Wrong Training Method, A Strategy for Unexpected Victory

The wind stirred the tent flap, making the lamplight flicker before it steadied again. The melted snow on the sand table had dried, leaving several winding marks like parched riverbeds.

Chen Wuya's hand still rested on the edge of the sand table, his fingertips rubbing the small raised patch of mud and stone at the entrance to Northern Ridge. He did not move or speak. He merely stared at the mine tunnel route Bai Zhi had marked, his gaze slowly drifting away from the battle map and sinking somewhere deeper.

"They're afraid of chaos." He finally spoke, his voice so low it was nearly inaudible. "But what they fear least is us fighting by the rules."

Bai Zhi stood where she was without replying. She knew what he was thinking, yet he did not seem to be answering anyone—he seemed more like he was arguing with himself.

He suddenly let go and turned toward the pack in the corner. Patches overlapped layer upon layer on its rough cloth, and its edges had been worn pale. Squatting down, he untied the cord and pulled out a damaged booklet from the very bottom, wrapped in several layers of oil paper. Its cover had long since been ruined, its writing blurred, with only half a "Cang" character still barely visible.

Canglang Art.

He spread the book over his knees and turned its pages one by one. Crooked strokes, flawed mnemonics, reversed circulation diagrams... The academy instructor had called him "a menace to his students" because of this tattered book. Yet it was precisely these mistakes that had kept him alive until now.

"You said martial arts can be practiced wrong." He raised his eyes to Bai Zhi, light gleaming in them. "What about war? Can you fight it 'wrong' too?"

Bai Zhi's brow