Jianghu Fugitives, Old Wu Tou By My Side

Chen Wuya's boot soles ground over scorched earth, each step feeling like he was treading on red-hot stones. He didn't look back, nor did he dare to. The wilderness behind him had become a ruin. Broken spears were stuck in the ground at an angle, and tattered flags, torn by the wind, were reduced to half-strips of cloth, like dried blood scabs.

Old Wu Tou followed three steps behind him, the tapping of his cane on the ground steady and unhurried. No words were exchanged between them, only the whistling of the wind through broken walls and the sound of crows flapping their wings in the distance. Chen Wuya's hand still gripped the broken flagstaff, the burn mark on his palm stinging fiercely, as if a searing hot needle had pierced through his flesh and bone.

"Are you coming or not?" Old Wu Tou suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse. "If not, I'm leaving."

Chen Wuya stopped, lowering his head to look at the ash-covered tips of his shoes. He knew this wasn't a simple urge to hurry, but a test—a test of whether he still wanted to live.

He gently planted the flagstaff into the soil, his movements so light as if afraid of waking something. Then he turned and nodded at Old Wu Tou.

Old Wu Tou asked no further questions. He simply slung his cane over his shoulder and took the lead. His back was thin and hunched, yet he walked with the stability of a rock.

As dawn broke, they skirted the official road. The pursuers wouldn't come too quickly, but the news had certainly spread. As expected, when they stopped to rest outside a dilapidated tea shed, a yellowed notice was plastered on the wall, the ink still wet.

The person in the drawing had distorted features, with a exaggerated scar on his forehead, making him instantly recognizable as Chen Wuya. Below it read: "Colluding with foreign races, inciting refugees, slaughtering righteous heroes, bounty of a thousand gold." Someone had added in charcoal next to it: "This person can control minds, report immediately upon sighting."

Chen Wuya stared at the portrait for a moment, then suddenly smiled. He tore off a corner of his outer robe, wrapped it around his mouth and nose, leaving only his eyes visible. "I'm a great demon now," he said.

Old Wu Tou sat on a broken stool gnawing on a dry biscuit. Hearing this, he didn't look up. "If you're a demon, then everyone I've met in my thirty years of escorting goods were all bodhisattvas."

"You're quite good at comforting people."

"I'm not comforting you." Old Wu Tou spat. "I'm saying, you're cleaner than those guys who do evil deeds in the guise of righteousness."

Chen Wuya didn't reply. He knew the Jianghu was like this—if you won, you became a source of chaos; if you lost, you were a damned rebel. No one cared how many people's hearths and homes were protected in that battle, nor did anyone care if the fallen enemy soldiers truly came from the Northern Desert.

They continued their journey, choosing mountain streams and narrow paths. They hid in the woods during the day and traveled by moonlight at night. Old Wu Tou knew the terrain like the back of his hand; he could tell you where the sentries were, which streams could conceal their tracks, even with his eyes closed.

On the third night, wind and rain descended.

The two took shelter in a ruined temple. Half the roof had collapsed, and rainwater dripped down the beams, forming small puddles on the muddy floor. The offering table was askew, and the face of the clay statue was mottled from insect damage.

Chen Wuya sat against the wall, his breathing becoming rapid. The flow of his misaligned energy was obstructed, and his true energy churned like a turbulent river, colliding with his meridians. A sawing, dull pain emanated from his ribs. He gritted his teeth, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

Old Wu Tou squatted down, took out a small porcelain bottle from his bundle, and poured some brown medicinal wine onto a coarse cloth strip. He lifted Chen Wuya's sleeve and pressed on several bruised, purplish acupoints on the inside of his arm.

"If it hurts, cry out," Old Wu Tou said.

"It doesn't hurt," Chen Wuya grinned, "I just feel... this cultivation method is becoming more and more unconventional."

"Unconventional?" Old Wu Tou chuckled as he massaged, "Then tell me, how many disciples trained by those orthodox sects can lead a group of farmers to defeat cavalry in the wilderness?"

Chen Wuya closed his eyes and gasped, "But now I can't even tell who I am. The Academy calls me useless, the Jianghu calls me a demon, and I don't even know if this path is the right one."

