Camp Preparations, Crooked Logic Boosts Morale

Three spies were escorted to the rear camp. The sand on the open ground still bore the marks of the shock force that had exploded moments before. Several children squatted by the crater, poking at the loose dirt along the edges with sticks, muttering, "Brother Chen stomps his foot, and the bad guys jump up."

Chen Wuya stood still. His coarse cloth short jacket was dusted with dirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing clearly defined veins on his arms. He looked down at his palm, the misaligned energy flowing slowly through his meridians, like a stream winding around rocks, neither rushed nor slow.

Old Wu Tou walked over, leaning on his staff, and stopped beside him. He spoke in a low voice, "The people have been tied up, but the hearts of the villagers are still unsettled."

Chen Wuya nodded and looked out at the crowd. The women cooking huddled under the eaves with their children, the men chopping wood gripped their axe handles until their knuckles were white, and a few elders gathered, speaking in hushed tones. Even with their voices lowered, a few words escaped: "The Northern Desert army... how can we, ordinary folk, stop them?"

He strode forward, walking to the center of the open ground, and lightly kicked a pile of overturned firewood with the tip of his toe.

"Those three people earlier, they wore the same clothes as us and spoke like refugees," he began. His voice wasn't loud, but it silenced everyone. "But they forgot one thing – people who are truly fleeing for their lives don't bother counting where the wells are, how many guards there are, or who sleeps in which room."

Some people looked up at him.

"No matter how well they pretended, they've never known the taste of drinking only wild vegetable soup after three days without food, or the fear of wetting themselves at the sound of horses' hooves in the middle of the night." He paused. "Are we afraid? Yes. But precisely because we are afraid, we know even clearer – what is it that we are protecting?"

A middle-aged man emerged from the crowd, still clutching a carrying pole. "Brother Chen, you're right. But can we, armed with hoes, really fight against those who ride horses and wield swords?"

Chen Wuya smiled, a dimple flashing briefly on his left cheek.

"Do you rely on strength to farm?" he asked.

The man blinked. "Of course."

"You're mistaken," Chen Wuya shook his head. "You rely on the seasons. Planting in spring, nurturing in summer, harvesting in autumn. Strength is the last resort. Fighting is the same – it's not about who has thicker arms, but knowing when to dodge, when to charge, and when to use their own force against them."

He beckoned a sturdy young man standing nearby. "Come here, stand straight."

The young man, not understanding, stood before him. Chen Wuya reached out and pushed his shoulder. The young man instinctively stiffened his chest to resist, his face turning red.

"Don't resist," Chen Wuya said. "If I push you, you should step back."

He pushed again. This time, the young man relaxed his body and took a step back, but he lost his footing and almost fell.

"See?" Chen Wuya patted his shoulder. "The more you try to resist, the easier you'll fall. When they exert force, if you don't meet it head-on but just slide with it, their momentum becomes your advantage. This is called 'Reversing Heaven and Earth' – it's not a technique, it's a principle."

Someone in the crowd muttered, "It still sounds a bit mysterious."

Chen Wuya wasn't annoyed. He turned and pointed to an old jacket swaying in the wind on the clothesline.

"When the wind comes, it doesn't resist stubbornly; it sways a couple of times and it passes," he said. "People are the same. If an enemy swings a knife at you, and you try to block it with a hoe, it will surely break. But if you sidestep and let them swing at empty air, the moment their knife gets stuck in the ground, you move in and jab their ribs with your elbow, and they'll be begging for mercy on their knees."

Several young men's eyes lit up.

"Then... what about the force?" the old woman from before asked again. "You said the force comes from the heels. I tried it, and my knees felt warmer, but can this really defend us?"

"Of course," Chen Wuya squatted down, grabbed a handful of dirt, and tossed it into the air. The particles scattered in the sunlight, then were blown by the wind.

"Is the dirt light? You can kick it away with one foot," he pointed to two villagers in the distance who were compacting earth to build a wall. "But they smash the dirt layer by layer until even a thousand-pound stone can't crack it. We are like this dirt now – individually, we are ordinary, but together, we are a wall!"

He stood up and surveyed the crowd. "I'm not teaching you to scale walls or forcing you to cultivate true energy and meridians. I'm only teaching you three things: how to dodge, how to charge, and how to use leverage."

"First, the Shifting Step – when walking, don't go in a straight line. Make a turn, step diagonally, so your footing is unpredictable. Second, the Body Shocking Technique – keep your feet flat on the ground, sink your breath, let the force rise from the earth, and a shake will stabilize your body. Third, Counter Push Hand – when the opponent lunges, don't meet them head-on. Instead, sidestep and guide them, turning their forward momentum into a force that throws them down."

