Confrontation Before the Camp, Crooked Logic Shows Its Flair Again

The figure who leaped from the south wall had just landed when Chen Wuya stood up, his iron rebar dragging on the ground as he took a heavy step and walked straight towards the camp gate.

The wooden gate creaked open. He stood beneath the sign that read "Misaligned Energy Training Institute." The wind ruffled his clothes, but he didn't spare a glance at the person on the ground.

"Are you the first one here to pay tuition?" he asked, his voice neither loud nor soft. "Too bad—we don't accept dead people here."

The man froze, his short dagger still pointed at the center of the clearing. He clearly hadn't expected the other to speak before attacking.

"I'm asking you," Chen Wuya took a step forward, tapping the ground with his rebar, "Are you a foreign race spy, or a running dog for those who do their dirty work? If you're truly a Jianghu hero, give me your name."

The other person's lips moved but no sound came out.

"Not giving it?" Chen Wuya chuckled. "Then I'll speak for you—you're a desperate fugitive who snuck in from Qingyang Town last night, lost all your money at the gambling dens, heard there was a bounty here, and decided to chop off my head for silver. But you didn't dare come during the day, only climbing the wall at night. That shows you know you're doing something shameful."

Before he finished speaking, dust kicked up from the distant official road, and dozens of figures approached one after another, their weapons glinting in the sunlight.

Old Wu Tou quietly retreated behind a pile of firewood. The young man and a few others lined up on either side of the wooden sign. The women also gripped their bamboo spears and stood in a row. The older man calmly noted the faces of the people in front, his pen scratching on the paper.

The newcomers stopped ten paces from the camp. A bearded man stepped forward with his saber, roaring, "Chen Wuya! You've murdered spies, harbored the Canglang Art, and colluded with the Northern Border. Your crimes are unforgivable! Today, we, acting on Jianghu justice, have come to take your life!"

Chen Wuya glanced at him, then suddenly raised his hand and pointed behind him at the camp. "You say I killed people? Fine. Then tell me—are these civilians people?"

No one answered.

"Those spies poisoned the well, forced parents to sell their children, broke into homes for valuables in the middle of the night, and cut the legs off refugees, throwing them into ditches." His voice grew colder. "Where were you when they were killing? Where was your so-called 'Jianghu justice' when they were beheading them? And now you have the audacity to stand here and accuse me of 'murder'?"

The bearded man's face turned red. "You... you're clearly using this to establish your authority and incite people!"

"Incite?" Chen Wuya sneered. "I teach them to take two steps back when walking, which allows them to step on the enemy's toes. Is that inciting? I teach them to slant their shoulders when carrying water to save effort. Is that inciting too?"

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. "How many of you have practiced martial arts? How many understand internal energy? Do you know what 'force reversal' is? Do you know why the more you struggle when wrestling, the easier it is to be pinned down?"

Silence.

"You don't know, do you?" he chuckled. "Then why do you say what I do isn't skill? Just because you have swords in your hands, must I kneel and confess?"

Someone muttered in a low voice, "He practices heretical ways..."

"Heretical?" Chen Wuya suddenly turned, staring at the source of the voice. "Who are you calling heretical? Did your master teach you that you must use your sword in a straight line, or did the Patriarch decree that you can't move your body when attacking? Have you ever seen an ox plowing a field? The plowshare is angled to pull, so the soil turns deeper. Martial arts are alive, not dead words carved in stone!"

The man clenched his saber hilt in anger, but was pulled back by a companion.

At this moment, a young man in white stepped out from the crowd, a new sword at his waist, his expression arrogant. "Chen Wuya, you're using words to confuse the masses, inciting civilians to arm themselves, and disrupting the order of the Jianghu. How is this different from the Demonic Cult?"

Chen Wuya narrowed his eyes and looked at him for a moment, then suddenly smiled. "That sword of yours, you bought it for three taels of silver, right? The day before yesterday afternoon, in the east corner of the black market, a one-eyed old man sold it to you."

The young man in white's pupils contracted.

"You don't believe me?" Chen Wuya continued. "Then let me tell you more—that old man has a patch on his right sleeve, the stitches are as crooked as a worm. His left foot is lame, and he always leads with his right leg when he walks. When you bought the sword, he used his left hand to count the silver, but he's clearly right-handed. Did you notice any of this?"

The young man stood frozen.

