Village Hideout, a Fallacy That Fooled the Villagers

The instant river water flooded his nostrils, Chen Wuya knew he was not meant to die yet.

He was swept onto a shallow bank, his back slamming into a sharp-edged stone and pain blacking out his vision. His body felt like a frozen log. Only by clawing at the wet mud with his fingers could he barely prop up his upper body. After coughing up a mouthful of filthy water, his throat burned fiercely, and every breath tugged at a dull pain deep in his ribs. He lowered his head and glanced at his chest—the coarse cloth was torn open, but the remnant page still clung to his skin, its warmth not yet gone.

The night wind swept dampness across his whole body, cold enough to make his teeth chatter. He struggled forward a few steps, his fingertips touching a section of Broken Branch. Using it for support, he stood, his legs trembling so badly they could barely hold him. A faint light flickered ahead between the shadows of the trees, like the glow of an oil lamp leaking through a window crack.

He dragged himself onward, the sound of dry leaves crunching beneath his feet unnaturally harsh in the silence. Before long, a small yard enclosed by a fence appeared in his sight. Several low earthen houses stood scattered within it, firewood piled against the walls. A dog lay lazily beside the door, too indolent even to bark.

Beside the stone mill at the village entrance, he leaned against the millstone and slid down. The cold wind pierced his soaked clothes, driving its chill straight into his bones. He buried his head in his knees, his shoulders trembling faintly, as though his breath might cease at any moment.

An old woman came over carrying an earthen bowl and handed it to him. White steam from the hot soup struck his face. He accepted it with trembling hands, his knuckles paling as the rim knocked against his fingers with a faint clink.

"Drink." The old woman's voice was dry. "In weather like this, if you don't warm up soon, you'll be done for."

He tipped his head back and took a sip. It scalded the tip of his tongue numb, but he forced himself not to spit it out. His throat moved twice before he whispered, "Tha... thanks." His voice was hoarse beyond recognition.

A figure approached from the distance, footsteps steady. A middle-aged man in a patched short jacket stopped three paces away, leaning on a bamboo staff as his eyes sized Chen Wuya up and down.

"Who are you? Where did you come from?"

Chen Wuya did not raise his head. He only returned the empty bowl to the old woman, his hand still trembling. "I'm a traveling peddler from the south... My surname is Chen. Bandits hit us on the road. The other three are all dead. I clung to a door panel and drifted down with the current..." He paused, his voice dropping lower. "If this sheet of paper hadn't been pressed against the corner of the chest to ward off evil, I'd have been dragged away by river ghosts long ago."

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

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

"Where are they?"

"Washed away." Chen Wuya gave a bitter laugh and raised a hand to pat the bundle on his back. "Only these personal belongings remain. If you don't believe me, you can search it—but I advise you not to touch this half-sheet of paper." He pulled out a corner of the remnant page. Its yellow-brown edge was stained with water, the writing blurred. "My master once said that an incomplete cultivation manual is the most vicious kind. Practice it, and you'll go mad."

The man stared at the paper for a while but did not reach for it. Several more villagers arrived behind him, some wrapped in outer clothes and others carrying lanterns, gathering nearby to watch.

"He doesn't look like he's faking it," someone murmured.

"He's soaked through, and his face is blue. When would he have the energy to deceive anyone?"

"But our place is so poor even rats refuse to stay. Why did he happen to flee here?"

Chen Wuya remained seated, unmoving, breathing heavily, his wet hair plastered to his forehead and his whole body looking utterly feeble. He knew what these people were thinking—the poorer the place, the easier it was to tempt people with a bounty. But he also knew that wealthy households were heavily guarded. A little village full of refugees like this was actually more accommodating to a stranger who had "escaped death by a hair's breadth."

The village head squatted down and stared into his eyes. "What's your full name?"

"Chen Wuya."

"Strange name."

"My parents gave it to me. They said they hoped I could carve out a path in life." He grinned, revealing a row of somewhat crooked teeth, a dimple faintly appearing in his left cheek. "As it turns out, I found a path, but my life's nearly gone."

The village head fell silent for a moment before standing. "The woodshed at the east end is empty. Go lie down there for now. If you can leave tomorrow morning, leave. If you can't... we'll talk then."

No one objected. The old woman brought over another thin blanket and draped it across his shoulders. He thanked her, then slowly stood with the millstone for support and staggered toward the eastern end of the village.

The woodshed was low, with wind leaking through the cracks in its walls. A layer of dry grass covered the ground, and chopped firewood was piled in the corner. He closed the door and leaned against it for a long while before taking off his wet clothes, wringing them out, and hanging them over the woodpile.

When he lay down, his body spasmed several times beyond his control. He closed his eyes and regulated his breathing, trying to guide the remaining true qi within him through the Canglang Art. But his meridians were like rivers choked with silt. The moment his circulation reached the Kidney Meridian, stabbing pain struck, and cold sweat seeped from his temples.

He clenched his teeth. His mind conjured the instant he had plunged over the waterfall—out of control, tumbling, his limbs flailing without the slightest order. It was precisely that rhythm of being "wrong" that had kept him alive at the boundary between life and death.

He stopped forcing the circulation along its proper course. Instead, he deliberately distorted his breathing, letting his breath surge backward into the Belt Vessel Meridian. The pain intensified abruptly, but just as he neared collapse, a warm current welled up from his dantian and shot toward his four limbs and bones along a path he had never taken before.

A voice rang out in his mind, clear and calm:

**"An unconventional energy-circulation trajectory detected. 'Error Rationalization' confirmed—Misaligned Force has taken initial shape. Fusion with other martial arts may be attempted."**

He snapped his eyes open, his pupils contracting.

It was not an illusion.

The system was still there—and it had... evolved.

He slowly ceased circulating his energy. Cold sweat soaked his back, yet the corners of his mouth gradually lifted.

So being wrong did not necessarily mean a dead end.

Outside the window, the last lamp went out.

The entire village sank into darkness.

He lay on the grass mat with his hands folded over his abdomen, his breathing gradually settling. Yet his eyes never closed, remaining fixed on the thatch gaps in the roof.

That warm current from earlier had not merely repaired his sluggish meridians. It seemed more like it had opened some new passage. He vaguely sensed that if he recalled the Qingfeng disciples' combined sword technique now, he might be able to use Misaligned Force to dismantle it and derive an entirely different method of breaking it.

But he could not try.

The walls were too thin. The slightest disturbance would alarm the people next door.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep.

He did not know how much time had passed when extremely light footsteps sounded outside the door.

They stopped at the entrance.

There was no knock, and the person did not leave.

After a moment, the footsteps retreated and vanished into the night.

Chen Wuya opened his eyes.

He did not move or make a sound. He merely shifted his right hand slowly to his side, his fingertips touching the remnant page hidden beneath the pile of grass.

Dawn was approaching.

When the first cockcrow rang out, he heard someone cough beneath the eaves of the western house, followed by whispered voices.

"...He really let that man stay?"

"The village head gave the order. Who dares stop him?"

"But tell me, a peddler with no goods on him, and an accent that doesn't sound southern..."

"Shh! Keep your voice down!"

The conversation abruptly ceased.

Chen Wuya rolled over to face the wall, his breathing remaining steady.

He suddenly recalled the glance the village head had cast over his waist when he entered the previous night.

At the time, he had thought the man was merely guarding against thieves.

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