The night wind swept over the treetops. Chen Wuya stood deep among the bushes, his breathing gradually settling. Leaning against a tree trunk, he pressed his palm to his chest. The incomplete page was hidden inside his inner garment, snug against his skin and still carrying his body heat.
He closed his eyes and mentally sorted through the conditions that had triggered the system's responses twice just now. The first had been reciting the formula backward; the second, proposing the absurd assumption that practicing it incorrectly was the right way. Both times, true qi had begun to flow. The paths were different, but both had genuinely existed.
This thing didn't recognize the art itself. It recognized "being wrong in a logical way."
He slowly exhaled and focused his thoughts again: If the Canglang Art had always been incomplete, then the so-called correct circulation method didn't actually exist? Could true completion only be achieved by filling in the gaps with mistakes?
The instant this thought took shape, that cold voice rang out in his mind:
"Logical paradox established. Initiating pathway reconstruction."
A warm current rose from his dantian, clearer and steadier than the previous two times. It didn't dart about randomly, but slowly advanced along a new route he had never taken before—first sinking to his coccyx, then traveling up his spine in reverse. After circling three inches behind his neck, it split into two streams: one surged straight toward Baihui, while the other bent toward Jianjing Acupoint.
After five breaths, the heat receded. His limbs tingled faintly, as if he had just pulled his hands and feet from cold water.
It worked.
He opened his eyes, a trace of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. This wasn't a coincidence, nor was it an illusion. So long as he could create a crooked theory outrageous enough yet barely defensible, the system would patch the loopholes for him.
He reached into his robes and took out the yellowed sheet of paper. Moonlight slipped through the gaps between the leaves and fell upon it. The writing remained horribly fragmented, but now that he looked again, the broken sentences seemed to contain another layer of hidden connections. It was like a jigsaw puzzle missing several pieces, yet the shapes of the edges were enough to let someone guess the outline of the whole.
He muttered under his breath, "You all talk about progressing step by step, about foundations being paramount... But what if martial arts were never meant to follow common sense?"
Before his voice had faded, hurried hoofbeats came from the distance.
He immediately put away the page and hid it against his body. Then he flipped around and concealed himself behind an old locust tree, holding his breath.
The hoofbeats drew closer and stopped on the path outside the woods. Then came the sound of boot soles crushing dead branches as two people entered the forest.
"The compass needle is still trembling." One person spoke in a low voice, holding a bronze disk engraved with the Eight Trigrams. A thin needle in its center was shaking violently. "It's close. It hasn't gone far."
The other person rested a hand on his sword hilt and scanned the surroundings. "That incomplete page is a forbidden inheritance of our sect. It must never fall into the hands of outsiders. If the Demonic Cult or some foreign race gets it, the consequences will be disastrous."
Chen Wuya's heart sank.
The Qingfeng Sword Sect.
The foremost sword sect south of the Yangtze, with strict rules and white robes with silver sashes worn by its disciples as they traveled the martial world. Its discipline was ironclad. He had once heard a lecturer at the academy mention that the sect's cultivation arts had never been passed to outsiders. If any were leaked, they would investigate to the very end.
He lowered his head and looked at his coarse cloth clothes, then touched the incomplete page in his robes. Cold sweat quietly seeped out.
He was only a washed-up student who had been expelled, someone who had never even practiced proper internal energy. How had he become entangled in something like this? Why had the bandits tried to seize it? And why had the escort guards failed to protect it? The matters behind this sheet of paper likely went far beyond a single lost cultivation art.
The footsteps drew closer and closer.
He didn't dare move rashly. He could only slowly adjust his breathing and try to slow his heartbeat. He knew that once they discovered he had this thing on him, they wouldn't listen to any explanation.
But just then, a strange sensation suddenly stirred within his body.
It was as if an invisible thread had extended from his dantian and given a light tremor.
He froze.
Was the system about to activate again?
He had no time to think it through. A thought rapidly surfaced in his mind: If I pretend that this art was never meant to be practiced correctly, and that it must be activated through the wrong method, will the system give me more time to deal with this?
