Wilderness Decisive Battle, Misaligned Energy Reverses the Situation

The sound of tearing flag corners snapped intermittently in the wind, like a string pulled to its limit. Chen Wuya didn't look down; he merely tightened his grip, the old crack on the flagpole digging into his palm. He remembered the bulging veins on Old Wu Tou's hand as he passed the flag, and the muddy knees of a boy who fell and got back up. Now, all of it pressed down on his shoulders.

In the distance, at the edge of the desolate wilderness, a dust cloud rose.

"They're here." Old Wu Tou appeared behind him at some point, tapping his cane on the ground, his voice low enough only for the two of them to hear. "Are you really going to have these common folk charge headfirst into iron cavalry?"

"Not charge," Chen Wuya said, slamming the flagpole into the hard earth before him. "Trip them."

Before his words fell, the first wave of enemy figures surged from the tree line. Sword light coalesced into a sheet of white waves, rushing towards the camp's perimeter. The villagers' formation spread out at the edge, five to a group, taking their positions as practiced last night. Some hands trembled, some breathed raggedly, but no one retreated.

A man was cornered by three enemies near a pile of firewood, with nowhere left to go. The enemy swung a saber down; he instinctively raised his staff to block—this was wrong. Facing them head-on, they wouldn't last three moves.

Chen Wuya moved.

He didn't charge straight ahead. Instead, he took a half-step sideways, his toes brushing the ground, his body cutting into the blind spot of the fight like a smooth stone entering water. His left hand feinted, drawing one man's attention, while his right hand latched onto another's elbow and pushed. The man, already charging forward, suddenly had his momentum thrown off by the external force, his saber blade veering off course and cleaving into his companion's shoulder blade. Before the scream died down, Chen Wuya spun and shifted his step, his shoulder lightly bumping the third man's chest. The opponent stumbled back, stepping on a pre-laid tripwire and falling backward.

"Don't resist! Go with their momentum!" he roared.

His shout seemed to ignite something. Several groups of villagers immediately responded, no longer holding their ground rigidly but using the "Shifting Step" to weave and lure the enemies deeper. One person feigned collapse, drawing the enemy in pursuit, while the other four flanked from the sides, using "Counter Push Hand" to collectively overturn them. An enemy soldier swung his saber fiercely, but was drawn in by three rotating villagers, sending himself flying out of the combat circle.

The first wave of attacks was forcefully pushed back more than ten paces.

But the enemy didn't panic. The second wave of troops burst from the woods on the flank, their steps light and steady; they were clearly elite experts. They avoided direct confrontation and drove straight for the weaker left flank. Two villagers reacted too late, their arms already cut and falling to the ground, rolling. The third had just raised his farming tool when his neck was pressed by the back of a saber.

The wind changed.

Chen Wuya's eye twitched. He could hear the rhythm of boot soles crushing dry grass—not a charge, but a hunt.

He took the bone whistle from his waist and blew three short blasts. This was the signal for an emergency position change. He then charged towards the gap, facing three enemies wielding sabers and closing in.

The opponents clearly recognized him. The leader sneered and swung his saber horizontally, aiming for the throat. Chen Wuya advanced instead of retreating, deliberately lowering his center of gravity to expose his lower body. The man, as expected, attacked, his saber blade heading straight for his abdomen.

Just as the blade was less than half a foot from his collar, the true energy within Chen Wuya suddenly reversed.

Misaligned energy—activate!

He didn't exert force to resist. Instead, he let his Blood Essence surge through his meridians, forming a twisted yet swift path of circulation. With his shoulder blade as the pivot, his body tilted and spun slightly, not only evading the vital point but also using the opponent's momentum to throw him off balance. The man, unable to retract his saber in time, stumbled forward. Chen Wuya swiftly raised his right foot, striking the other man's knee pit. The man's leg buckled, and he knelt. The third man swung his saber horizontally, but Chen Wuya had already ducked low and slid along the ground. His palm slapped the earth, and the misaligned energy erupted along his arm, numbing the opponent's wrist and causing the saber to fly out of his grasp.

The three men lost their balance in succession, tumbling into a heap.

