Twisted Logic Sets a Trap, Informant Reveals Themselves

Sunlight slanted in through the crack in the door, falling on the yellowish-brown edge of the table corner.

Chen Wuya sat up, his movements sluggish, as if his bones hadn't fully warmed up. He reached up to touch his throat, coughed lightly twice, and then rubbed his temples, as if the night's chill was still circulating within his meridians. This appearance was for outsiders to see. He knew the eyes under the west eaves had never truly closed.

He stood up and walked unsteadily to the table, spreading the tattered page flat again. The fire-scorched edge curled up at one corner, like the edge of a withered leaf. He didn't hide it anymore, nor did he fold it. He just let it lie there, as if he had forgotten it was worth a life.

Picking up the water bucket, he pushed the door open and walked out. The morning breeze hit his face, carrying the dampness of the stream. He lowered his head, his shoulders swaying slightly, looking like someone who hadn't fully recovered from a serious illness. Yet, his peripheral vision swept to the end of the village path – a middle-aged man stood by the west house entrance, holding a half-split piece of firewood, his gaze fixed on Chen Wuya.

Chen Wuya didn't dodge. Instead, he stumbled, steadying himself against the wall. "These legs... are still weak," he muttered to himself, his voice pitched just right to carry across the way.

The man didn't respond. He simply turned and went back into his house.

Returning with the water, he placed the bucket by the stove, shook his sleeves as if to flick something off, then sat down and rummaged through his bag, muttering, "This cultivation technique is missing too much. I can't make anything of it. Might as well tear it up and use it to patch the window."

As soon as he finished speaking, footsteps sounded outside the door.

The man walked in carrying a bowl of thin congee, the rim of the bowl lightly tapping the table corner with a soft "dang."

Chen Wuya looked up and smiled, "Brother, you've troubled yourself again."

The man grunted, but his gaze first fell on the table – the tattered page lay there, its scorched yellow color glaring. His pupils contracted, his wrist trembled slightly, and the congee almost spilled.

"You... aren't afraid of someone seeing this?" he asked, his voice lowered but laced with a hint of urgency.

"Afraid of what?" Chen Wuya took the bowl and blew on it. "It's just a fragment, the characters aren't even complete. Who would care?"

The man stared at the page, his expression changing. It wasn't curiosity, but confirmation. Like a hunter spotting footprints in a trap.

"You said yesterday... to start from the soles of your feet?" he suddenly asked.

"That's right," Chen Wuya picked up a chopstick of pickled vegetables and chewed with a loud crunch. "I think, for true energy to surge upwards, it needs a root. Aren't the bubbling springs on the soles of the feet the root? If it circulates against the belt meridian from here, maybe it can break through the blockage."

The man's face tightened, and he blurted out, "Nonsense! How can true energy flow backward? That's the path to madness!"

He stopped short after speaking.

Chen Wuya lowered his head to drink his congee, a slight smile playing on his lips.

You even know about "flowing backward"? And you're so precise?

He slowly put down the bowl and wiped his mouth. "Oh? You understand this too?"

"I don't understand," the man immediately shook his head. "I heard... Old Wu Tou, who escorts caravans, say that proper techniques must be practiced step by step, not recklessly."

"Old Wu Tou?" Chen Wuya chuckled. "I've met that old man. He only talks about strange jianghu tales, like 'you need talismans to ward off corpse-driving at midnight.' You believe that?"

The man's face stiffened, his sleeve twitched as if he wanted to clench his fist but then relaxed.

"I don't believe it," he said in a low voice. "I'm worried about you. If something like this causes trouble, our village can't bear it."

"I know," Chen Wuya sighed, stood up, and walked towards the stove. "How about I burn it right now? To save any further trouble."

He picked up the tattered page and made as if to put it into the stove.

The man's breath hitched, his eyes fixed on the paper.

But just as his fingertips brushed the flame, Chen Wuya stopped, frowned in thought, then turned back to the table and gently placed the paper down.

"Forget it," he said, brushing off some ash. "Let's keep it. It's at least a way out."

The man stood still, not moving, not speaking. After a long while, he managed to squeeze out, "You... you're really not afraid?"

"I am afraid," Chen Wuya grinned. "But the more afraid I am, the more I have to pretend not to be. Think about it, if I were truly scared, I would have run away long ago. This way, no one will believe I have anything."

The man nodded, turned, and walked out, his steps quicker than when he came.

Chen Wuya sat at the table, unmoving.

He knew that glance, that single word "backward," was enough.

The words the Qingfeng Sect taught him were used in the wrong place. Old Wu Tou never mentioned martial arts; these words were heard in the ancestral hall last night. He thought his acting was good, but in reality, every sentence was a slip-up.

He lowered his head to look at the tattered page, his fingers gently tracing the scorched mark.

The bait had been cast.

Now, it was just a matter of whether the fish would bite.

At noon, the old woman delivered a bowl of coarse rice and half a piece of pickled radish. She stood at the doorway, glanced at the paper on the table, and seemed to hesitate.

"Grandma, what's wrong?" Chen Wuya asked.

"Nothing," she shook her head. "It's just... things are a bit uneasy in the village. This morning, I saw someone from the west end talking suspiciously with an outsider."

"Oh?" He picked up a piece of radish and took a bite. "Who?"

"Who else could it be," the old woman lowered her voice. "That fellow surnamed Li. He even ran out late last night."

