Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

One day in the seventh year, he finally managed to find a provincial official who was "willing to listen" through connections.

The man glanced through the materials he had brought, nodded, and said, "I understand the situation. Go back and wait for news; there will be results this time."

He believed it.

For the first time in those three months, he slept soundly.

He even started thinking: once this matter is over, I'll go back to Dawn City to apply for a new job and continue teaching.

Perhaps I can stand on the podium again and tell the children: "A person can bend over temporarily, but cannot live on their knees."

Instead of a result, what awaited them was a police car.

He was arrested on charges of "false accusation and framing".

In court, the evidence collected over seven years was characterized as "fabricated" and "malicious defamation."

As the judge read the verdict, he saw Song Mingzhang smiling at him from the audience.

That smile sent chills down his spine.

He realized—from the very beginning, nobody cared.

The materials he submitted, the people he begged, and the "procedures" he trusted were all channels for tipping off Song Mingzhang and his associates.

……

A single room in a mental hospital.

White walls, white bed, white light.

It was blinding, cold, and lifeless.

He was tied to the bed, his limbs restrained by straps.

Someone comes to inject "dialysis" at a set time every day.

The drugs plunged him into a state of confusion.

Unable to distinguish between day and night, unable to differentiate between reality and illusion.

He could feel his memories slipping away—the details he had desperately memorized over the past seven years, his brother's face, every word on the evidence, all slipping through his fingers like sand.

In his occasional moments of lucidity, he would hear the screams of other patients in the corridor and smell the stench of disinfectant mixed with excrement in the air.

Three months.

Three whole months.

One night, he woke up from a nightmare again and realized that he could no longer remember what his brother looked like when he smiled.

That fear was more terrifying than any torture—he was losing himself, losing Meng Zhaowen, whom he had persisted with for seven years.

He closed his eyes, silently repeating his brother's name in his mind, recalling the evidence over and over again, like a drowning man desperately grasping at the last straw.

Then—he "saw" something.

It's not a hallucination.

It is a true "seeing".

There was a wild grass growing in the crack in the corner of the ward.

The cement sealed off its growing space, but it still poked its head out from the cracks.

Moonlight streamed through the iron bars of the window, causing the leaves of the wild grass to tremble slightly, their veins clearly visible, as if they were breathing.

He sensed the vitality of that blade of grass—weak yet resilient, like himself, trapped in this concrete desert, yet still alive.

He tried to "touch" it, with his consciousness, with that obsession that burned deep within his despair.

The blades of grass swayed slightly, as if in response.

In that instant, he "heard"—not a sound, but some kind of primal resonance.

He heard the sounds of countless plants growing in the darkness, the friction of roots pushing aside stones as they spread through the soil, and the secrets carried by the wind as it passed through the leaves.

He realized that there was more than just human rules in this world; there was an even more ancient order.

Those plants cannot speak or write, but they can "see" and "hear," recording all the information in their annual rings, in the veins of their leaves, and in every branch of their roots.

And he, Meng Zhaowen, gained the ability to communicate with and manipulate them.

【Awakening of the Earth Spirit】—Using its own life force as a medium, it awakens the spirituality of plants, making every leaf its eyes and every vine its fist.

……

The scene changes again.

One late night, he briefly regained consciousness from the drug-induced haze.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing closer and closer.

The doctor who always "smiled" at him, accompanied by two caregivers, pushed open his door.

A corner of a piece of paper peeked out of the doctor's white coat pocket—it was a petition he had secretly written and entrusted to a nurse who "looked kind" to take out and send it to the authorities.

That piece of paper is now in the doctor's pocket.

The doctor stood by the bed, looking down at him with that familiar smile: "Teacher Meng, I heard you've been thinking about some things you 'shouldn't be thinking about' lately? It seems the treatment needs to be intensified."

The caregiver held a syringe in his hand, the needle tip gleaming coldly under the harsh white light.

In that instant, he understood—they had no intention of "curing" him at all.

What they want is for him to shut up completely, go completely insane, and disappear completely.

Fear poured over my head like ice water.

But he didn't tremble.

Because at that very moment, he sensed the "breathing" of the wild grass in the corner.

Its roots are embedded in the cracks of the cement; they are fragile, but alive.

The doctor gestured for the caregiver to hold him down.

The needle tip is getting closer and closer.

He closed his eyes, and with all his might, "shout" out a single word to the weed:

--long!

The next second, the crack in the corner of the wall exploded.

The weed grew wildly in an instant, its vines sprouting out as if they had come alive, wrapping around the doctor's wrist and the caregiver's ankle.

The doctor screamed, the syringe fell to the ground, the glass shattered, and the medicine splattered everywhere.

Meng Zhaowen rolled off the bed, his limbs limp and powerless from being bound for so long, but he gritted his teeth and crawled toward the door.

Behind me were the caregiver's curses, the sound of vines being torn apart, and the piercing scream of the alarm.

He rushed into the corridor, smashed open the fire escape door, and rolled down the stairs.

One floor, two floors, three floors.

Footsteps approached from behind.

He rushed out of the building, into the night, and into the wasteland behind the mental hospital.

The weeds were knee-high, tripping him up and causing him to fall again and again, only to get up each time.

He didn't know how long he ran, until there was no sound behind him, until his legs could no longer support him and he collapsed in a patch of wild grass.

The moonlight shone down.

The leaves of the wild grass gently brushed against his face, as if to confirm that he was still alive.

He lay in the grass, panting heavily, and tears finally welled up in his eyes.

It wasn't out of fear, but because he "heard"—every blade of grass and every wildflower in this wasteland was telling him in their own language: You are safe.

He raised his hand, trembling, to touch the nearest blade of grass.

The leaves curled gently, wrapping around his fingers as if shaking hands.

At that moment, he knew that he was no longer the lonely, crushed Meng Zhaowen.

He now has an entire silent legion.

In the distance, the lights of the mental hospital were still on.

That smiling doctor, those who pursued him, that name Song Mingzhang.

He will remember everything.

Every blade of grass will help him remember.

He slowly sat up, looked at the patch of weeds, and said in a hoarse but calm voice, "Thank you."

The wild grass swayed gently in the night breeze, as if saying: You're welcome, we've been waiting for you for a long time.

……

Memories recede like the tide.

Meng Zhaowen suddenly came to her senses and realized that she was still squatting in the shadows outside Jingyuan Villa.

The night breeze was cool, and the holly leaves under his fingertips trembled slightly, as if responding to his thoughts.

He slowly withdrew his hand, took off his glasses, and wiped the moisture off the lenses with the corner of his clothes.

When he put it on again, his eyes, which always exuded elegance and melancholy, were now filled with solemnity and determination.

Brother, did you see that?

That smiling Song Mingzhang, that Wang Hongyuan hiding behind the scenes...

They thought that locking someone up in a mental hospital would wear down their spirit.

But they forgot that some things cannot be contained.

For example, hatred.

For example, obsession.

For example... the silent roar from the depths of the earth.

Meng Zhaowen stood up, her dark gray trench coat billowing gently in the night breeze.

He took one last look at the towering walls of Jingyuan Villa before turning and disappearing into the darkness.

He knew that Liu Zhen was waiting for him to bring back intelligence.

And he should also let those hiding behind high walls know—

There are more than just fortresses made of steel and concrete in this world.

Countless silent roots have already woven a vast, inescapable net underground.

They are silent, yet they can hear every lie and remember every name.

Tonight is just the beginning.

The real reckoning is yet to come.