Bright Sword: Conquer the monk at the beginning and take down Zhou Weiguo

"Too risky." Qin Cang flatly rejected it. "Once we separate, the enemy will have an opportunity to take advantage. The enemy is good at dividing their prey and never attacks head-on."

"What should we do then?" Liu San frowned. "Let's starve them or wait for them to come out?"

Qin Cang slowly sat down, leaned his back against the tree trunk, and stared at the fire.

"No." His voice was low and firm. "We looked for his loopholes and dug out his traces from his actions. The records he left behind, the messages he passed, the contacts he used... there are clues everywhere. No matter how deep he hides, he can't hide the habits behind every action."

"You want... to make him lose his composure." Liu San seemed to be thinking about something.

"That's right." Qin Cang nodded. "As long as he knows we are investigating him, he will act. Bai Lang is not the kind of person who will wait patiently. He will take the initiative and mislead, frame, switch people, and even create chaos. But the more he moves, the more exposed he will be."

Liu San had already lain down, and though he'd been taking night shifts, he was actually snoring softly. He was the kind of man who could sleep on the battlefield and fight again when he woke, his heart as hard as stone, unshakable. Qin Cang envied this kind of character, but he could never achieve it himself. He was too calculating and meticulous, each move like a chess game, each man having to carefully consider his opponent. He knew that this character had brought him many victories, but also unavoidable pain.

He glanced at the sleeping Xiaohu. A piece of cloth was pressed against the side of the child's face, still stained with blood from last night's unwashed wound. He had cut himself. Qin Cang remembered it clearly. It was when they were crossing the mountain pass that Xiaohu fell and bruised his elbow, but he said nothing, just lowered his head and followed silently.

"If we don't do something, we'll starve to death."

The thought ignited in his mind like a spark, spreading rapidly. He knew waiting any longer wasn't an option. Three days' worth of food would only sustain five people at best. Adding to the physical strain and the sudden dangers of the mountains and forests, it might not even last two days. It wasn't even past midnight yet. If he could take advantage of the cover of darkness and quietly sneak into the nearest village, he might be able to scavenge something—even just a few bags of bran or a block of coarse salt—it would be enough to keep everyone alive for a day or two.

"Unfortunately... the village is also dangerous."

He looked down at his bleached boots, his mind racing. That village was no ordinary place. They had spies nearby, and there were rumors that the enemy had used it to transport supplies—though there was no way to verify the truth of this rumour. He didn't dare send anyone there rashly, nor did he dare take too many people with him, as that would reveal too many targets.

"I'll go." He murmured to himself, as low as the wind blowing the grass.

Yes, he would go alone. Only he could judge whether the danger was real, and only he could react quickly if faced with a crisis. He had to verify the authenticity of the clues himself, no longer relying on those fragmented notes and hazy memories.

He slowly rose from the ground, his movements extremely gentle. He wasn't trying to hide from anyone, but rather to avoid disturbing his slumbering teammates. His silent departure felt like an escape, but he knew it wasn't an escape; it was a choice. He bent down and retrieved the short, sharp dagger from behind the firewood pile, slinging it around his waist. He then pulled a small, half-filled bag of salt from his backpack—just in case he ran into any villagers, perhaps the salt could be traded for some food. Salt was the most precious currency here.

He tiptoed past the edge of the camp, pausing briefly as he passed Liu San and glanced at him. Liu San still had his eyes closed, his lips slightly raised, as if dreaming of something wonderful. Qin Cang gave a wry smile. This man, even if the god of death knocked at the door, might not open his eyes.

After leaving the camp, Qin Cang walked along the mountain path, his steps steady and steady. He was incredibly familiar with the terrain, and even in the darkness of the night, he never lost his way. He avoided obvious paths, weaving through thorns and bushes, walking quietly and quickly. Every few steps, he stopped to listen—he listened to the wind, the chirping of insects, and the interruptions of silence. It was these subtle changes that allowed him to determine whether he was being followed, whether he was being targeted.

After walking for about an hour, they finally heard the gurgling of a stream in the distance. It was a small river near the village, which was built on a hillside beside the river, living by the water and hidden by the water. He crouched behind a rock and looked at the village, which was slightly white in the night.

A few dilapidated eaves formed silhouettes, and occasionally, traces of lingering smoke drifted from behind them, indicating that someone was still awake. The village should have been quiet, but at this moment, Qin Cang sensed something unnatural. His eyes fixed on one of the houses—the windows were closed, but a faint light shone through the cracks. It was not the yellow glow of an oil lamp, but a cool, bluish-white flame, like burning phosphorescence, like the cold glimmer of stagnant water.

"Not a villager." He immediately judged in his mind.

Villagers wouldn't use this kind of light source; lighting tools of this color could only be found in military supplies. Furthermore, there were no signs of livestock or firewood piled outside the house, indicating it wasn't a permanent resident, but rather someone temporarily renting or occupying it.

Qin Cang quietly retreated a few steps, skirting around to the other side, nearing the hill behind the village. He remembered that there used to be a sheep pen here, where the village's elderly shepherds used to spend the night and keep watch. He approached very quietly, leaning his back against the stone wall and waiting for a moment. He heard heavy snoring from within, and only then did he peek through the gap.

He was an old man, skinny and bony, his face wrinkled like cracked earth in the firelight. He lay reclining on a small bed, a white stone the size of an egg glowing beside his pillow—fluorite. His use of this stone for illumination indicated he wasn't interacting with outsiders.

Qin Cang hesitated for a moment, then knocked lightly on the door.

The old man woke up with a start, and when he stood up, he was holding a short wooden stick in his hand, his eyes full of fear.

"Don't be afraid." Qin Cang lowered his voice, "I'm not a bad person. I'm here to find something to eat. You can exchange it for salt."

The old man stared at him warily and slowly opened the door a crack.

"Are you alone?" he said hoarsely. "Come to the village at this time, are you looking for death?"

Qin Cang looked at him, silent. Yes, he was alone, and he knew it was dangerous. He needed the old man to say something, but he couldn't push him too hard.

"I saw it. The house over there...is not in your village." He said softly.

The old man swallowed, hesitated for a moment, and whispered, "They came yesterday. After dark, no one dared to come near...even the dogs stopped barking."

"How many people?" Qin Cang asked.

"Three or four of them, they don't look like villagers." The old man glanced outside and closed the door tighter. "You better leave quickly. If they see you, you'll be dead."