Sunlight slanted through the crack beneath the door, falling across the yellow-brown edge at the corner of the table.
Chen Wuya sat up, moving sluggishly, as if his bones had not fully warmed yet. He reached up and felt his throat, coughed lightly twice, then rubbed his temples, as though the chill from the night before were still winding through his meridians. This appearance was for the people outside. He knew the eyes beneath the western room's eaves had never truly closed.
He rose and walked unsteadily to the table, spreading the scorched page flat again. One corner of its burned edge had curled up like a withered leaf. He did not hide it or fold it, simply left it lying there, as if he had forgotten it was worth a life.
He picked up the water bucket and pushed open the door. The morning wind struck his face, carrying the dampness of the stream. He kept his head lowered, shoulders swaying slightly, looking like a man who had not yet recovered from a serious illness. But the corner of his eye swept toward the end of the village road—at the western room's doorway stood a middle-aged man, half a split log in his hand, his heavy gaze settling on him.
Chen Wuya did not dodge. Instead, he staggered, catching himself against the wall. "My legs... are still weak." He muttered it in a voice neither loud nor soft, just loud enough to carry across.
The man did not answer. He simply turned and went inside.
After fetching the water, he set the bucket beside the stove and shook his sleeves, as if trying to fling something away. Then he sat down and rummaged through his pack, muttering, "This cultivation method is missing too much. I'll never make anything of it. I might as well tear it up and use it to paper the window."
The instant he finished speaking, footsteps sounded outside.
The man came in carrying a bowl of thin porridge. The rim struck the corner of the table with a light clink.
Chen Wuya looked up and smiled. "Brother, sorry for the trouble again."
The man grunted, but his gaze first fell on the table—the scorched page lay conspicuously spread out, that yellow-brown mark painfully stark. His pupils contracted, his wrist trembled, and the porridge nearly spilled.
"You're not... afraid someone will see it?" he asked. His voice was restrained, yet a trace of urgency seeped through.
"What's there to fear?" Chen Wuya took the bowl and blew across it. "It's just a fragment of a book. I can't even make out all the characters. Who would want it?"
The man stared at the page, and his expression changed. It was not curiosity, but confirmation—the way a hunter looked upon footprints around a trap.
"Yesterday, you said... you started from the soles of your feet?" he suddenly asked.
"Yeah." Chen Wuya picked up a chopstickful of salted vegetables and chewed them with a loud crunch. "I figure true qi has to have a root if it's going to surge upward. The Yongquan points on the soles—aren't they the root? If it flowed against the current along the Belt Vessel Meridian from there and made one circuit, maybe it could break through the blocked places."
The man's expression tightened, and he blurted out, "Nonsense! How can true qi flow backward? That's the road to cultivation deviation!"
The words had barely left his mouth when he froze.
Chen Wuya lowered his head to drink his porridge, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.
You even know about flowing backward? And you said it so precisely?
He slowly set down the bowl and wiped his mouth. "Oh? You understand this too?"
"I don't." The man immediately shook his head. "I heard... heard Old Wu Tou, the escort guard, mention it. He said proper martial arts had to be practiced step by step and couldn't be messed with."
"Old Wu Tou?" Chen Wuya laughed aloud. "I've met that old man. All he does is tell strange jianghu tales, saying things like, 'If you drive corpses at midnight, you have to stick talismans on them.' You believe him too?"
The man's face stiffened. His sleeve shifted, as if he wanted to clench his fist but forced it loose.
"It's not that I believe him," he said in a low voice. "I'm worried about you. If this sort of thing brings disaster, our village won't be able to bear it."
"I know." Chen Wuya sighed, stood up, and walked toward the stove. "How about I burn it right now? Then we'll have one less thing to worry about."
He picked up the page and made as if to stuff it into the stove.
The man's breath caught. His eyes locked onto the sheet of paper.
But just as Chen Wuya's fingertips touched the flames, he stopped again. He frowned thoughtfully, then turned back to the table and gently laid the paper down.
"Forget it." He patted away the ash. "I'll keep it. At least it's a way to stay alive."
The man stood where he was, unmoving and silent. After a long while, he finally forced out, "You... really aren't afraid?"
"Of course I'm afraid." Chen Wuya grinned. "But the more afraid you are, the more you have to pretend you aren't. Think about it—if I were truly scared, I'd have run already. Like this, no one will believe I have anything."
The man nodded, turned, and left. His footsteps were several beats faster than when he had arrived.
Chen Wuya sat beside the table without moving.
He knew that one glance and that single phrase—"flow backward"—had been enough.
The words the Qingfeng Sect's people had taught him had been used in the wrong place. Old Wu Tou had never mentioned martial arts at all; he had heard those words in the ancestral hall last night. He had thought his performance was flawless, but in truth, every sentence had given him away.
He lowered his head and looked at the scorched page, his finger gently brushing over the burn mark.
The bait had been cast.
Now all that remained was to see whether the fish would bite.
At noon, an old woman brought him a bowl of coarse rice and half a slice of pickled radish. She stood in the doorway and glanced at the paper on the table, hesitating to speak.
"Granny, what is it?" Chen Wuya asked.
"Nothing." She shook her head. "It's just... the village isn't peaceful. This morning I saw that household at the western end talking to outsiders, acting all furtive."
"Oh?" He picked up the radish and took a bite. "Who was it?"
"Who else could it be?" The old woman lowered her voice. "That fellow surnamed Li. He was sneaking out in the middle of the night yesterday too."
