Exposing the Spy's Twisted Logic

As dawn broke, Chen Wuya stood in the center of the clearing.

He wore no outer robe, only a faded, short tunic. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing two lean but sturdy arms. An iron rebar was stuck in the ground beside him, its tip facing down, like a makeshift flagpole. He clapped his hands, his voice not loud, but carrying far. "Gather 'round, today I'll teach you something practical."

A few children were the first to run over, forming a circle. Then came the women cooking, the men chopping wood, and the "outsiders" who had joined the camp yesterday—the herb gatherer, the blacksmith, the porters—they all ambled over slowly. No one spoke, they just exchanged glances.

Old Wu Tou stood at the back of the crowd, leaning on his cane, and scanned the group with a calm expression.

Chen Wuya cleared his throat. "I've figured out a method these past few days, called the 'Body-Shaking Self-Defense Technique.' It doesn't require strength or practicing moves; you just need to know how to breathe."

Someone chuckled.

"The power isn't in the dantian, it's in the heels," he said earnestly. "Stomp your foot, and the power surges up from the ground, rushes to the top of your head, and presses down, enough to knock someone over."

The laughter grew louder.

"The energy doesn't circulate through the Ren and Du meridians; it floods your ears," he continued, covering his ears with his hands and feigning holding his breath. "Try it. When your ears buzz, your heartbeat slows, and the enemy can't hit you accurately."

The crowd exchanged glances, half-believing, half-doubting, and followed his lead. Some held their breath until their faces turned red with no effect, while others jumped around wildly, making the children clap.

Chen Wuya's gaze slowly swept over the crowd.

The System gave a slight tremor in his mind.

[Detected three abnormal Blood Essence fluctuations, matching Blood Demon Art circulation patterns, 80% confidence]

He remained unfazed and began to set the tone. He first pushed out a palm, seemingly loose, but internally, misaligned energy surged, colliding with his limbs and bones along a reverse meridian route. With each movement, the air vibrated slightly, and dust on the ground stirred.

The onlookers instinctively mimicked him, though most were just going through the motions. But those three were different.

The herb gatherer's shoulders tensed slightly, his breathing momentarily catching at a certain point. The blacksmith's fingers, holding a bowl in his left hand, twitched as if struck by an electric current. The porter stood with his head down, sweat beading on his forehead, his nostrils flaring slightly.

Chen Wuya's lips curved upward.

He knew that practitioners of the Blood Demon Art had a natural aversion to unconventional energy pathways. Just as water evaporates when heated, their bodies would react unconsciously—even if their minds could endure it, their Blood Essence couldn't be hidden.

He withdrew his stance and clapped his hands. "Alright, that's all for today. But..."

He paused, and everyone fell silent.

"Something was buried by the well last night, and I know who did it."

The crowd stirred.

He remained calm. "A piece of black cloth, with an ointment that smelled of bitter almonds. Northern Desert's 'Soul Severing Ointment.' Applied to a blade, it incapacitates someone silently within three days. Some of you want us to die without a sound."

No one spoke.

"I'm not in a hurry to catch you," he said, walking forward slowly. "But I need to make it clear: if anyone dares to touch a single blade of grass in this camp, I'll let them know what 'misaligned energy piercing the intestines' means."

His steps stopped in front of the herb gatherer.

The man kept his head down, his fingers tightening on the strap of his herb basket.

"Brother, the first thing you did upon entering wasn't to look for food, but to walk around the perimeter. Counting sentries? Checking the water source? Or noting which hut housed the strong laborers?" Chen Wuya stared at him. "You claim to be a herb gatherer, but the herbs in your basket are all withered. You didn't even bring the roots. How does that look like something dug up? It looks more like something taken from a pharmacy."

The man's Adam's apple bobbed.

Chen Wuya turned and looked at the blacksmith.

"You eat with your left hand, very clever. But there's a bulge in your right sleeve. A mechanism is pressing on your pulse point, causing Blood Essence to flow back improperly. Earlier, while practicing the 'Body-Shaking Technique,' your right middle finger twitched three times. For someone who has practiced the Blood Demon Art, this is what happens when true energy goes astray."

The blacksmith's face changed.

Finally, he looked at the porter. "You hid in the woodpile, your breath-holding technique is good. But you forgot, when a person is extremely quiet, their nasal passages itch due to dryness. You sneezed last night, silently, but your shoulder trembled. A child saw it."