The surrounding villagers watched clearly, their morale soaring. Someone shouted, "Do as he taught!" Several groups quickly reformed their formations, using firewood piles, ropes, and uneven terrain to create layers of obstruction. A woman grabbed a clothesline pole and jabbed at an enemy soldier's groin; after hitting her mark, she turned and ran. Two youths worked together to loop a hemp rope around a man's ankle, dragging him down before swarming him.

But the enemy commander finally appeared.

He wore a black robe over armor, his saber hilt inlaid with red jade. He walked forward step by step, the ground seeming to sink an inch with each stride. His gaze locked onto Chen Wuya, and with a raised hand, he waved. The remaining enemy soldiers immediately regrouped, ceasing their dispersed attacks. Instead, they formed a triangular formation and advanced slowly. With each step they took, their aura grew stronger.

Chen Wuya knew this was an attempt to capture the leader and decapitate the army.

The man approached within seven paces, then suddenly burst forward, his saber light flashing like lightning, aiming directly for Chen Wuya's throat.

If they fought head-on, he would surely lose. The opponent's cultivation was profound, his moves precise, every ounce of his strength adhering to martial principles. And him? His cultivation technique was incomplete, his meridians ran in reverse, even his stance was considered unorthodox.

But it was precisely these "errors" that had become his path.

He didn't dodge or evade. Instead, he stepped forward half a pace, his right palm drawing sideways, using the misaligned energy to deflect three parts of the saber's force. The remaining momentum followed the edge of his palm into the ground. The dry, cracked earth of the wilderness, the lingering power of the lightning tribulation in the night sky—a trace of extremely subtle electrical energy remained dormant.

He had been waiting for this moment.

He slammed his feet down, and the "Canglang Misaligned Thunder" he had accumulated within his body erupted. Blue and white arcs of electricity burst from his palm, spreading along the ground and instantly entangling the enemy commander's feet. The man felt a sharp sting shoot up his spine from the soles of his feet; his entire right arm went numb and lost its strength, the saber blade veering off course and grazing Chen Wuya's ear.

Before the electric light faded, Chen Wuya had closed the distance. He gripped the opponent's wrist with his left hand and placed his right palm on his chest, unleashing the misaligned energy to its fullest. His true energy surged towards the Zhongwan acupoint, then flowed back from the Ren Meridian to the Yongquan acupoint—this was not a legitimate cultivation method of any sect, but a distorted path forcibly completed by the System.

The enemy commander felt as if struck by lightning. A sweetness rose in his throat, and he spat out a mouthful of blood mist. The ground beneath his feet cracked in a spiderweb pattern from the electrical shock, and he lost his footing, falling backward. The curved saber in his hand couldn't withstand the impact of the internal force and shattered with a "crack," its fragments scattering.

The entire field fell silent.

The enemy soldiers still engaged in combat froze, looking up in the direction their commander had fallen. Some dropped their weapons and fled, while others stood frozen, unsure of what to do. The once orderly formation instantly disintegrated, collapsing into a retreating tide.

The villagers erupted in cheers. Some picked up stones and pursued the fleeing enemies, while others helped the wounded and wept in each other's arms. An old man knelt on the ground, scooping up a handful of dirt and smearing it on his face, muttering, "We're alive... we're truly alive..."

Old Wu Tou leaned on his cane and walked through the ruins of the camp, beginning to take stock of the casualties. He walked past the fallen enemies, his steps unwavering, his gaze unchanged. Thirty years ago, he had seen battlefields like this, and he knew that victory was never the end, only a respite.

Chen Wuya stood in the center of the wilderness, his breathing heavy, his arms trembling slightly. The broken flagpole was still in his hand, a tattered piece of cloth fluttering in the wind. He looked down at his palm—there was a burn mark there, one that hadn't existed before.

He knew this wound wouldn't heal quickly.

He also knew that the road ahead would no longer have walls.

The outline of the distant mountain ridge was blurred, and the night had not yet fully receded. The wind blew through the charred wooden stakes, making faint crackling sounds. A crow landed on a broken spear not far away, tilting its head to stare at the tattered flag in his hand.

Chen Wuya lifted his foot and took a step forward.