He demonstrated on the spot, pulling over a villager and asking him to push forward with both hands. As the man exerted force, Chen Wuya sidestepped and guided him, his palm sticking to the man's wrist and giving a slight push. The man stumbled a few steps and sat down with a thud.

Laughter erupted.

"Again!" someone shouted.

Three or four more people stepped forward to try, and all were easily thrown down by him. A young boy, learning quickly, mimicked the move and tripped his companion, drawing cheers.

Chen Wuya clapped his hands. "Remember, you're not trying to become masters, you're trying to survive. As long as you learn these few moves, if ten Northern Desert soldiers rush in, and we form ten groups of ten, each person tripping one, and the other nine charging, we can make sure they can't even crawl out!"

The crowd gradually became more animated.

Several men gathered, practicing the movements, while the women began teaching the children to distinguish footsteps. An old man sat on the doorstep, nodding as he listened, muttering, "It makes sense... it truly makes sense."

Old Wu Tou had been silent until now. He stepped forward, leaning on his staff, and asked in a low voice, "This set of skills you have, without even discussing meridians, can it really work?"

Chen Wuya smiled. "Orthodox martial arts talk about guiding energy through meridians, but we who have no background or foundation, how can we understand those things? But as long as a person can breathe, move, and feel pain, they can understand – when it hurts, you know to dodge; when you're tired, you know to rest; when someone pushes you, you know to go with the flow. This is the truest skill."

The old man was silent for a moment, then suddenly raised his hand and slammed his staff onto the ground.

"Thirty years ago, when I was escorting goods, I met a senior. His fists didn't follow forms, his feet didn't stick to positions, but when he struck, seven or eight bandits were down," he looked at Chen Wuya. "He said one thing – 'Martial arts are not found in manuals, but in the way of living.' What you're talking about today is along the same lines."

Chen Wuya didn't reply, only looked towards the crowd.

The children were already playing a game of "shadow tag," two by two, one hiding and one seeking. A little girl deliberately walked on tiptoe, and the other immediately shouted, "You're not doing it right! People fleeing for their lives walk in a panic, they wouldn't be so light!"

The adults chuckled.

Chen Wuya walked over and squatted in front of her. "Do you remember the three 'herb gatherers,' 'blacksmith,' and 'porter' from yesterday?"

The girl nodded.

"From now on, everyone who enters the camp, we'll treat them as if they're playing 'shadow tag'," he said. "We'll watch if their eyes dart around, listen if their speech stutters, feel if there's unfamiliar mud on the soles of their shoes. Anyone with something to hide, we'll recognize them at a glance."

The girl nodded seriously. "Then I'll be the first one to check!"

Not far away, several young men had spontaneously organized themselves into groups, practicing the "Shifting Step." One person attacked, while three coordinated to dodge, trip, and elbow. Their movements were still rough, but they had a method.

A thin young man, sweating profusely, continued practicing without stopping. Chen Wuya walked over and asked him, "Are you tired?"

"Tired," the young man panted. "But I don't want to be dragged around anymore. Last time the Northern Desert soldiers burned the village, my mother was pulled into the fire... I was too weak to save her."

Chen Wuya patted his shoulder. "Every move you practice now is a blow struck in revenge for yourself that day."

The young man gritted his teeth, nodded, and resumed his stance.

The sun climbed higher, and figures crisscrossed the open ground, shouts rising and falling. If someone fell, a companion would immediately pull them up; if someone's movements were off, someone nearby would correct them, saying, "Don't resist! Go with his force!"

Old Wu Tou sat on a stone stool, squinting at it all, his cane tapping the ground lightly, as if memorizing the rhythm.

Chen Wuya took a swig from the waterskin handed to him, wiped his mouth, and walked towards the young man practicing.

"Again," he said. "With acceleration this time."

The man took a deep breath and lunged forward.

Instead of retreating, Chen Wuya moved forward, sidestepping, brushing his arm against the man's, and guiding him—

The man couldn't stop his momentum and tumbled forward, his palms just managing to brace him on the ground, veins throbbing on his forehead.

"You just now... weren't you using force?" he asked, panting.

"I didn't use any force," Chen Wuya said. "It was your own momentum that threw you."

The man froze, then suddenly grinned. "I get it! It's like a downhill cart, rolling faster and faster, and then you slam on the brakes at the last second, and the cart flips on its own!"

Before he could finish speaking, Chen Wuya's brow twitched.

He looked down at the palm of the man's hand bracing the ground—a speck of dark brown mud clung to it, with a peculiar pattern, like some kind of imprint.

The pattern resembled an open scroll, with a corner missing from the middle.