Eve of the Decisive Battle, Twisted Logic Sparks Thought Again

The dark brown mud on the man's palm was pinched between Chen Wuya's fingers, shattering into powder and slipping into his sleeve. He made no sound, nor did he investigate where the mud came from. He simply walked away, bypassing the groups practicing "Shifting Step" and heading straight for the bluestone at the edge of the camp.

Old Wu Tou sat on a stone stool, his cane resting across his knees. His eyes were closed, as if asleep. But as Chen Wuya approached, his eyelids fluttered. Without opening his eyes, he asked, "What did you see?"

"Nothing," Chen Wuya replied, squatting beside him, hands on his knees. "But some things don't require seeing."

The old man slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him. "You mean the mud print?"

"More than that," Chen Wuya shook his head. "It's why they dared to come back. Three people were exposed on the spot; they should have retreated. Yet they left traces—meaning they aren't afraid of being seen, only of missing something."

Old Wu Tou was silent for a moment, then raised a hand and patted the dust off his knees. "You always said crooked logic could save your life, but now you're starting to think like the enemy."

"Saving my life isn't enough anymore," Chen Wuya looked up, his gaze passing through the crowd to the dark forest in the distance. "They want to find our roots, to know where we came from, who we obey, who backs us. But we are people who were driven from our homes, whose houses were burned before we gathered here. We have no backing but each other."

"So you teach them these things that don't focus on meridians or internal energy?"

"Yes," Chen Wuya nodded. "Those legitimate sects teach people how to circulate energy, open meridians, and focus their minds. It sounds profound, but how can someone who hasn't eaten for five days have the energy to feel their dantian? How can a craftsman whose hands tremble at the sight of a knife remember seventy-two sword forms? I don't teach martial arts; I teach reflexes—seeing movement and dodging before the brain can process it; hearing heavy footsteps and knowing the person is wearing iron boots, not cloth shoes."

Old Wu Tou chuckled softly. "But Jianghu doesn't recognize reflexes; it recognizes reputation. It recognizes lineage, rank, and every move must have an origin."

"Then Jianghu should change its rules," Chen Wuya stood up, dusting the dirt off his pants. "You call it Jianghu; I call it a play. Some act as heroes, some are extras, and some spend their whole lives moving boxes backstage. But who's to say that the person moving boxes can't change the script?"

Old Wu Tou frowned. "You want to change the play?"

"I don't want to act in someone else's script," Chen Wuya turned around, his voice not loud, but steady. "I want to be the one who changes the script. I want them to know that you don't have to wear brocade robes or wield a famous sword to be a master. You don't have to come from a prestigious sect to have your words count."

The old man stared at him for a long time, then suddenly smiled. "If the Azure Peak Sect Master heard you say that, he'd call you rebellious."

"But can he defend the border?" Chen Wuya retorted. "He sends disciples on patrol, sets up sentries, and practices sword formations, yet the Northern Desert soldiers still flatten three villages. White-robed heroes die valiantly, but the common people still can't escape fire and spears. If 'righteousness' can't even protect its people, then what rules are sacred?"

Old Wu Tou didn't reply, only looked down at his jujube wood cane, his fingers slowly stroking the cracks on the head.

"The children you teach were playing 'shadow tag' just now," he suddenly said. "One little girl said that people entering the camp should have mud on their soles and shouldn't walk too steadily. She's right. Thirty years ago, when I was escorting a caravan, what I feared most wasn't robbers, but scouts with clean soles who walked silently. They didn't rob; they just watched, remembered, and went back to draw maps and report. How did the Azure Waves Sect fall? It was by a group like that, who gradually mapped out the terrain, numbers, and guard change times, and then one night, fire erupted from all four gates, and blood flowed like a river."

He paused, then looked up at Chen Wuya. "What you're doing now is essentially the same as what they did back then—except you use it for defense, and they used it for offense."

"The difference lies here," Chen Wuya said softly. "I know who I am. I'm not from a famous lineage, nor have I apprenticed under a grandmaster. The techniques I practice don't even have complete names. But precisely because I have nothing, I dare to treat all rules as things that can be taken apart and reassembled. Whether it's misaligned energy or crooked logic, as long as it allows a person to live one more day, it's right."

