Chen Wuya's hand paused on the hoe handle, his gaze settling on the trampled dead leaves at the bend in the mountain path. The wind had blurred the footprints left by the crowd, but he remembered clearly—the man who had called himself the village head had kept his forehead spotless when he knelt and kowtowed. Not even dust had clung to it, much less broken skin or blood.
These were not people fleeing disaster.
He slowly withdrew his gaze. With a light flick of the hoe, he turned over a clump of soil. His movements did not stop, but his breathing silently shifted rhythm. True qi within him flowed upstream along a crooked path, and a faint tearing sensation came from his meridians, like forcing water uphill. The Misaligned Practice Connects to Spirit System activated without a sound. His perception spread out like a spiderweb, sweeping over every lingering trace of aura in the ground beyond the courtyard.
Three unusual fluctuations remained where they had stood.
They were not the auras of weak and helpless refugees. One belonged to that village head. Within him was the faintest trace of circulating inner force, buried deeply enough that it would have been nearly impossible to notice if not for the system's particular sensitivity to unconventional applications of force. Stranger still, that aura carried a lingering undertone—cold, sluggish, with an aftertaste of blood. It was a variant of the Blood Demon Art, a body-tempering method unique to the Northern Desert.
Chen Wuya gave nothing away and continued hoeing until the vegetable patch was level. Only then did he straighten up and brush the dirt from his hands. He walked to the water vat by the fence, scooped up water with a wooden ladle, and watched the surface ripple, reflecting the empty mountain path