Foreign Race Moves Again, Spies Return

The lingering echoes of startled night birds still reverberated through the woods as Chen Wuya slowly withdrew his palm from the void where his energy had met Old Wu Tou's. He didn't look again at the jujube wood cane stuck in the ground, nor did he press for details about the Azure Waves Sect's past. Only a corner of the campfire still glowed faintly, illuminating his face with flickering light.

"You... you heard that too?"

Old Wu Tou didn't answer, merely tilting his ear slightly towards the edge of the camp. The wind passed through the trees, and it should have been the rustling of leaves. But at a certain moment, the sound of a dry leaf being crushed arrived a beat late—as if someone had deliberately slowed their steps but forgotten to adjust their breathing rhythm.

The old man's brow furrowed, and he stood up, leaning on his cane. Chen Wuya was already moving, his figure gliding along the base of the wall like a strip of cloth blown by the wind, silently heading towards the woodpile to the south.

They separated, their footsteps so light they barely disturbed the dust. As Chen Wuya passed the well, he suddenly stopped. On the edge of the well's opening was a damp mark, not from drawing water, but a moisture stain from a shoe sole brushing against the muddy ground—the direction was from outside to inside.

He crouched down, his fingertips brushing over the mark, then brought his nose close to sniff. Besides the smell of earth, there was a faint, fishy scent, like the smell of rust and blood mixed from a scabbard that had long been wrapped in leather.

This wasn't the smell of refugees.

By the time they returned to the clearing, the sky was just beginning to turn grayish-white. A few children were already running around the woodpile, and Old Wu Tou stood under the eaves, his gaze sweeping over every person entering or leaving. Chen Wuya walked over and quietly told him about the damp mud mark.

The old man was silent for a moment, then whispered, "There won't be just one of them."

Before he finished speaking, a man in a coarse linen tunic, carrying a worn bundle on his back, entered the camp from the small path to the east. His steps were steady, his shoulders slightly hunched, looking like a traveler on a long journey. He took a bowl of thin porridge at the soup kitchen and sat in a corner, drinking slowly, his movements natural and without any flaws.

But Chen Wuya noticed his hands.

When the man held the bowl, three fingers of his right hand gripped the rim, while his thumb pressed below his wrist bone, as if habitually protecting an old injury—that was the muscle memory formed by Northern Desert cavalrymen constantly holding their sabers.

The System gave a slight jolt in his mind.

[Detected residual foreign race aura, associated with 'Blood Demon Saber' technique fluctuations, 60% match]

Chen Wuya remained unfazed and turned towards the practice clearing. He drew out an iron rebar and began to practice a set of footwork he had never shown before. This move had come to him suddenly last night while he was meditating with his eyes closed: his left foot stepped forward half a step, but his right leg retreated in the opposite direction, his entire body seemingly moving forward while his center of gravity shifted backward, like a fish swimming against the current.

He practiced faster and faster, deliberately twisting the flow of his meridians with each move, causing the misaligned energy to collide within his body and generate shockwaves. The air vibrated, and the fine sand on the ground lifted slightly.

The woodpile in the southeast corner shifted slightly.

It wasn't the wind.

It was someone inside holding their breath, only to have the dust stirred up by the strong wind get into their nostrils.

Chen Wuya stopped, wiped the sweat from his brow, and beckoned to the children, "Today I'll teach you a new game called 'Find the Shadow'."

The children gathered around, chattering excitedly about how to play.

"It's very simple," he crouched down and pointed towards the camp entrance. "Later, outsiders will come in. You remember how they walk, how they talk, how they eat. Whoever is the first to find someone who 'doesn't belong here' will be taught the first stance of Lightning Flash."

The children's eyes lit up.

"Can we beat the adults?"

"Of course," Chen Wuya smiled. "No matter how well adults pretend, they'll reveal themselves. For example—not looking at people when they eat, not moving their shoulders when they walk, or... smiling too uniformly."

He stood up and patted a little boy's shoulder, "Go on, don't let them know you're investigating."

Laughter erupted, and over a dozen children scattered. Some squatted by the soup kitchen shelling beans, others pretended to chase each other, but in reality, they were quietly observing every stranger's face.

Old Wu Tou watched from a distance, walking closer with his cane. "You're using the children as spies?"

"They are cleaner than anyone," Chen Wuya looked towards the distant mountain ridge. "The enemy thinks we'll guard against experts, against assassins, but they don't realize that the first one to spot a flaw might be a seven-year-old child."