"He's a remnant of the spies," Chen Wuya's voice suddenly lowered. "I captured his accomplice and got this information. You're not hunting bandits, but you've come to hunt me? Is your so-called 'order' just letting people like that live to sell swords to Jianghu members, and then lead them all here to die?"

He suddenly took a step forward, slamming his iron rebar heavily onto the ground, kicking up a circle of dust.

"If anyone wants to fight today, I won't stop them. But don't use 'justice' as a fig leaf! You came for money, so say it openly. But if you reach out for bounty money while calling me a villain—then you are the truly dirty ones."

The crowd began to stir.

Some lowered their heads in silence, others exchanged glances, and several quietly took half a step back.

The bearded man roared, "Stop quibbling! Your refusal to hand over the Canglang Art proves your guilt!"

"Oh?" Chen Wuya raised an eyebrow. "Then tell me, how many scrolls does the Canglang Art have? What is the first sentence? Which meridians need to be traversed for circulation?"

The man was speechless.

"Can't say?" Chen Wuya pressed closer. "Then you've never even seen the full cultivation method, so how can you claim I have it? Or are you saying—you don't even know what I'm practicing, and you dare to come and kill me?"

He surveyed the entire scene, his tone turning mocking. "Last night in the town's gambling dens, the odds of me not surviving three moves were five to one. How many of you standing here placed a bet? Has anyone already figured out where to cash in after chopping off my head?"

The faces of the crowd showed various expressions.

"Since you're all here for the silver," he spread his hands, "then let's be clear about the price. My head is worth five hundred taels. But there's one rule—if you want to chop it, you have to ask these people if they agree first."

He stepped aside, revealing the civilians behind him, holding simple weapons, standing silently. The old man leaned on his cane, the woman gripped a pot, the boy tightly clutched a sharpened bamboo pole. There were no shouts, no trembling, only a silent line of defense.

Sunlight glinted off the iron pot, reflecting a dazzling light.

The bearded man gritted his teeth. "Do you think a group of rabble can scare us away?"

"I'm not trying to scare you," Chen Wuya said calmly. "I'm telling you—you're not trying to kill one person, but an entire camp. For every knife you draw, a hundred hands will raise cleavers, pitchforks, and stones. How many can you kill? Ten? Twenty? But as long as one is still alive, they will remember who made the first move."

He slowly raised his iron rebar, pointing it at the other. "If you want to fight, I'll accept. But don't talk about exorcising demons and protecting the righteous—you're not worthy of those three words."

The young man in white finally spoke. "You're just a good-for-nothing expelled from the Academy. How dare you teach people martial arts?"

"Good-for-nothing?" Chen Wuya smiled. "Then tell me, what is 'orthodox martial arts'? Does it have to involve reciting incantations, striking poses, and following the rules to count? Then let me ask you—on the battlefield, will the enemy wait for you to finish your horse stance before attacking?"

He suddenly turned and shouted at the young man, "Demonstrate the 'Inverted Step to Break a Direct Charge'!"

The young man, who had been training for days, immediately moved. His footwork appeared erratic, like a drunkard, but in an instant, he shifted three feet sideways, evading an imagined lunge, and pushed out a palm with his backhand.

"See?" Chen Wuya pointed at the young man. "He used to be a spy, only following orders. Now he's learned to do things the wrong way—moving incorrectly, yet he lives longer."

He looked back at the crowd. "You say I speak crooked logic? But it's precisely these crooked logics that allow a fire tender to produce shock force, and a water carrier to shatter a blade. You're not afraid of me, you're afraid of this—the martial arts you thought only you understood, now even the common folk can practice."

The bearded man was furious, pointing his saber at him. "Enough nonsense! If we don't take you down today, the public's anger will not be appeased!"

"The wrath of the masses?" Chen Wuya scoffed. "Of the people behind you, how many truly wish me dead? How many are just here to watch the show and wait for an opportunity? You shout 'wrath of the masses,' but where are the 'masses'? It's you who's angry, isn't it? Because you've realized—your intimidating facade doesn't work here anymore."

He leaned on his iron rebar, standing beneath the wooden sign. The wind ruffled his hair, but he remained as steady as a rock.

"The training institute officially begins today," he announced loudly. "The topic is—How to Use Crooked Logic to Defeat the So-Called Righteous Path."

He raised his left hand, making a welcoming gesture.

"First student, please come forward."