Interrogation in the Camp, Twisted Logic to Extract Information

The sky had just fully brightened, and the loose soil by the dry well still carried the night's dampness. Chen Wuya stood at the entrance of the shed, holding the unsealed wax pellet in his hand, his fingertip rubbing back and forth over the seal. Old Wu Tou squatted by the door, his cane resting across his knees, his gaze fixed on the three people being escorted into the camp.

They knelt in the center of the open space, their hands bound behind them. The panic from their escape last night was gone, replaced by a grim resolve. The older man closed his eyes as if asleep; the woman lowered her head, her hair falling to obscure half her face; only the youngest captive occasionally looked up at Chen Wuya, his lips moving slightly before he swallowed.

"Take them inside," Chen Wuya said, tucking the wax pellet into his robes and turning into the shed.

The shed wasn't large, its walls made of mud bricks and the floor covered with dry grass. A low table stood in the center, holding a bowl of hot water and a plate of coarse biscuits. He sat by the table and gestured for the three to be brought in, then said to a villager nearby, "Go get some food. Don't let them starve here."

The villager hesitated for a moment before complying.

When the food was brought, Chen Wuya personally pushed the bowl towards the young man. "Eat," he said. "If you don't eat your fill, how will you listen to my nonsense later?"

The other two remained still. The young man stared at the bowl of hot soup, his Adam's apple bobbing, before finally reaching out to take it.

"You transmit messages using wax pellets, secret marks, and routes," Chen Wuya said, leaning against the wall, his voice calm and unhurried. "But have you ever considered that what truly makes intelligence effective isn't the paper, but 'belief'?"

He paused, looking at the man with closed eyes. "Last night, you believed I would take the poisonous swamp, so you were eager to report. Now, you don't believe I can pry information from you, so you're playing mute. But as long as I say something absurd enough, you'll start to wonder—what if?"

The young man looked up at him, his gaze flickering.

"For example, if I were to say now," Chen Wuya suddenly smiled, "that the foreign race army has actually retreated long ago, and those on the border are all scarecrows wearing armor, carrying weapons, and lighting torches at night to scare people. Would you believe me?"

No one answered.

"You don't believe me?" He shrugged. "But what if I asked you to write a secret letter saying, 'The enemy leader has seen through the plan and laid a trap'? Would your superiors immediately mobilize troops? Would they retreat overnight?"

The woman's fingers curled slightly.

"What about the reverse?" He stood up and walked to the wall, scratching a few marks with his fingernail. "What if I wrote, 'The enemy leader is using our plan against us, luring our main force to Broken Ridge'—if these eight characters were passed on, would they dare to act? Want to take a gamble?"

He turned around and stared at her. "You're not transmitting intelligence; you're dying for someone else. And me? I don't want to lose even a single living person."

The young man suddenly spoke, "There's an old man selling fish at Donglin Ferry Crossing... he comes every three days with a carrying pole. The bottom of his baskets has a hidden compartment."

The room fell silent.

Chen Wuya said nothing, merely nodding.

"There's also a donkey driver at the west slope mill," the young man continued, his voice trembling. "The black donkey he drives is missing a corner of its left ear. Every time they meet, he hides the wax pellet in the gap of the donkey's hoof."

Chen Wuya looked at the woman. "Do you know these things?"

She remained silent for a moment, then nodded gently.

"Then tell me, if I don't arrest you and let you go back to deliver a message, what would you write?"

She still kept her head down.

"I'll write it for you," he said, picking up a piece of charcoal and writing a line on the wall: "Enemy leader has seen through the plan, ambush failed, suspect ambush, temporarily halt action."

He turned back to her. "Does that mean this?"

Her shoulders trembled slightly.

"But what if I change one word?" He erased the last word and rewrote it: "...Suspect has been turned, send death warriors to eliminate immediately."

He said softly, "Who do you think they'll kill first? You, or the fish seller?"

The woman looked up sharply, a flicker of fear in her eyes.

"I don't want you to betray them," he said, sitting back down at the table. "I just want you to see clearly—you don't even know who you're loyal to. An order can save you, or it can kill you. The only difference is whether the person writing the order trusts you."

The older man finally opened his eyes. "You think a few lies can make us talk? We're not afraid of death."