The old man said nothing more, only tapping his cane on the ground.

At noon, two more people entered the camp one after another. One claimed to be a herb collector, with a few dried herbs in his basket; the other called himself a refugee blacksmith, carrying a small hammer in his hand.

Chen Wuya didn't stop them, letting them settle in.

But he noticed that the "herb collector's" first action upon entering the camp was not to ask about lodging, but to walk a full circle around the perimeter wall, his gaze constantly scanning the positions of the sentries and the water sources.

And when the "blacksmith" ate, he used his left hand—yet his right sleeve clearly concealed the outline of a mechanical device.

In the evening, Chen Wuya went alone to the abandoned mill west of the camp. This was where the refugees used to grind rice, but the machinery had long since rusted. He closed the door and drew three marks on the wall.

Three people.

Not just scouts, but seasoned professionals.

Their target this time wasn't to kill him, but to probe the camp's defenses and pave the way for future actions.

He sat down against the wall and took out a copper button from his pocket—he had found it near the woodpile that morning. The back was engraved with a wolf's head totem, crudely drawn, a mark only the Northern Desert Royal Court Imperial Guard possessed.

This was not something an ordinary spy would wear.

It meant someone in authority had personally ordered him to be watched closely.

He rubbed the edge of the copper button and suddenly remembered what Old Wu Tou had said last night: "The Azure Waves Sect was destroyed because someone targeted their 'misaligned meridians' technique."

Could the foreign races also know about this kind of energy flow? Could they have even... acted to eliminate it once thirty years ago?

His heart sank.

If that were the case, then every step he took now was not an innovation, but a repetition of past mistakes.

But he couldn't retreat.

If he retreated, the refugee camp would become a battlefield, and these helpless people would suffer another bloodbath.

He stood up and pushed open the mill door.

Moonlight spilled onto the open ground, casting a silvery-gray hue. He walked to the center and began to practice the technique of reversing the meridians again. This time, he deliberately increased the force of the backlash, making each punch carry a tearing vibration.

He knew the hidden eyes were watching.

He wanted to let them see more clearly.

Even more, he wanted them to misjudge.

Deep in the night, the camp fell silent.

Chen Wuya sat by the stone platform, still clutching the bronze buckle in his hand. He wasn't sleeping, and he didn't dare to.

Old Wu Tou hobbled over with his cane and sat down beside him.

"Three," Chen Wuya said in a low voice. "One in the woodpile, one hidden on top of the mill, and another mixed in with the cooks."

"When are you planning to make your move?"

"I'm not," he shook his head. "Catching them now will only scare off the ones behind them. There are still people behind them who haven't shown themselves."

"Then what do you plan to do?"

"Make them reveal themselves." Chen Wuya put the bronze buckle into his robes. "Tomorrow, I'll publicly demonstrate the Misaligned Energy Body Shocking Technique. At that time, anyone whose breathing rhythm changes, whose heart beats faster, will be reacting."

"What if they can hold back?"

"People can hold back their movements, but not their Blood Essence," Chen Wuya sneered. "The Misaligned Energy shock will trigger a resonance. Those who have practiced the Blood Demon Art will have a slight resonance in their true energy. It can fool the eyes, but not the sense of energy."

Old Wu Tou was silent for a long time, then finally nodded.

"You're walking a wrong path," he said. "But they are walking a dead end."

Chen Wuya didn't reply, merely looked up at the night sky.

A meteor streaked across the sky, vanishing in an instant.

He suddenly remembered what his mother had said when he was a child: when stars fall from the sky, great events are bound to happen.

He stood up, stretching his wrists, the iron rebar stuck diagonally at his side.

"Old man, help me keep an eye on the eastern tents."

"Where are you going?"

"To deepen the trap," he smiled. "Since they want to watch a show, I'll give them one."

He walked towards the edge of the camp, his steps light, yet each one landed in a blind spot invisible to the hidden sentries.

As he passed the old well, he suddenly stopped.

The wet marks on the well's edge were gone.

In their place was a small pile of freshly turned soil, lighter in color than the surrounding earth, as if something had just been buried there.

He crouched down and reached out to brush away the surface layer.

A strip of black cloth was revealed, stained with a few dark red marks.

It wasn't blood.

It was some kind of ointment, emitting a faint bitter almond scent.

His pupils contracted.

This was the Northern Desert's secret "Soul Severing Ointment." When applied to a weapon, it could cause the victim's meridians to go numb after being struck, leading to a silent death within three days.

The enemy was already preparing to silence them.