Chen Wuya smiled. "Perhaps he just got up in the middle of the night."

"Does getting up in the middle of the night require shoes to go to the ancestral hall?" The old woman gave him a look. "Don't believe his kind words about bringing food. I think something's not right."

"Perhaps," he nodded. "But if he really wanted to harm me, why didn't he act while I was asleep? Why bother bringing food?"

The old woman paused, didn't respond, and turned to leave.

After finishing his meal, Chen Wuya placed the bowl on the stove. Back in his room, he didn't lie down but sat cross-legged on the straw mat. He closed his eyes to regulate his breathing, circulating the coiled energy slowly through his meridians, bypassing the stagnation in the kidney meridian, using the belt meridian to loop back, and his limbs gradually grew warm.

He didn't practice for too long, afraid of making too much noise.

It's enough.

He knew tonight would not be peaceful.

As expected, late in the afternoon when it was almost dark, the man returned.

This time he didn't bring food, just stood at the doorway and said, "It's going to rain tomorrow, is your roof leaking?"

"It's fine." Chen Wuya looked up, "It can hold."

"Then when you sleep tonight, remember to close the door tightly." The man said, his gaze sweeping across the table, "The wind is strong, paper can fly easily."

"Thanks." Chen Wuya nodded, "I'll put it away properly."

The man didn't linger and turned to leave.

But Chen Wuya knew clearly that the words "The wind is strong, paper can fly easily" were a reminder—they were coming.

He waited until it was dark, and the lights in the entire village gradually extinguished, before getting up. He folded the tattered pages into small pieces and put them in his embrace. Then he took out an old piece of paper from his travel bag, copied a section of the tattered pages' handwriting, spread it on the table, and pressed it down with half a stone.

After doing this, he blew out the oil lamp, lay back down on the straw mat, closed his eyes, and remained still.

Half an hour later, faint footsteps could be heard outside the door.

It wasn't just one person.

Two people, landing silently, their steps synchronized, clearly skilled practitioners.

The door of the simple wooden house was gently pushed open a crack.

A dark shadow peeked in, its gaze directed straight at the table—the imitation tattered page lay there quietly, faintly yellow under the moonlight.

Another person flashed inside, their movements swift, heading straight for the table, reaching out to grab the paper.

At that very moment, Chen Wuya's eyes snapped open.

He didn't move, nor did he make a sound.

He just stared at the thatch on the roof, listening to the rhythm of the other person's breathing.

The person picked up the paper, brought it closer to look, and said in a low voice, "It's the tattered page, hurry."

The other person stood guard at the door, vigilantly scanning their surroundings.

Just as they turned to leave, Chen Wuya suddenly spoke:

"You took the wrong one, didn't you?"

The two men froze.

"The real tattered page, I already burned it this morning." He slowly sat up, his voice calm, "That one is a copy, even the characters are reversed."

The person at the door suddenly turned back, their hand reaching for their sword hilt.

"When... when did you find out?"

"Since your people started talking about 'walking backwards' that day." Chen Wuya smiled, "The Qingfeng disciples taught him those words, but he used them too hastily."

The person inside shoved the fake paper into their embrace, and both of them retreated simultaneously.

"Kill him." The guard at the door hissed.

The sword blade had only been drawn three inches when Chen Wuya suddenly raised his hand, flipping his palm upwards.

A surge of misaligned energy erupted from his palm, slamming into the crossbeam of the roof.

With a dull thud, a large mass of dust and straw rained down, directly covering the two men.

They instinctively raised their hands to shield themselves.

In that instant, Chen Wuya rolled to the corner of the wall and kicked over a water bucket, sending water flowing everywhere.

"I don't want to kill anyone." He leaned against the earthen wall, his voice calm, "But you forced me."

The swordsman roared and lunged forward, swinging his sword.

The sword light flashed, aiming directly for his throat.

Chen Wuya advanced instead of retreating, sidestepped, and his body shifted like a wave, slipping under the sword. He then bumped into the swordsman.

The swordsman lost his balance, his feet slipped, and he fell with a splash into the puddle.

The other person drew their saber to follow up, but Chen Wuya had already attacked, slapping at the opponent's wrist.

The misaligned energy penetrated, numbing the man's arm, and the saber clattered to the ground.

Chen Wuya hooked his foot, the saber blade jumped up, and he caught it.

He held the saber across his chest, his breathing steady.

"Go back and tell your Sect Master." He said, "The tattered page is in my hands, but I'm not afraid of you coming to take it."

The man on the ground struggled to get up, clutching his wrist, his face filled with horror.

"You... you're not an ordinary person at all!"

"I'm not." Chen Wuya smiled, "I'm the one you all said practiced incorrectly."

The two men exchanged a glance, turned, and rushed out the door, disappearing into the night.

Chen Wuya stood at the doorway, holding his saber, listening to the footsteps fade into the distance.

He didn't pursue.

He knew the real show was just beginning.

He looked down at the saber in his hand. Its surface reflected half his face, appearing exceptionally calm in the moonlight.

In the distance, a small lamp still burned in the window of the west room.

Beneath the light, a figure sat, unmoving.

Chen Wuya plunged the saber into the dirt wall and turned back into his room.

He took out the true tattered pages from his robes and gently placed them over his chest.

Then, he closed his eyes.

Waiting for dawn.