"I don't need you to be afraid of death," Chen Wuya shook his head. "I just need you to be afraid of being wrong."

He took out the confiscated wax pellets from his sleeve, opened one in front of them, and read it aloud: "Intercept the supply route within three days and ambush their return."

He looked at the young man. "This was the order you received yesterday. But if I asked you to write a new order now—'Temporarily halt action, await further instructions'—would you dare to write it?"

The three exchanged glances, their expressions wavering.

"I can guarantee it," Chen Wuya said, looking them straight in the eye. "As long as you cooperate, I won't pursue your past actions. But if anyone tries to play games..."

He glanced at Old Wu Tou.

Old Wu Tou said nothing, merely thudded his cane on the ground, emitting a dull sound.

Finally, the woman nodded.

Chen Wuya handed her paper and a pen. Biting her lip, she wrote the new order, sealed it according to the old method, and handed it back to him.

"I'll have someone rebury this wax pellet in the dry well," he said. "Just like before, the time, location, and method will remain unchanged. Your superiors will still send someone to retrieve it."

The young man asked in a low voice, "Will they discover it?"

"No," Chen Wuya smiled. "Because they're used to 'correct intelligence.' As long as the content sounds reasonable, they'll act on it. Even if that 'reasonableness' is something I provided."

He placed the wax pellet in a small cloth bag and handed it to Old Wu Tou. "Before midnight tonight, take it to the dry well. Don't wear the patrol uniform. Find someone inconspicuous, act like you're gathering firewood as usual."

Old Wu Tou took the bag and nodded silently.

The interrogation ended, and the three were taken to another shed to be held. As the young man left, he looked back at Chen Wuya, his lips moving, but ultimately saying nothing.

Chen Wuya walked out of the shed and stood by the edge of the open space. The morning light shone on the dirt ground, where a few children were playing a game of odd or even with a pile of stones. He looked towards the cooking tent in the northwest corner, its curtain pulled open a crack, revealing someone stirring a pot inside.

He didn't move, nor did he call anyone.

Old Wu Tou walked over and stood beside him, whispering, "There's just one last one."

"Mm-hmm," Chen Wuya patted the cloth bag in his arms. "They think we're guarding against them, but we're actually waiting for them to reveal themselves."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Nothing." He withdrew his gaze. "Let them keep sending messages. When they realize the messages they desperately sent out have all become death warrants—"

He paused, his voice very soft.

"They'll start suspecting everyone around them."

Old Wu Tou asked no more questions and turned to leave.

Chen Wuya sat on a stone stool by the clearing, pulled out the unopened wax-sealed letter, and turned it over in his palm. The seal was intact, the imprint clear, as if it had never been touched. He gently scraped open a corner with his fingernail and sniffed it. There was no particular smell.

He re-wrapped it and tucked it back into his bag.

Footsteps could be heard in the distance. A villager approached, saying that fishing boats would be docking at Donglin Ferry Crossing today. He nodded, not asking for details.

The sun gradually rose higher, and the camp resumed its daily bustle. Some carried water, others repaired roofs, and cooking smoke curled into the air. It was as if last night's pursuit, the fight in the cave, and the interrogation of the captives were just a dream from the night before.

But he knew it wasn't.

He looked down at his hands. There was a small crack on his fingertip, sustained when he grabbed the knife last night, still unhealed. The blood had dried, leaving a faint red line.

He suddenly remembered the young man's last words: "You already knew, didn't you? You were waiting for us to show ourselves from the very beginning."

He hadn't answered then.

He didn't need to answer now.

Because what he was doing wasn't setting a trap or employing a stratagem.

It was pushing the opponent's logic, bit by bit, to its limit.

Until they themselves stepped into the pit they had dug.

He stood up and walked towards the shed where the captives were being held. As he passed the cooking tent, the curtain moved slightly.

He didn't stop, but his right hand slowly slid into his sleeve, gripping the piece of broken pottery he carried with him.

The edge of the pottery shard was sharp, pressing against his palm, sending a slight chill.

He continued forward, his figure passing through the boundary between sunlight and shadow.

A sparrow flew down from the eaves, landed on the stone stool where he had been sitting, pecked at the ground twice, and then fluttered away.