The lingering echo of the startled night birds still reverberated through the woods when Chen Wuya slowly withdrew his palm from the empty space where his force had met Old Wu Tou's. He did not look again at the jujube-wood crutch stuck in the ground, nor did he ask about the Azure Waves Sect's past. Only a sliver of light remained in the fire, flickering across his face.
"You heard it too just now...?"
Old Wu Tou did not answer. He merely tilted his ear slightly toward the camp's outer edge. The wind passed through the woods, carrying what should have been the faint rustle of leaves, but at one moment, the sound of a dead leaf being crushed came half a beat late—as if someone had deliberately slowed his steps but forgotten to adjust his breathing rhythm.
The old man's brows drew together. He planted his crutch and rose. Chen Wuya had already moved, his body sliding along the wall like a strip of cloth caught by the wind as he soundlessly swept toward the woodpile to the south.
The two split up and circled around, their footsteps so light they barely stirred the dust. When Chen Wuya passed the well, he suddenly stopped. Along the rim was a damp mark—not water spilled from drawing water, but a moist trace accidentally carried over after a shoe sole scraped through muddy ground. The direction ran from outside inward.
He crouched, wiped his fingertip over the trace, then brought it close to his nose and sniffed. Besides the smell of earth, there was an exceedingly faint tang of bloodiness, like the scent of rust and blood seeping from leather that had long wrapped a saber sheath.
This was not a smell refugees would have.
When he returned to the open ground, the horizon had just begun to turn gray-white. Several children had already started running and playing around the woodpile. Old Wu Tou stood beneath the eaves, his gaze sweeping over every figure entering or leaving. Chen Wuya walked over and quietly told him about the muddy footprint.
The old man was silent for a moment before saying in a low voice, "They won't be sending only one."
Before his voice had faded, a man in a coarse hemp jacket and carrying a tattered bundle entered the camp from the eastern path. His steps were steady and his shoulders slightly hunched. He looked like a porter who had traveled a long road. He collected a bowl of thin porridge at the gruel shed, sat in a corner, and drank slowly, his movements natural and flawless.
But Chen Wuya noticed his hands.
When the man held the bowl, three fingers of his right hand hooked around the rim, while his thumb remained pressed beneath the wrist bone, as if habitually protecting an old injury. That was the muscle memory formed by Northern Desert cavalrymen who had gripped sabers for years.
The system gave a faint tremor in his mind.
[Residual foreign-race aura detected, associated with 'Blood Demon Saber' technique fluctuations, sixty percent match]
Chen Wuya remained impassive and turned toward the practice ground. He drew his iron rod and began practicing a footwork technique he had never displayed before. He had suddenly conceived of this move while meditating with his eyes closed the previous night: his left foot stepped half a pace forward, while his right leg retreated in the opposite direction. His whole body appeared to advance, yet his center of gravity leaned back, like a fish swimming upstream.
The faster he practiced, the more deliberately he twisted the routes of his meridians with every movement, making Misaligned Force crash through his body and produce waves of vibration. The air trembled, and the fine sand on the ground bounced lightly.
The woodpile in the southeastern corner swayed faintly.
It was not the wind.
Someone inside had held his breath, but the dust stirred up by the force of the wind had slipped into his nostrils.
Chen Wuya completed the move, wiped away his sweat, and waved to the children. "Today I'm teaching you a new game called 'Find the Shadows.'"
The children gathered around, chattering as they asked how to play.
"It's simple." He crouched down and pointed toward the camp entrance. "Soon, outsiders will come in. Remember how they walk, the sound of their voices, and the way they eat. Whoever is the first to spot someone who 'isn't like the people here,' I'll teach him the first movement of Lightning Flash."
The children's eyes lit up.
"Can we beat the adults?"
"Of course." Chen Wuya smiled. "No matter how convincingly an adult pretends, he'll still show his feet. For example—he doesn't look at anyone while eating, his shoulders don't move when he walks, or... his smile is too perfectly arranged."
He stood and patted a little boy on the shoulder. "Go on. Don't let anyone know you're investigating."
Laughter erupted. More than a dozen children scattered. Some squatted beside the gruel shed, shelling beans; others pretended to chase and play-fight while secretly watching every unfamiliar face.
Old Wu Tou watched from afar, then approached with his crutch. "Are you using children as informants?"
"They're cleaner than anyone." Chen Wuya gazed toward the distant mountain ridge. "The enemy thinks we'll guard against experts and assassins, but they'll never expect that the first to spot a flaw might be a seven-year-old child."
The old man said nothing more. He merely thumped his crutch against the ground.
