Undercurrents Surge, There Are Informants Among the Villagers

As dawn broke, a sliver of grey-white light seeped through the cracks in the firewood shed door. When Chen Wuya opened his eyes, the chill from the straw mat still clung to his back, but he no longer shivered.

He slowly sat up and folded the thin blanket draped over his shoulders, placing it in the corner. His movements were as sluggish as someone still recovering from a serious injury. His damp clothes were mostly dry, so he put them back on, the cuffs still carrying a mixed scent of firewood and mud. His travel pack leaned against the wall, the tattered pages hidden in the innermost layer, wrapped in a few pieces of rough cloth.

He pushed the door open, and the cold wind hit him. The village was quiet. Smoke was just rising from the chimney of the house at the east end. An old woman emerged from behind the fence with a clay pot, pausing in surprise when she saw him. She then nodded, "You're up and about?"

"Can't die yet," he smiled, his voice still hoarse but much steadier than last night. "Thank you for that bowl of soup."

The old woman didn't say much, just handed him the pot. "It's hot, drink it to warm yourself."

He took it with both hands, his fingertips touching the warmth of the clay. He lowered his head and took a sip. It was hot, but bearable. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the window of the earthen house opposite. A middle-aged man stood inside, holding a half-split piece of firewood, his gaze fixed on him.

Chen Wuya didn't flinch. Instead, he met the man's gaze and asked with a smile, "Uncle, still need to split this wood? I'm idle anyway, can I lend a hand?"

The man paused, put down the wood, and walked out. His tone was flat, "No need, you're sick."

"Not sick," he returned the empty pot to the old woman, patting his chest. "Just choked on water. My bones aren't broken, my tendons aren't torn. I can move."

The man stared at him for two breaths before turning back into his house. When he reappeared, he carried a bundle of newly chopped firewood on his shoulder, placing it by the millstone. "If you really want to work, do something substantial."

Chen Wuya walked over and picked up a piece of wood. It was dry, with cracks running along the grain. He didn't use much force. Placing his palm flat on one end, he secretly activated a trace of misaligned energy – not a full circulation, but just enough to let the true energy surge against the belt meridian, using its force to create a shock.

With a crisp "crack," the wood exploded in the middle, splitting into several pieces, splinters flying.

He feigned surprise, stepping back half a pace, and frowned at his palm. "Why is it so fragile?"

Doors of several nearby houses opened, and a few villagers peered out. Someone whispered, "That peddler has some strength." Another said, "Must be the water that ruined the wood."

The middle-aged man squatted down and picked up a fragment, examining it closely. The break was uneven, as if it had burst from the inside, not the mark of an axe or knife. He looked up at Chen Wuya, his eyes changing.

Chen Wuya scratched his head, looking bewildered. "Strange, I just pressed lightly... Is this wood really that brittle?"

No one answered. The man stood up and carried the remaining firewood into his house. As he entered, he glanced back at Chen Wuya. There was no curiosity in that look, only scrutiny.

Chen Wuya didn't follow. He returned to the firewood shed and sat down, leaning against the doorframe to bask in the sun. He closed his eyes to regulate his breathing, deliberately slowing it down, letting the misaligned energy flow gently through his meridians like a stream. The kidney meridian was still sluggish, but he no longer forced it. Instead, he reversed his approach, letting his breath circulate around the foot lesser yin, looping back through the belt meridian. Surprisingly, he felt warmth returning to his limbs.

He knew he was getting stronger.

But he also knew that someone had already begun to suspect.

In the afternoon, he sat on the millstone, took out a corner of the tattered pages, and spread it on his lap. He muttered, "Master said to 'circulate against the meridian,' but I feel... the bubbling spring at the sole of the foot is the starting point. If I charge upwards from the center of the foot, wouldn't it be smoother?"

As soon as he said this, several passersby slowed their steps. The middle-aged man, in particular, who had been heading to the well for water, stopped abruptly upon hearing this. His gaze was fixed intently on the writing on the tattered pages.

Chen Wuya looked up, smiling openly. "Uncle, have you practiced this? Want to learn a few lines? I guarantee it's more effective than praying to the gods."

The man shook his head violently, flicked his sleeve, and walked away quickly. But Chen Wuya saw clearly that the sleeve trembled slightly, as if he had clenched his fist and then released it.

In the evening, the old woman brought half a bowl of coarse grain porridge. He took it, thanked her, and ate very slowly, each mouthful seeming to gather strength. After finishing, he placed the bowl on the stone block by the door, lay back down on the straw mat, covered himself with the thin blanket, and closed his eyes, remaining still.

The village gradually fell silent. Even the dogs stopped barking.

He wasn't asleep. His ears twitched slightly. Using the misaligned energy, he guided his qi into his ear orifices, amplifying his hearing to the extreme. The sound of the wind rustling the grass, the faint scurrying of a mouse through the firewood pile in the distance – everything was clearly discernible.

At the third watch, someone indeed came to his door again.

The footsteps were very light. They stopped outside the firewood shed, stood for a moment, and then quietly retreated.

Chen Wuya waited for a full quarter of an hour before opening his eyes and getting up. He took off his shoes and stepped barefoot onto the cold ground, pushing the door open.

Moonlight spilled onto the village path, making the dirt gleam faintly. He crept along the base of the walls, keeping low, each step falling into shadow. He moved east, bypassing several houses, finally stopping outside a dilapidated ancestral hall on the west side of the village.

The window paper was mostly torn. He crouched by the wall, peering inside through the gaps.

The middle-aged man stood in the center of the hall, facing two Qingfeng disciples. They wore black clothes, carried swords, and had sect jade tokens hanging from their waists. One of them said coldly, "Did you get the item?"

"Not yet," the man replied in a low voice. "He's guarding it very closely, the tattered pages are always on him. But I've tested him. His understanding of the mental cultivation method is completely wrong – talking about 'starting from the soles of the feet' is simply nonsense."

The other disciple sneered, "The more wrong, the better. The less they understand, the easier they are to trick. The Sect Master said, as long as we get the tattered pages, no need to leave him alive."

"I'll find a way tomorrow," the man nodded. "He's weak now, and he's still splitting wood during the day. He probably can't last long. I'll make him take it out willingly."

"Don't drag it out too long," the swordsman warned. "The higher-ups need it urgently. If it gets leaked to anyone else, neither of us can bear the consequences."

"Understood."

Chen Wuya listened clearly from outside the window. His fingers slowly tightened, his fingernails digging into his palm, but he made no sound.

He slowly retreated, returning the way he came to the firewood shed, gently closing the door, and lying back down on the straw mat.

He hadn't slept all night.

As dawn approached, the crowing of roosters sounded. He heard whispers from under the eaves on the west side.

"...He went to the ancestral hall again last night?"

"Yes, met with those two in black."

"Do you think we should really help him?"

"The village chief hasn't said anything, so we don't dare to stop him. But that person... he doesn't seem like a bad person."

"Shh! Stop talking, be careful of eavesdroppers."

The conversation abruptly ended.

Chen Wuya rolled over, facing the wall, his breathing steady, as if still asleep.

He remembered the look in the man's eyes as he watched him split wood yesterday, the secret conversation in the ancestral hall at night, and the phrase "no need to leave him alive."

He was neither angry nor afraid.

He simply took out the tattered pages hidden in his travel bag and gently spread them on his chest, like an offering.

Tomorrow, he would place it on the table.

A corner of yellow-brown edge would be exposed at the table's corner.

He knew the prey would always return.

Sunlight slanted in through the door crack, falling on the back of his hand.