Chen Wuya's boot soles crushed over scorched earth, each step like stepping on red-hot stones. He did not look back, nor did he dare to. The wilderness behind him had become a wasteland, broken spears jutting from the ground and the tattered banners torn by the wind until only half a strip of cloth remained, like a dried blood scab.
Old Wu Tou followed three paces behind him, the tapping of his cane steady and unhurried. Neither spoke. There was only the wail of wind through the broken walls and the sound of crows flapping in the distance. Chen Wuya still gripped that severed flagpole, the burn on his palm throbbing fiercely, as though a red-hot needle had pierced his flesh and driven all the way into the cracks between his bones.
"Are you coming or not?" Old Wu Tou suddenly asked, his voice hoarse. "If not, I'll go on ahead."
Chen Wuya stopped and lowered his head to look at the ash-covered toes of his shoes. He knew those words were not urging him on, but testing him—testing whether he was still willing to go on living.
He gently planted the flagpole in the soil, moving with great care as though afraid of waking something. Then he turned and nodded at Old Wu Tou.
Old Wu Tou asked no more questions. He merely hoisted his cane onto his shoulder and set off first. His back was small and hunched, yet he walked as steady as a boulder.
At daybreak, they veered away from the official road. The pursuers would not arrive too quickly, but the news must already have spread. Sure enough, when they stopped to rest outside an abandoned tea shed, they saw a yellowed notice pasted to the wall, the ink not yet dry.
The face in the portrait was twisted, with an exaggerated scar added at the temple. Anyone could recognize Chen Wuya at a glance. Beneath it were the words: "Colluded with foreign tribes, incited displaced commoners, slaughtered righteous warriors. Reward: a thousand gold pieces." Beside it, someone had added in charcoal: "This man can control the minds of others. Report him immediately upon sight."
Chen Wuya stared at the portrait for a moment, then suddenly laughed. He tore off a corner of his outer robe and wrapped it around his nose and mouth, leaving only his eyes exposed. "I'm a great demon now," he said.
Old Wu Tou sat on a broken stool, gnawing on a dry biscuit. He did not look up at that. "If you're a demon, then every person I've encountered in thirty years on the escort road must have been a bodhisattva."
"You're rather good at comforting people."
"I wasn't comforting you." Old Wu Tou spat to the side. "I'm saying you're far cleaner than those bastards who commit evil while wearing Daoist robes."
Chen Wuya said nothing. He knew the martial world was like this—you won, and you became the source of calamity; you lost, and you were a treacherous rebel who deserved to die. No one cared how many people's cooking fires and family hearths that battle had protected, and no one cared whether the fallen enemy soldiers had truly come from the Northern Desert.
They continued onward, choosing only narrow paths through the mountain ravines. By day they hid in the woods; by night they traveled beneath the moonlight. Old Wu Tou knew the terrain here like the back of his hand. Where the hidden sentries were, which streams could conceal their tracks—he could name it all with his eyes closed.
On the third night, wind and rain came rushing in.
The two of them took shelter in a ruined temple. Half the roof had collapsed, and rainwater dripped down the beams and pillars, striking little pits into the muddy ground. The temple altar table leaned crookedly, and the face of the clay statue had been eaten by insects until it was mottled and ruined.
Chen Wuya sat with his back against the wall, his breathing growing rapid. The circulation of Misaligned Force was obstructed, and his true qi surged through his meridians like a chaotic current, while a sawtoothed dull pain radiated from his ribs. He gritted his teeth and endured it, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
Old Wu Tou crouched down, took a small porcelain bottle from his bundle, poured out some brown medicinal wine, and soaked a strip of coarse cloth with it. He pushed up Chen Wuya's sleeve and pressed several bruised and purpling acupoints on the inside of his arm.
"If it hurts, cry out," Old Wu Tou said.
"I'm not in pain." Chen Wuya bared his teeth in a grin. "I just feel like...the more I practice this technique, the more wrong it becomes."
"Wrong?" Old Wu Tou gave a mocking hum as he kneaded and pressed. "Then tell me, how many disciples trained by those proper sects could lead a group of farmers across the wilderness and defeat armored cavalry?"
Chen Wuya closed his eyes and panted. "But now I can't even explain who I am. The academy calls me a good-for-nothing, the martial world calls me an evil fiend, and even I don't know whether this road is the right one."