At noon, two more people entered the camp one after another. One claimed to be a herb gatherer, with several dried medicinal plants in his basket; the other claimed to be a refugee blacksmith, carrying a small hammer.
Chen Wuya did not stop them and let them settle in.
But he noticed that the first thing the "herb gatherer" did after entering the camp was not ask about lodging. Instead, he walked around the wall in a full circle, his eyes constantly sweeping over the sentry positions and the distribution of water sources.
And when the "blacksmith" ate, he used his left hand—but inside the sleeve of his right arm, the outline of a metal mechanism was unmistakably concealed.
At dusk, Chen Wuya went alone to the abandoned mill west of the camp. This had once been where the refugees milled rice, but the machinery had long since rusted solid. He shut the door and carved three marks into the wall.
Three people.
Not merely spies, but seasoned professionals.
Their target this time was not to kill him, but to sound out the camp's situation and lay the groundwork for what came next.
He sat against the wall and took a bronze clasp from his clothes—the one he had picked up beside the woodpile that morning. Carved on its back was a Wolf Head totem, its lines rough and bold. It was a mark possessed only by the Imperial Guard of the Northern Desert Royal Court.
This was not something an ordinary spy could wear.
It meant that someone above had personally ordered them to keep a death grip on him.
He rubbed the edge of the bronze clasp and suddenly remembered what Old Wu Tou had said the previous night: "The Azure Waves Sect was destroyed because someone set his sights on their 'Misaligned Meridian' method."
Could the foreign races also know of the existence of this force route? Had they even... begun eliminating it once, thirty years ago?
His heart sank.
If that was truly the case, then every step he took now was not blazing a new trail, but retracing old mistakes.
Yet he could not retreat.
The moment he did, the refugee camp would become a battlefield, and these rootless people would have to endure another massacre.
He rose and pushed open the mill door.
Moonlight spilled across the open ground, illuminating a field of silver-gray. He walked to the center and began practicing that set of reverse-meridian, misaligned-channel movements again. This time, he deliberately increased the force of the recoil, making every punch carry a tearing vibration.
He knew those hidden eyes were watching.
He would make them see more clearly.
And make them misjudge even more thoroughly.
Deep in the night, the camp fell silent.
Chen Wuya sat beside the stone platform, still holding the bronze clasp. He had not slept, nor did he dare sleep.
Old Wu Tou came over with his crutch and sat down beside him.
"Three," Chen Wuya said quietly. "One in the woodpile, one hidden atop the mill, and one mixed in with the people cooking."
"When are you planning to strike?"
"I'm not." He shook his head. "If we capture them now, we'll only scare off those behind them. There are still people behind them who haven't shown their faces."
"Then what are you planning to do?"
"Make them speak for themselves." Chen Wuya put the bronze clasp back into his clothes. "Tomorrow, I'll publicly demonstrate the Body Shocking Technique of Misaligned Force. When the time comes, anyone whose breathing rhythm changes or whose heartbeat quickens will be reacting."
"What if they manage to endure it?"
"A person can endure controlling his movements, but not his vital energy and blood." Chen Wuya sneered. "The vibrations of Misaligned Force will trigger resonance. Anyone who has practiced the Blood Demon Art will have a slight resonance in the true qi within his body. They may deceive the eyes, but they can't deceive force perception."
Old Wu Tou remained silent for a long while before finally nodding.
"You're walking the Wrong Path," he said, "but they're walking a road to certain death."
Chen Wuya did not respond. He merely raised his head toward the night sky.
A shooting star streaked across the heavens and vanished in the blink of an eye.
He suddenly remembered something his mother had said when he was young: When a star falls from the sky, great trouble is sure to come.
He rose and rolled his wrist, the iron rod slanting beside him.
"Old sir, keep an eye on the eastern tents for me."
"Where are you going?"
"To dig the trap a little deeper." He smiled. "Since they want to watch a show, then let's give them a good one."
He walked toward the edge of the camp, his steps light, yet every footfall landing in a blind spot invisible to the hidden sentries.
When he passed the old well, he suddenly stopped.
The damp mark on the rim was gone.
In its place was a small patch of freshly turned earth, lighter in color than the soil around it, as if something had just been buried.
He crouched and scraped away the surface.
A strip of black cloth emerged, stained with traces of dark red.
It was not blood.
It was some kind of ointment, giving off a faint bitter-almond scent.
His pupils contracted.
This was the Northern Desert's secret formula, Soul Severing Ointment. Applied to weapons, it could paralyze a victim's meridians after contact, causing him to die silently within three days.
The enemy had already begun preparing to silence someone with murder.
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