground.

Chen Wuya returned to his own shack and took out a yellowed piece of paper from his pack. It was a supplementary page of the Canglang Art that he had completed based on fragmented scrolls, depicting his self-devised diagram for the circulation of misaligned energy. The lines were crooked and the direction strange, bearing no resemblance to any orthodox cultivation method. He deliberately left a corner exposed on the tabletop, and then sprinkled a circle of powder mixed with medicinal dregs and gray soil around the doorway—he had discovered this while healing. When circulating misaligned energy abnormally, it would cause subtle air currents. Ordinary people wouldn't notice, but the traces would be distorted if someone who practiced similar techniques approached.

After doing all this, he lay down and closed his eyes, letting the misaligned energy slowly circulate through his meridians, concealing his aura, like a hibernating beast.

Half an hour passed.

Extremely light footsteps sounded outside the door, almost drowned out by the sound of the wind rustling the tent. The person stopped at the doorway, looked down at the ground, and frowned slightly, seemingly noticing the abnormality of the powder. But he didn't retreat; instead, he leaned down to examine it, his gaze immediately drawn to the paper on the table.

He reached out to take it.

The moment his fingertips touched the paper, Chen Wuya's eyes snapped open.

The person reacted extremely quickly, immediately retracting his hand and flashing into the shadows. His movements were clean and swift, but devoid of killing intent. It was more like confirming the existence of something.

Chen Wuya didn't pursue. He quietly watched the direction the other person disappeared, and only got up and walked to the doorway after the footsteps could no longer be heard.

A clear footprint was pressed into the powder on the ground. The sole pattern was a crisscross of rhombuses, with neat edges. These were not the hemp shoes commonly worn by villagers, nor the worn-out boots scavenged by the refugees. This kind of pattern was more like the standard leather soles used in the army.

He crouched down and scraped some of the residual powder with his fingernail, then rubbed it between his fingers. His fingertips felt a slight greasiness—wax had been mixed in. Leaving reflective footprints at night, convenient for tracking or marking, this was a common tactic used by spies.

"Not a new recruit," he concluded in his mind. "It's someone who has already infiltrated."

He returned to the table, spread out the paper again, and traced a few lines on the diagram of misaligned energy. If the other party came to steal martial arts secrets, this diagram would be tempting enough. But if their true concern was intelligence transmission, then this diagram was just a smokescreen; the real target was the camp's defenses and vulnerabilities.

He blew out the oil lamp, sat down cross-legged, and let the misaligned energy slowly circulate within his body. This time, he deliberately let the true energy take a wrong path, forming a faint tremor in his shoulder blades. This was a new phenomenon he had recently discovered—whenever the misaligned energy passed through an old injury site, faint purplish-blue lines would appear under the skin, moving like living things. And this fluctuation could be sensed by certain special medicinal powders.

In other words, as long as someone wanted to investigate the authenticity of his injuries, they would have to get close. And once they got close, they would trigger the trap.

He opened his eyes and looked outside the shack.

Moonlight spilled onto the open ground, and it was silent. But the reflection from the reed stalk still pointed towards the crooked-neck tree in the distance.

He got up and walked out of the shack, coming to the campfire. The embers were still warm. He picked up a partially burned branch and gently drew three lines on the ground.

The first line was horizontal, representing the leader of the spies who had already been repelled.

The second line extended from a corner of the camp, representing the scout who appeared tonight.

The third line pointed straight north—towards the direction of the foreign race camp.

He stared at these three lines and muttered, "One leader is dead, and they can still transmit messages, which means there are people behind them providing support. But they aren't afraid of exposure because they know someone here is tipping them off."

Before he finished speaking, footsteps sounded from behind him.

Old Wu Tou stood not far away, leaning on his cane, his gaze falling on the lines on the ground.

"Are you going to make a move?" he asked.

"I have to," Chen Wuya broke the wooden branch in two and threw it into the ashes. "But since they like sending messages, let them keep sending them."

Old Wu Tou looked at him. "You want to bait them?"

"No," Chen Wuya shook his head. "I want them to think I'm baiting them."

Old Wu Tou's lips curved slightly, and he said no more.

Chen Wuya turned and walked back towards his shack. As he passed the water source, his steps suddenly paused.

By the water bucket, there was a small wet patch. It wasn't spilled; someone had crouched there and washed their hands. The trace was faint, but it showed the imprint of five fingers spread apart on the rim of the bucket.

He crouched down and touched the wet spot with his fingertip.

The water was cold, but the residual temperature was slightly higher than the night wind. This indicated that someone had been there not long ago.

He followed the damp trail back with his eyes, finally settling on a tent near the northwest corner. That was where the cooking and miscellaneous servants lived, usually with two middle-aged women taking turns to cook. One of them was an outsider who had only joined the camp half a month ago.

He noted the location.

Returning to the shed, he took out a small packet of powder from the bottom of his pack and opened it to look. This was separated from his healing medicine and mixed with a mineral powder that changed color when heated. As long as it was smeared on the surface of an object, it would show a faint red trace when the temperature approached.

He carefully sprinkled the powder on the corner of the table, the door frame, and the edge of the bed. He then spread out the misaligned energy diagram again, pinning it under a rock, leaving only a corner exposed.

Then he lay down, closed his eyes, and feigned sleep.

After an unknown amount of time, faint footsteps sounded outside the door again.

The person who came this time did not stop at the door but lifted the curtain and entered directly.

Chen Wuya held his breath, sinking his misaligned energy into his dantian, his muscles relaxing as usual.

The person stood before the table, looking down at the diagram. After a moment, he reached out to touch the edge of the paper.

The instant his fingertips touched the table surface, Chen Wuya's eyes snapped open, and with a flick of his right hand, the powder in his palm shot out.