"Whether it's right or wrong depends on the result." Old Wu Tou's hand sank lower, pressing on his Jianjing Acupoint. "How many people did you save? How many homes did you protect? Those accounts weigh more than the rules of any sect."
Chen Wuya's throat moved, but he said nothing.
The medicinal wine seeped into his skin, and warmth slowly spread. Old Wu Tou's technique was exceptionally steady. Every press landed where the sinews and meridians converged, as though he were helping him comb through one tangled riverbed after another.
"You said your force takes a crooked path." Old Wu Tou suddenly spoke. "But it truly circulates through the meridians, which makes it a hundred times stronger than those flashy forms that only know how to strike poses. If the proper road is impassable, then walk it backward—perhaps the exit is right behind you."
Chen Wuya opened his eyes and stared blankly for a moment. "That sounds...like something I said, doesn't it?"
"Your memory isn't very good." Old Wu Tou withdrew his hand, rolled up the cloth, and stuffed it back into the bottle. "Just now, half-asleep, you mumbled a whole heap of crooked theories. I heard every word."
Chen Wuya wanted to laugh, but the movement tugged at his injuries, and he coughed. Leaning against the wall, he slowly slid down to sit on the floor. The rain grew denser, its rhythm striking the eaves like the beat of some ancient drum.
Old Wu Tou took off his outer garment and draped it over him. Then he huddled in the corner, leaning on his cane with his eyes closed as he rested.
"Back then...why did you stay in the displaced-persons camp?" Chen Wuya asked softly.
Old Wu Tou did not even lift his eyelids. "My home was gone, and my vengeance wasn't complete. Where else could I go?"
"Weren't you afraid I really was a harbinger of disaster? If you followed me, sooner or later you'd get burned by the flames."
Old Wu Tou opened one eye and looked at him. "Thirty years ago, I also met a young man whom people cursed as a demon. In the end, he stood alone before a pass and died without taking a single step back. You're like him. There's no fear in your eyes."
Chen Wuya's heart jolted.
"It's not that I'm unafraid," he said quietly. "I just...can't stop."
"Then don't stop." Old Wu Tou closed his eyes again. "As long as you're still walking, you're not fleeing."
It grew deep into the night, and the rain eased somewhat. The temple was dim. The two leaned against each other for warmth, their breathing gradually settling.
At the coldest hour before dawn, Chen Wuya awoke. He found himself resting on Old Wu Tou's lap. One of the old man's hands lay across his shoulder, but he slept uneasily, his brows faintly furrowed as though ready to rise and face danger at any moment.
He gently shifted himself away, stood, and stretched his limbs. His Misaligned Force had recovered its smooth circulation. Although his old injuries remained, at least he would no longer be out of breath after walking only a few steps.
Old Wu Tou opened his eyes as well.
"Let's go," he said. "Thirty li farther north, there's a ferry crossing. Once we cross the river, we'll reach a fork in the official road."
Chen Wuya nodded and shouldered his pack. Before leaving, he glanced back at the ruined statue. The clay body had split open, and one eye had fallen out, dangling and swaying against its cheek.
He said nothing and pushed open the door.
Morning mist filled the air, and the ancient road wound ahead. On both sides, withered trees stretched toward the sky like bony claws. They walked side by side, their feet making faint squelching sounds in the wet mud.
They encountered several villagers heading to market early in the morning. The villagers took a detour as soon as they spotted them from afar. Some pointed and whispered. Chen Wuya lowered his head, letting those gazes scrape across his back.
"Do you think...we can make it to the end?" he suddenly asked.
Old Wu Tou leaned on his cane, his steps steady. "Where does it end?"
"I don't know." Chen Wuya gazed ahead. "But I have to walk this road until I understand it."
"Then walk." Old Wu Tou's tone was indifferent. "It's not as if I have anywhere else to go."
When the sun rose, the mist gradually dispersed. The outline of the distant mountain ridge emerged, and a dirt road leading north stretched beneath the sunlight like a wound that had yet to heal.
Their figures grew smaller and smaller, finally disappearing at the end of the road.
Chen Wuya's right hand remained pressed against the cloth pouch at his waist. Inside lay half a roll of the remaining pages of the Canglang Art. One corner of the paper lifted slightly, stirred by the wind.
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