"Whether it's right or not depends on the outcome," Old Wu Tou pressed down on his shoulder acupoint. "How many people have you saved? How many homes have you protected? These accounts weigh more than any sect rules."

Chen Wuya's throat moved, but he said nothing.

The medicinal wine seeped into his skin, and a warmth slowly spread. Old Wu Tou's technique was extremely steady, each press landing on the intersections of the meridians, as if he were clearing tangled riverbeds for him.

"You say your energy flows crookedly," Old Wu Tou suddenly said. "But the energy truly circulates in your meridians, a hundred times better than those who only know how to strike poses. If the straight path is blocked, why not try the crooked one—perhaps the exit is behind you."

Chen Wuya opened his eyes, startled. "That... sounds like something I said, doesn't it?"

"Your memory isn't good now," Old Wu Tou withdrew his hands and rolled up the cloth strip, stuffing it back into the bottle. "You were mumbling a bunch of crooked theories just now when you were half-asleep, I heard it all."

Chen Wuya wanted to laugh, but it pulled at his wound, and he coughed. Leaning against the wall, he slowly slid to the ground. The rain grew heavier, its rhythm on the eaves like some ancient drumbeat.

Old Wu Tou took off his outer garment and draped it over Chen Wuya, then curled up in a corner, leaning on his cane with his eyes closed, resting.

"Why... did you stay in the refugee camp back then?" Chen Wuya asked softly.

Old Wu Tou didn't even lift his eyelids. "My home was gone, my revenge wasn't complete, where else could I go?"

"Then aren't you afraid I'm truly a disaster? Following me will eventually bring trouble."

Old Wu Tou opened one eye and looked at him. "Thirty years ago, I saw a young man, called a demon by others, who ended up blocking the pass alone and didn't retreat even in death. You're like him, there's no fear in your eyes."

Chen Wuya's heart trembled.

"It's not that I'm not afraid," he said softly. "It's just... I can't stop."

"Then don't stop," Old Wu Tou closed his eyes again. "As long as you're still walking, you're not running away."

The night deepened, and the rain gradually subsided. It was dim inside the temple, the two leaning against each other for warmth, their breathing gradually steadying.

During the coldest hour before dawn, Chen Wuya woke up. He found himself resting on Old Wu Tou's lap, the old man's hand on his shoulder. The elder wasn't sleeping soundly, his brow slightly furrowed, as if ready to rise and face danger at any moment.

He gently moved himself, stood up, and stretched his limbs. The flow of his misaligned energy had returned to normal. Although the old wounds remained, at least he wouldn't be gasping for breath after a few steps.

Old Wu Tou also opened his eyes.

"Let's go," he said. "Another thirty miles north, there's a ferry crossing. Across the river is a fork in the official road."

Chen Wuya nodded and put on his pack. Before leaving, he glanced back at the broken statue. The clay figure was cracked, one eye had fallen out and dangled on its cheek.

He said nothing and pushed the door open.

Morning mist permeated the air, and the ancient path wound forward, withered trees on either side extending their skeletal claws towards the sky. They walked side by side, their footsteps making soft squelching sounds on the wet mud.

Along the way, they encountered a few early-rising villagers heading to the market. They veered away from them from a distance upon seeing them. Some pointed and whispered. Chen Wuya kept his head down, letting their gazes sweep over his back.

"Do you think... we can reach the end?" he suddenly asked.

Old Wu Tou leaned on his cane, his steps steady. "Where is the end?"

"I don't know," Chen Wuya gazed ahead. "But I have to understand this path."

"Then let's walk," Old Wu Tou said indifferently. "I don't have anywhere else to go anyway."

As the sun rose, the mist gradually dispersed. The outlines of the distant mountain ridges emerged, and a dirt road leading north stretched out under the sunlight, like an unhealed wound.

Their figures grew smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing at the end of the road.

Chen Wuya's right hand remained on the cloth pouch at his waist, where half a scroll of the Canglang Art's tattered pages was hidden. The corner of the paper was slightly upturned, stirred by the wind.