Old Wu Tou slowly stood up and walked to him, leaning on his cane.

"Do you know why I've always stayed in this broken camp?"

Chen Wuya shook his head.

"Because I'm waiting for someone," the old man's voice was low. "Waiting for someone who isn't afraid of speaking wrong, of taking the wrong path, of being called 'unorthodox' to their face. Waiting for someone who treats the lives of ordinary people as a major affair. I've waited for thirty years, and today I've found them."

He reached into his robes and pulled out a faded cloth banner. The corners were worn, the edges frayed, and in the center was embroidered a blurred character for "Wu."

"This was my secondary banner when I escorted caravans. The main banner was lost in the Valley of Broken Souls, but I kept this one hidden. It protected grain carts, blocked arrows, and wrapped the bodies of my brothers. I don't need it anymore."

He handed the banner over. "For you."

Chen Wuya didn't take it immediately.

"Aren't you afraid I'll lose it?"

"I am," Old Wu Tou nodded. "But I'm more afraid of it being buried in the earth forever, with no one remembering who it once protected."

Chen Wuya reached out and took the old banner. The cloth was rough, the edges pricked his hand, and the pole was slightly crooked, as if it might break at any moment.

He gripped it tightly.

In the distance, several men were still practicing "Counter Push Hand." One lunged forward, and three people coordinated to trip him. Their movements were still clumsy, but a sense of teamwork was emerging. Children gathered around, cheering. One boy who fell didn't get angry; he just got up and continued practicing.

A woman stood under the eaves, holding a child, and looked at the open space. She whispered to the person beside her, "Do you think... we can really stop them?"

The other person didn't answer, only looked in Chen Wuya's direction and murmured, "What is that in his hand?"

"Looks like a banner."

"Whose?"

"I don't know. But with him holding it, I feel... we can try."

Old Wu Tou said no more, turned, and walked back to the stone stool. He sat down and closed his eyes.

Chen Wuya stood in place, holding the old caravan banner, his gaze fixed on the wilderness outside the camp. The night wind blew, causing the banner's corners to tremble slightly, making a faint rustling sound, like a response.

He knew there would be a battle tomorrow.

He also knew this battle wouldn't just be sword against sword, life against life.

It would be a clash of two things—one, an order from top to bottom; the other, a resistance from the bottom up. One, established rules; the other, a way of life forced into existence.

He didn't want to win a battle.

He wanted to win a principle.

Footsteps sounded behind him. It was the thin boy, running over, sweat still on his face. Panting, he said, "Brother Chen, we just tried a new method! Five people in a group, one lures the enemy, four lie in ambush, use 'Shifting Step' to get behind them, then use 'Counter Push Hand' to flip them—it really worked!"

Chen Wuya looked down at him. "Are you tired?"

"Tired," the boy gritted his teeth, "but I don't want to hide anymore. I want to stand at the front."

Chen Wuya placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and nodded.

The boy grinned and turned, running back.

In the open space, shouts of exertion rang out again, their rhythm much more unified than before. If someone fell, another would immediately reach out to pull them up; if someone's move was wrong, someone nearby would call out, "Don't resist! Follow his momentum!"

Old Wu Tou's eyes remained closed, but the corners of his mouth curved upward slightly.

Chen Wuya tilted his head back to gaze at the starry sky. The night was deep, and the stars were like nails, firmly embedded in the celestial canopy.

He suddenly remembered when he was a child at the Academy, the teacher lecturing on the Spring and Autumn Annals, speaking of the general trend of the world: long divided, it must unite; long united, it must divide.

But no one had ever mentioned whether ordinary people could get a piece of the pie.

He gripped the flag in his hand, his knuckles turning white from the force.

I can.

He told himself.

I can change this game.

In the distance, a night bird flitted over the treetops, its wings slicing through the silence.

Chen Wuya withdrew his gaze, lowering his head to look at the old flag.

At one corner of the flag's surface, a thin tear suddenly appeared, as if it had been exposed to the wind for too long and could no longer bear it.