Hiding in the Village, Twisted Logic Deceives the Villagers

The moment river water flooded his nostrils, Chen Wuya knew his fate was not sealed.

He was washed ashore onto a shallow bank, his back striking a rocky edge, the pain blacking out his vision. His body felt like a frozen log; he could only prop up his upper half by digging his fingers into the wet mud. After coughing up a mouthful of murky water, his throat burned like fire, and every breath sent a dull ache from deep within his ribs. He looked down at his chest—his coarse cloth shirt was torn, and the tattered pages still clung to his skin, radiating warmth.

The night wind, carrying moisture, swept over him, chilling him so much his teeth chattered. He struggled to crawl a few steps, his fingertips brushing against a broken branch. Using it for leverage, he managed to stand, his legs trembling so violently they could barely support him. Ahead, a faint light flickered between the shadows of trees, like oil lamp light leaking from a window crack.

He dragged his feet forward, the sound of his soles crushing dead leaves exceptionally jarring in the silence. Not far ahead, a small courtyard enclosed by a fence appeared in his sight. A few low adobe houses were scattered about, a woodpile stacked in the corner, and a dog lay lazily by the door, too indolent even to bark.

Beside the stone mill at the village entrance, he slid down to sit, leaning against the millstone. The cold wind cut through his soaked clothes, the chill seeping into his very bones. He buried his head in his knees, his shoulders shaking slightly, as if he might breathe his last at any moment.

An old woman approached, holding a ceramic bowl, and placed it in his hands. The steam from the hot soup wafted onto his face. Trembling, he took it, his knuckles white, the rim of the bowl clinking softly.

"Drink," the old woman said, her voice dry. "In this weather, if you don't warm up, you'll be done for."

He tilted his head back and took a gulp, so hot it numbed his tongue, but he forced himself not to spit it out. He swallowed twice, murmuring in a hoarse voice, "Th-thank you."

A figure approached from a distance, footsteps steady. A middle-aged man in a patched short jacket stood three steps away, leaning on a bamboo pole, his eyes appraising Chen Wuya from head to toe.

"Who are you? Where are you from?"

Chen Wuya didn't look up. He merely handed the empty bowl back to the old woman, his hands still shaking. "A traveling merchant from the south… surname Chen. Ran into bandits on the road. All three of my companions are gone. I held onto a door panel and drifted downriver…" He paused, his voice growing even softer. "If it weren't for this piece of paper in my chest, pressing against the corner of my box to ward off evil, I'd have been dragged away by water ghosts long ago."

The man frowned. "What goods were you carrying?"

"Brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones, plus some incense and candles."

"Where are they?"

"Washed away." Chen Wuya gave a wry smile and patted the travel pack on his back. "Only these personal belongings remain. If you don't believe me, feel free to search—but I advise you not to touch this half-sheet of paper." He pulled out a corner of the tattered pages from his chest. The yellowish-brown edges were stained with water, the writing blurred. "My master said that incomplete cultivation methods are the most dangerous; practicing them will drive you mad."

The man stared at the paper for a moment, not reaching out. Several other villagers arrived behind him, some draped in outer garments, others carrying lanterns, gathering not far away to watch.

"Doesn't look like he's faking," someone whispered.

"Soaked through, his face is blue, he doesn't have the energy to lie."

"But we're so poor here, even rats don't want to stay. How did he end up escaping here?"

Chen Wuya remained seated, his breathing heavy, damp hair clinging to his forehead, making him look utterly weak. He knew what they were thinking—the poorer the place, the easier it was to be tempted by a reward. But he also knew that wealthy families were heavily guarded, unlike this small village of refugees, which could accommodate a stranger who had "cheated death."

The village chief squatted down, staring into his eyes. "What's your surname?"

"Chen Wuya."

"Strange name."

"My parents gave it to me, hoping I could carve out a path for myself." He grinned, revealing a slightly uneven set of teeth, a dimple appearing on his left cheek. "Turns out, I have a path now, but my life is about to end."

The village chief was silent for a moment, then stood up. "The woodshed at the east end is empty. Go lie down there for now. If you can leave tomorrow morning, do so. If not… we'll talk then."

No one objected. The old woman brought another thin blanket and draped it over his shoulders. He thanked her, pushed himself up with the help of the millstone, and stumbled towards the east end of the village.

The woodshed was low, the walls drafty, the floor covered in dry grass, with chopped firewood piled in the corner. He closed the door, leaned against it for a while to catch his breath, then took off his wet clothes, wrung them out, and hung them on the woodpile.

As he lay down, his body convulsed uncontrollably a few times. He closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing, attempting to guide the residual true energy within him to circulate the Canglang Art. But his meridians felt like blocked river channels; as soon as the energy reached the kidney meridian, a sharp pain struck, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

He gritted his teeth, the moment he fell into the waterfall flashing in his mind—loss of control, tumbling, limbs flailing without order. It was precisely that "wrong" rhythm that had kept him alive on the brink of death.

He stopped forcing the energy to flow normally. Instead, he deliberately twisted his breathing, causing the energy to surge against the belt meridian. The pain intensified sharply, but just as he was about to collapse, a warm current surged from his Dantian, flowing along a path he had never traversed before, spreading to his limbs and bones.

A voice sounded in his mind, clear and calm: "Detected unconventional circulation trajectory, classified as 'Error Rationalization'—Initial stage of Misaligned Energy achieved, may attempt to integrate other martial arts."

He snapped his eyes open, his pupils constricting.

It wasn't an illusion.

The system was still there, and… it had evolved.

He slowly retracted his energy, cold sweat soaking his back, but a smile gradually spread across his lips.

So, what's wrong doesn't necessarily mean it's a dead end.

Outside the window, the last lamp went out.

The entire village fell into darkness.

He lay on the straw mat, hands folded over his abdomen, his breathing gradually evening out. But his eyes remained open, staring at the gaps in the thatched roof.

That warm current just now hadn't just repaired his sluggish meridians; it felt like it had opened some new passage. He vaguely sensed that if he were to recall the Qingfeng disciples' joint sword technique now, he might be able to use this misaligned energy to dismantle it in a completely different way.

But he couldn't try.

The hut was too flimsy; any slight movement would alert the neighbors.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to sleep.

After an unknown amount of time, light footsteps sounded outside the door.

They stopped at the entrance.

There was no knock, nor did they leave.

A moment later, the footsteps retreated, disappearing into the night.

Chen Wuya opened his eyes.

He didn't move, nor did he make any sound. He merely slowly moved his right hand to his side, his fingertips touching the tattered pages hidden beneath the straw.

Dawn was approaching.

When the first rooster crowed, he heard someone cough under the eaves to the west, followed by whispers.

"...You actually let him stay?"

"The village chief gave the order, who dares to stop him?"

"But you said, a peddler, with no goods on him, and his accent doesn't sound like someone from the south..."

"Shh! Keep your voice down!"

The conversation abruptly stopped.

Chen Wuya turned over, facing the wall, his breathing still steady.

He suddenly remembered the glance the village chief had cast at his waist when he entered last night.

At the time, he thought the other person was just being cautious of thieves.

Now that he thought about it, that glance had lingered for too long.