As the thought settled, that voice rang out again:
"Assumption established. Entering temporary stabilization mode."
The warm current reappeared. This time, it lasted a full five breaths. His palms grew faintly hot, and strength even seemed to return to his fingertips. Stranger still, as that current circulated, the incomplete page against his chest seemed to grow slightly warm as well, as though it had formed some kind of resonance with the true qi in his body.
Chen Wuya abruptly realized that the system had not only completed the art's pathway—it was also helping him conceal the traces. Otherwise, the compass in the two disciples' hands could not have sensed only the "residual aura" without locking directly onto him.
An opportunity had arrived.
He drew a deep breath and slowly rose from behind the tree, lifting both hands slightly to show that he meant no harm.
The two young men had already closed to within ten paces. The one on the left held the compass, his brows tightly furrowed; the one on the right wore a long sword at his waist, his gaze sharp as a blade.
"Who are you?" the swordsman barked. "Why are you skulking here?"
Chen Wuya didn't answer. He simply stood there, his gaze passing over their clothing as he confirmed their identities.
Moon-white sword robes, the words "Qingfeng" carved into the scabbard, steady footwork, and a solid aura. They were undoubtedly Qingfeng disciples.
"I was just passing by." He finally spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it wasn't panicked either. "I heard the sounds of fighting and hid here. I don't know what the two senior brothers are looking for."
"Stop playing dumb!" The compass holder sneered. "The aura of the Canglang Art remains here. Only someone who has touched the incomplete page would leave a mark. Since you're here, how could you have noticed nothing?"
Chen Wuya's heart jumped.
So the compass wasn't detecting the object. It was detecting "people who had touched it."
Without showing anything on his face, he continued, "Canglang Art? I've never heard of it. If it's something your sect has lost, I'm willing to help search for it."
"Help?" The other man scoffed, his hand already resting on his sword hilt. "A country bumpkin who hasn't even developed internal breath dares talk about helping? Hand it over. Perhaps we might still spare your life."
The wind fell silent.
Only the interwoven breathing of the three men remained in the forest.
Chen Wuya knew that his lie wouldn't hold for long. Since these people had dared to pursue him alone, they must have some means at their disposal. If they truly fought, he wouldn't be able to withstand even one move.
But he still had one final move.
He stared at his palm and silently thought: If this art was never meant to be mastered by anyone, then the more someone tried to control it, the more likely they were to suffer its backlash? And an outsider like me, who doesn't understand the rules at all, is actually the one truly suited to practice it?
The thought was absurd, yet it happened to fit the system's usual logic—the more it defied common sense, the closer it came to the truth.
Sure enough, the voice in his mind rang out again:
"Paradox verification passed. True qi circuit extended to seven breaths."
A stronger wave of heat coursed through his entire body. The meridians in both arms throbbed faintly, as if something were forcing them open. He felt a strange balance forming inside him, as though a chaotic chessboard had suddenly gained a new move.
At that moment, the expressions of the two men opposite him changed slightly.
"There's... a reaction on him!" the compass holder cried softly. "His aura is fluctuating abnormally!"
"Stop pretending to be mysterious!" The other man suddenly drew his sword, cold light flashing. "Take him down first!"
The sword tip pointed straight at his throat, no more than three feet away.
Chen Wuya didn't retreat.
He raised his right hand toward the sword's edge, palm facing upward, letting the heat gather at his fingertips. A faint flush spread across the surface of his skin, like blood racing beneath it.
"You say this art belongs to you." He stared into the other's eyes, his voice neither loud nor low, but exceptionally clear. "But have you ever wondered—why did it end up in the hands of bandits? Why was it I who happened to find it?"
The Qingfeng disciple with the sword froze, his movements slowing.
"Perhaps," Chen Wuya said slowly, "it was never waiting for rule-bound inheritors like you."
Before his voice had faded, his chest suddenly grew hot. The incomplete page trembled faintly beneath his clothes, as if responding to his words.
The pupils of the two men opposite him contracted sharply.
Before you continue