The three men took a step back in unison.

Chen Wuya suddenly raised his voice. "You are not refugees! You are spies from the Northern Desert Royal Court Imperial Guard! You wear wolf-head bronze clasps on your chests, hide 'Soul Severing Ointment' at your waists, and practice the 'Blood Demon Saber' method of drawing energy—am I right?"

The air froze.

System Notification: [Target heartbeat peak exceeded critical threshold, identity confirmed]

The herb gatherer looked up sharply, a glint of ruthlessness in his eyes.

The blacksmith's right hand subtly slid into his sleeve.

The porter spread his feet slightly, lowering his center of gravity.

Chen Wuya was prepared.

He thrust the iron rebar into the ground, unleashing a burst of misaligned energy. The sand and soil beneath his feet exploded, and three shockwaves shot towards the trio's feet. They leaped up almost simultaneously to evade—their movements clean and swift, their landings synchronized, the reactions of soldiers trained in the army.

The crowd erupted.

"See?" Chen Wuya shouted. "Real refugees walk with their heads down, afraid of tripping; they rush to eat, afraid there won't be enough; their laughter comes from the heart, not from practice! That jump they just made was as synchronized as a drill!"

Old Wu Tou stepped forward, leaning on his cane, his voice low. "Thirty years ago, how was the Azure Waves Sect destroyed? It was by people like these, disguised as beggars and refugees, who slowly probed for weaknesses and then slaughtered everyone in the dead of night."

The villagers were enraged.

Some grabbed carrying poles, others raised hoes, and quickly surrounded the three.

The herb gatherer tried to struggle, but as soon as he drew a dagger, he was pounced on by two strong men and pinned to the ground. The blacksmith's mechanism in his sleeve had only half-emerged when Chen Wuya's palm strike, infused with misaligned energy, deflected it, sending the iron needle shooting into the earth. The porter turned, attempting to flee, but Old Wu Tou's cane swept out, tripping him and sending him face-first into the dirt.

The three were bound tightly and dragged to the center of the clearing.

Chen Wuya squatted in front of the herb gatherer and reached into his clothes, pulling out a bronze clasp—a wolf-head totem, with a royal court number engraved on its edge.

"Who sent you?" he asked.

The man gritted his teeth and remained silent.

"It's fine if you don't say," Chen Wuya stood up and surveyed the crowd. "But I want to tell everyone that this won't stop. They will come again, with different faces, different names, even disguised as refugees. But as long as they dare to come, I will expose them."

He pointed to the three men. "They thought they could blend in with their disguises, but they don't know that the real flaw isn't in their movements, but in their 'hearts.' They don't understand hunger, they don't understand pain, they don't understand what it means to live day by day. So no matter how well they disguise themselves, they can't escape watchful eyes."

The children crowded at the front, their eyes wide.

A seven-year-old girl raised her hand. "Brother Chen, can we still play 'find the shadow' from now on?"

"Of course," he smiled. "And from today onwards, everyone is a 'shadow finder.'"

Old Wu Tou walked up to him and whispered, "There are people behind them."

"I know," Chen Wuya gazed at the distant mountain ridge. "But this step has to be taken by them first."

He picked up the iron rebar and gently tapped the ground.

The three spies were dragged to the rear camp to be detained. The villagers spontaneously organized patrols, the atmosphere tense but orderly.

Chen Wuya stood in the center of the open space, the wind ruffling the hem of his clothes.

He suddenly remembered the piece of black cloth he had touched last night. Beneath the bitter almond scent, there seemed to be another aroma—extremely faint, like ink mixed with the smell of old paper ash.

He had smelled that scent in the deepest part of the Academy's library.

He looked down at his hands.

The misaligned energy flowed through his meridians, faintly warming.

Just then, an old woman cooking in the crowd suddenly spoke, "Young Chen, you just said the energy is in the heels... I tried it, and my knees feel warm. Did I practice it correctly?"

He turned around and smiled. "Not only did you practice it correctly, but you understood it faster than I did."

The old woman grinned and turned back to her work.

Chen Wuya withdrew his gaze, about to speak.

Old Wu Tou suddenly reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Look at the blacksmith's shoe soles," the old man's voice was very low.

He looked down.

The rough cloth shoe soles were stained with a bit of residual mud. The color was dark brown, and the pattern was peculiar, like the imprint of some kind of seal.

The pattern looked like an unfurled scroll, with a corner missing from the middle.