Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

Each leaf became his eyes, and each vine became his nerves.

The moss in the corner of the parking lot senses the residual heat of the vehicle engines, the weeds at the ventilation duct openings capture subtle changes in airflow, and even around the underground cables, his roots listen to the hum of the current.

This is a vast, silent network.

Within this network, no anomaly, no abnormal energy fluctuation, can escape his perception.

He doesn't need to see; the plants will tell him everything.

……

A temporary place to stay, three kilometers away from the convention center.

The footsteps disappeared outside the door.

Meng Zhaowen went to scout, leaving Liu Zhen alone in the entire factory.

Liu Zhen sat amidst a pile of discarded cables, holding a piece of velvet cloth in his hand, repeatedly wiping a palm-sized black device.

That was an electrical overload trigger he made himself.

The core component is a coil salvaged from a scrapped transformer. After his modification, it can release pulses far exceeding the normal voltage in an instant.

Occasionally, a faint blue arc of electricity would leap from the fingertip, crackling and creating a subtle resonance with the circuitry in the device.

The tingling sensation traveled from his fingertips throughout his body, awakening long-dormant memories.

Two weeks ago, he woke up in a similar abandoned factory filled with the smell of rust.

That was the forty-ninth day after his wife and son were buried.

According to the local custom, this is the "final seven days," the day when the souls of the deceased return home for the last time.

But they didn't come back.

Only he, covered in wounds, huddled in a corner like a wild dog with its spine broken.

Forty-nine days of escape, forty-nine days of pain.

The injury to my left shoulder hasn't fully healed yet, and every time I raise my arm, it causes a tearing pain.

My right knee is swollen like a steamed bun, and every step feels like walking on a knife's edge.

He had been hungry and had rummaged through trash cans for expired bread;

He had been chilled, had a high fever, and huddled in a bridge archway waiting for death to come.

Every joint in his body was reminding him: You are rotting away.

But that wasn't the most painful part.

The most painful time is when I close my eyes.

My wife's last face, my son's last voice, played in my mind over and over again.

After you've finished, ask yourself: What did you do?

One Sun Guangcheng.

They only managed to kill Sun Guangcheng.

The lackey who provided the information.

What about the direct implementers?

Who actually makes the final decision?

What happened to the person who sat in the office signing documents while the brake cable was cut?

None of them died.

They are still alive.

Sitting in a warm office, drinking hot tea, reviewing documents, and discussing how to move the next "project" forward.

And he, Liu Zhen, a senior engineer with fifteen years of experience, with skills, qualifications, and a family, is now curled up in an abandoned factory like a stray dog, his wounds festering and his body stinking.

Every time he thought of this, a surge of hatred welled up from the bottom of his heart like molten lava, burning through his throat, burning through his eyes, and making him tremble all over.

But he could only tremble; he couldn't do anything.

He can't get out.

The Guangyang Municipal Public Security Bureau's notice for assistance in the investigation was sent throughout the province, and his photo was posted on the wall of every police station.

How can he go find those people now that he's so badly injured?

Is it just going to rot here like this?

Should those people be allowed to continue living?

That night, he curled up in a corner, staring at the flickering light above him.

The lamp is old and the ballast has poor contact, causing it to flicker every few seconds.

The pale blue light felt like a mockery.

His eyes were fixed on the light, and his consciousness began to fade.

He was reminded of his childhood.

When I was seven, I took apart the family flashlight for the first time, reconnected the batteries and bulb, and the flashlight lit up, even brighter than before.

His father scolded him for wasting money, while his mother defended him, saying that the child was skillful and would make a living through technical skills in the future.

Later, I really did make a living through technical skills.

I majored in electrical engineering and ended up at Longteng Power.

There, he met her—his wife, the cashier in the finance department, whom he met while she was repairing the circuit.

She watched his back as he squatted on the ground connecting wires and said, "You're quite serious."

He turned around and saw a smile.

That smile has been with him for fifteen years.

In the years after his marriage, he became obsessed with electrical research.

After getting off work, I would go straight to my study, draw blueprints, build circuits, and figure out how to improve efficiency by another 0.1 percentage points.

She never complained, but would occasionally bring in a cup of tea, stand behind her for a while, and say, "Look at you, you might as well spend your whole life with electricity."

He didn't know how to answer, so he just smiled.

Later, they had a son.

When his son was five years old, he taught him to make a small electric fan—a motor, two plastic pieces, and a battery to make it turn.

The son stared wide-eyed as the fan started spinning, then looked up and asked, "Dad, what's electricity?"

He thought for a long time and said, "It's light, it's heat, it's something that can make many things move."

The son then asked, "Can you make it move?"

He laughed and pointed to the fan: "Isn't it already moving?"

The son nodded, seemingly understanding but not quite.

He still remembers that look in his eyes.

Like the way he used to stare at a flashlight when he was a child.

After that, my son became fascinated with anything related to electricity.

Every time he repaired the electrical circuits at home, his son would squat beside him and watch, asking all sorts of questions.

His son remembers everything he taught him.

Sometimes he himself forgets, but his son can still recite it.

That child is going to take over his job someday.

That's what he thought.

Then the brake cable broke.

His son, the boy who stared wide-eyed and asked "What is electricity?", is gone.

Liu Zhen huddled in the abandoned factory, staring at the flickering light.

The tears had long since dried up, leaving only a burning fire in my chest.

He thought of those who were still alive.

How to get revenge?

With a gun?

He will not.

With a knife?

He can't.

He was just an electrician, a technician, who had never been in a fight or killed anyone in his life.

Sun Guangcheng's actions that time were a combination of anger and luck.

He wasn't confident about trying again.

But he can generate electricity.

That was his entire life's work.

I've been learning since I was a child, studying for twenty years and working for fifteen.

He can calculate current, voltage, resistance, and power with his eyes closed.

He can tell how to connect lines, switches, transformers, and distribution cabinets at a glance.

That's what he's best at.

That was something he and his wife knew.

That's what he taught his son.

Then let's use electricity.

Let the current flow through their bodies, like flowing through the circuits he himself had connected.

Let them taste what it's like to be electrocuted—not to die instantly, but slowly, like he has forty-nine days, feeling the pain little by little!

The moment the thought settled, he felt something like a seed crack open inside his body.

It was as if something deeper had been torn open, and something new was pouring out from the cracks.

That force surged through my body like an electric current, penetrating every blood vessel, every muscle, and every nerve ending.

He subconsciously looked up at the lamp that was flickering on and off.

He saw "electricity".