Chen Wuya smiled. "Maybe he had to get up in the night."
"Who gets up in the night and runs all the way to the ancestral hall wearing shoes?" The old woman rolled her eyes at him. "Don't believe all that nonsense about him kindly bringing you food. Something about him doesn't sit right."
"Perhaps." He nodded. "But if he really wanted to harm me, why didn't he do it while I was asleep? Why go to the trouble of bringing me food?"
The old woman was taken aback and had no reply. She turned and left.
After eating, Chen Wuya placed the bowl beside the stove. Once back in his room, he did not lie down. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the straw mat. He closed his eyes and regulated his breathing. Misaligned Force slowly circulated through his meridians, bypassing the sluggish section of the Kidney Meridian and looping back through the Belt Vessel Meridian, gradually warming his limbs.
He did not practice for long, afraid of making too much noise.
But it was enough.
He knew tonight would not be peaceful.
Sure enough, near dusk that afternoon, the man came again.
This time he brought no food. He merely stood in the doorway and said, "It's going to rain tomorrow. Does your roof leak?"
"It's fine." Chen Wuya looked up at it. "It can hold."
"Then remember to shut the door tight when you sleep tonight," the man said, his gaze sweeping across the tabletop. "The wind is strong. The paper could blow away."
"Thanks." Chen Wuya nodded. "I'll put it away."
The man did not linger. He turned and left.
But Chen Wuya knew perfectly well that the words "the wind is strong, the paper could blow away" were a warning—they were coming.
He waited until night fell and the village lights gradually went out before rising to fold the genuine page into small pieces and tuck it inside his robes. Then he took an old sheet of paper from his pack, copied a section in the handwriting of the fragment, spread it on the table, and pinned it down with half a stone.
When he had finished, he snuffed out the oil lamp, lay back on the straw mat, and closed his eyes without moving.
Half an hour later, the faintest footsteps sounded outside the door.
There was more than one person.
Two people. They landed without a sound, their steps perfectly coordinated—clearly trained fighters.
The firewood shed's door was gently pushed open a crack.
A black shadow poked its head inside, its gaze shooting straight toward the table. The forged fragment lay there quietly, glowing faintly yellow beneath the moonlight.
Another person slipped inside, swift and nimble, heading straight for the table and reaching out to seize the paper.
At that moment, Chen Wuya's eyes snapped open.
He did not move or make a sound.
He merely stared at the thatch overhead, listening to the rhythm of the intruder's breathing.
The man picked up the paper, brought it closer for a glance, and whispered, "It's definitely the fragment. Let's go."
The other person stood guard at the door, warily scanning the surroundings.
Just as they turned to leave, Chen Wuya suddenly spoke:
"You took the wrong one, didn't you?"
Both men froze from head to toe.
"I burned the real fragment this morning." Chen Wuya slowly sat up, his voice calm. "That one's a copy. Even the characters are reversed."
The man at the door whipped around, his hand pressing onto his sword hilt.
"When... did you find out?"
"From the day your man mentioned 'flowing backward.'" Chen Wuya smiled. "A Qingfeng disciple taught him those words, and he used them far too hastily."
The man inside abruptly stuffed the fake paper into his robes, and the two retreated together.
"Kill him," the guard at the door growled.
The sword had barely cleared its sheath by three inches when Chen Wuya suddenly raised his hand and flipped his palm upward.
A surge of Misaligned Force burst from his palm and slammed into the roof beam.
With a muffled BOOM, a great mass of dust and shredded thatch came raining down, covering both men.
They instinctively raised their hands to shield themselves.
In that instant, Chen Wuya had already rolled to the corner. He kicked over the water bucket, sending water flooding across the floor.
"I don't want to kill anyone." He leaned against the earthen wall, his voice calm. "But you forced me."
The swordsman let out an enraged roar and charged, sword swinging.
The blade flashed straight for Chen Wuya's throat.
Chen Wuya advanced instead of retreating. With a Misstep, he slid aside, his body shifting like a wave, actually slipping beneath the sword before following through with a shoulder strike.
The man lost his balance. His feet skidded, and he fell face-first into the puddle with a splash.
The other man drew his saber to finish him, but Chen Wuya had already attacked first, striking toward his wrist.
Misaligned Force pierced into the man's body. His arm went numb, and the saber clanged to the ground.
Chen Wuya hooked it up with his foot. The blade leaped into the air, and he caught it in his hand.
He held the saber across his chest, his breathing steady.
"Go back and tell your sect master." He said, "The fragment is in my hands, but I'm not afraid of you coming to take it."
The man on the ground struggled to rise, clutching his wrist, his face filled with terror.
"You... you're not an ordinary person at all!"
"I'm not." Chen Wuya smiled. "I'm the one you all say practiced the wrong way."
The two exchanged a glance, then turned and rushed out the door, vanishing into the night.
Chen Wuya stood in the doorway, saber in hand, listening as their footsteps faded into the distance.
He did not pursue them.
He knew the real show had only just begun.
He lowered his head and looked at the saber in his hand. Its surface reflected half his face, which appeared exceptionally calm in the moonlight.
In the distance, a small lamp still glowed in the western room's window.
Beneath it, a figure sat motionless.
Chen Wuya drove the saber into the earthen wall and turned back into the room.
He took the genuine fragment from inside his robes and gently placed it against his chest.
Then he closed his eyes.
And waited for dawn.
Before you continue