Chen Wuya's fingers paused over the bloodstained scrap of paper, his fingertips pressing against the edge of the "chains entwining an eye" mark. Firelight spilled from the stove, making those dark-red lines seem almost alive, gleaming faintly with an oily sheen. He did not look at the corpse again, nor did he turn back toward Bai Zhi. He merely flipped the paper over. The reverse was still blank, but it felt slightly different—one patch of fibers was thicker, as though it had been soaked in some solution and dried.
The system gave a faint tremor in his mind. "Residual information has not been cleared. Concealed impressions detected."
He understood at once. Taking a small piece of charcoal from his robes, he gently rubbed it across the paper. On the formerly blank reverse, three slanting marks gradually emerged, as if hurriedly carved by a blade and then deliberately ground flat. They were not writing, but a secret sign passed down within the Northern Desert army: one stroke meant "scout," two meant "suspicion," and three... meant "the trap is set."
Chen Wuya's gaze sharpened.
This was not intelligence. It was confirmation.
They did not need him to bring back an answer. They only needed him to react—even stepping out of the courtyard to inspect the corpse would mean falling into their rhythm. That birdcall-like code had never been meant for distant accomplices. It had triggered some follow-up mechanism arranged long ago. Like tossing a stone into a well, they did not care how large the stone was; they only wanted to hear the echo.
"They're waiting for me to make a move," he said quietly. "As long as I involve myself once—whether it's saving someone, investigating a case, or hunting a killer—it becomes proof that 'Chen Wuya has returned to the martial