Courtyard House: Drunk and tipsy, the whole courtyard exposed at the start.

The sound of the jeep was particularly jarring in the quiet night, but it quickly faded away.

Two all-black Volga jeeps, like two silent behemoths, quietly stopped at the gate of the courtyard house.

The car door opened, and several men in plain clothes got out.

Leading the group were the two "plainclothes leaders" from a few days ago, along with Director Chen, who had dark circles under his eyes, Lao Mo, Xiao Chen, and others.

They were also carrying two beautifully packaged cans of malted milk powder and a net bag of fruit.

The manner in which they were visiting a patient, coupled with the mysterious vehicle and the eerie atmosphere, gave the whole scene an indescribable sense of unease.

A group of people driving around late at night carrying gifts to visit a patient—that's a bit odd.

"Squeak—"

The front gate was gently pushed open, and several people walked in.

Yan Bugui was fanning himself with a large palm leaf fan in the front yard, playing chess with Yi Zhonghai and Liu Haizhong under the streetlights when he turned around and was stunned.

He had originally intended to ask who was there and what they were doing there, but when he saw Director Chen accompanying them, he changed his mind.

"Chief Chen, what's going on here...?"

Director Chen replied in a low voice, "We've come to visit Comrade Zhang Dabiao."

Liu Haizhong also came over: "Old Chen, who are these two leaders...?"

Director Chen glared at him: "Don't ask questions you shouldn't!"

So Yi Zhonghai quickly pulled Liu Haizhong aside—don't get involved!

------------

Inside the house in the east courtyard, the lights were soft. Director Chen and the others stood at the door of the small wooden house in the courtyard, keeping watch, but did not go in.

Zhang Dabiao, leaning against the bed in the cabin, looked at the two uninvited guests with a weak and helpless bitter smile on his face.

"Gentlemen, it's so late at night, what are you doing here...?"

The older leader placed the malted milk powder and fruit on the table, waved his hand, and his attitude was unusually warm and friendly.

"Comrade Zhang, don't be nervous. We heard you were discharged from the hospital, so we came to see you."

He pulled a red booklet from his pocket, flashed it in front of Zhang Dabiao, and then quickly put it away.

"This is my ID. I didn't show it to you last time because of the special circumstances."

"Special cases require special treatment. The fewer people in our department who know about this, the better."

"I came today to see how your recovery is going."

The young leader remained silent, but his sharp gaze scrutinized Zhang Dabiao's face, as if trying to glean something from his complexion.

Zhang Dabiao understood immediately.

They've come to inspect the goods.

Let's see if this "divine revelation" has truly suffered a backlash.

He subtly adjusted his breathing to make his face appear even paler, then clutched his chest and coughed violently.

"Cough cough... cough cough cough!"

He coughed so hard it felt like he was coughing up his internal organs, and a fine layer of cold sweat instantly appeared on his forehead.

Mu Wanqing and Qin Jingru rushed forward, one patting his back and the other pouring hot water.

"Boss, you see... my health... cough cough... I'm afraid I won't last much longer." Zhang Dabiao gasped for breath, looking like he might die on the spot at any moment. "The secrets of heaven... you can't talk about them, you really can't talk about them..."

The older leader looked at him like this, and a complex emotion flashed in his eyes—sympathy, concern, but mostly scrutiny.

He didn't ask any further questions about the future, but just chatted about everyday things while recuperating, telling him to rest and recuperate, and that the country would not forget comrades with such special talents.

Both sides understood each other but kept quiet, and in this small house, a tacit dialogue unfolded between them.

Zhang Dabiao perfectly embodied the persona of a "divinely punished" fortune teller, demonstrating his own value while simultaneously building a firewall for himself that "if my body can't handle it, asking too many questions will kill me."

After about fifteen minutes, the two leaders got up to take their leave.

Before leaving, the older leader walked to the door, suddenly turned around, and said something meaningful to Zhang Dabiao.

"Comrade Zhang, take care and get better."

Zhang Dabiao leaned against the headboard and nodded weakly, indicating that it was just a routine investigation.

These two revealed their identities as members of a special department, but they didn't say who they had submitted the document to, or what the reaction was from above...

I said nothing, I know nothing, and maybe it's better not to know.

Surely the higher-ups can't just rashly make a decision based on your half-baked, drunken ramblings, can they?

So everyone is just watching and waiting. Only when Khrushchev steps down at the end of the year and the mushroom bombs are successfully planted, will the higher-ups take it seriously.

It's hard to say whether Zhang Dabiao will contact him again after starting over. Zhang Dabiao punched himself until he bled to avoid that.

We can't really drag a fortune teller into interfering in national affairs, can we? What's the basis for that?

Zhang Dabiao shook his head, deciding to ignore it and just wait for news.

It would be best if you didn't come looking for me; I've done all I could anyway.

------------

June 1964, Hong Kong, Lok Kwong Theatre.

The deafening screams nearly lifted the roof off, and the air was thick with the hormones and fervor characteristic of adolescence.

On stage, four young men in suits with their signature "mop-head" hairstyles were singing loudly, headbanging, while holding guitars and basses.

"She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah!"

When the lead singer shouted out those lyrics, the girls in the audience went completely crazy. Cries and screams merged into a surging wave of sound, crashing against everyone present.

Zhang Yaoyang (Zhang Dabiao), Qin Mancang, and the Jin brothers, a group of young men, all had their faces flushed red as they waved their arms and sang along at the top of their lungs, despite their ridiculously poor English pronunciation.

"Brother Yaoyang! That was awesome! These British guys are really something!" Ah Xiang was so excited that his face was flushed, and he shouted into Zhang Dabiao's ear.

Cheung Yiu-yeung leaned back lazily in his seat, rubbing his ears which were ringing from the vibrations, his expression indifferent.

interesting?

It's nothing special.

The melody is catchy, and the atmosphere at the event was certainly energetic, but it wouldn't be accurate to call it particularly shocking.

A fleeting image crossed his mind: Michael Jackson's globally stunning moonwalk, and the epic scene of Queen leading 100,000 people in a sing-along at Wembley Stadium.

Not to mention the various concerts and programs held domestically.

Compared to those, these four young men in front of them looked like artsy young people in the village who had just gotten internet access, exuding a sense of naivety.

However, he also had to admit that in this era, for Hong Kong, which was just beginning to come into contact with Western popular culture, the emergence of the Beatles was nothing short of a major musical earthquake, and could be considered an enlightenment.

As the concert ended, a group of people walked out of the theater, still feeling the excitement. Jin Youwu was still excitedly gesturing to his name.

"Boss, let's form a band!"

What is that?