Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

From the day he gained Meng Zhaowen's ability to awaken the spirit of the earth, he secretly infused all the plants within 300 meters of his home with faint spiritual imprints. The sycamore tree at the alley entrance, the foxtail grass in the crack of the wall, the cactus on the windowsill of his neighbor's house, and the moss in the sewer were all his sensory nodes.

They don't need to grow abnormally; they only need to transmit any unusual activity from their surroundings. This is the first line of defense that is more reliable than any door lock.

The power of the Earth Spirit Awakening circulated within him with minimal consumption, as naturally as breathing.

His consciousness spread out along the roots, from the alley entrance to the street corner, from the street corner to the next block. All the movements within a three-kilometer radius turned into fragmented images that flooded into his mind: the breakfast stall owner was taking out freshly fried dough sticks, oil splattering on his apron.

Students in school uniforms rode their bicycles across the intersection, nearly colliding with a vegetable vendor's tricycle;

An old woman sat at the doorway picking vegetables; the greens in her bamboo basket were still covered in dew.

The man walked briskly, briefcase in hand, glancing at his watch every now and then, worried about being late for work.

They were all ordinary people, living ordinary lives, with nothing unusual about them.

Just as he was about to withdraw his consciousness, an extremely intense hatred suddenly crashed into his senses.

That hatred was like ice tempered with blood, like fire burned through bones, carrying the desolation and utter despair of being driven to the edge of a cliff—a taste he knew by heart.

When Chen Guohua learned that his daughter had been falsely accused, when Xu Suyuan heard the news of her grandmother's death in the laboratory, when Liu Zhen touched the cold hands of his wife and children in the morgue, and when Li Rui watched Zhang Ziqian escape punishment by feigning mental illness, they all exuded such hatred, so intense that it could burn through one's soul.

Wen Yan's consciousness tightened instantly. He followed the direction of the hatred, crossed three streets, and landed in the old music academy teaching building on the edge of the old city.

The perception was vague; all that could be determined was that the source of the hatred was in the music room on the third floor, where the owner was being suppressed and was on the verge of emotional collapse.

There was another person nearby with an expression of contempt and amusement, like a cat looking at a mouse about to die under its paws, an arrogant confidence that victory was assured.

Another qualified candidate on the verge of being driven to their death.

Perfect, he needs more information, more hosts, and more power.

------

The music room was covered in dust, and most of the window glass was broken. The wind blew in, stirring up the sheet music scattered on the floor, making the pages rustle.

Shen Qinghou was cornered against the wall, his back pressed against the dusty old zither table. The wood of the table was so bad that it hurt his back.

His wrist was wrapped in a thick white bandage, a wound left from when someone severed his tendon last month. Now, even the slightest exertion caused him excruciating pain.

Gu Yanzhi stood three steps away, wearing a custom-made white shirt. The silver cufflinks on his cuffs gleamed coldly under the emergency light. He had a smile on his lips and looked down at him as if he were a pile of useless trash.

"Would it do any good to talk to those security guards?"

Gu Yanzhi's voice wasn't loud, but each word was like an ice knife, slowly carving into Shen Qinghou's chest.

Shen Qinghou's fingernails dug fiercely into his palm, reopening the already healed wound and causing blood to seep out, wetting the photo of his mother clutched in his hand.

The woman in the photo smiled gently, with a few shallow wrinkles on her forehead, the result of years of working on a sewing machine in a garment factory. She was holding an enamel mug with a faded peony printed on the bottom. It was a prize from the school for Shen Qinghou when he won the city-level guqin competition at the age of fifteen.

Gu Yanzhi took half a step forward, his leather shoes making a cracking sound as they stepped on the broken glass on the ground.

"Hahaha! You've seriously underestimated my status!"

His laughter echoed in the empty music room, as jarring as fingernails scraping a blackboard.

Shen Qinghou suddenly raised his head, his eyes fixed on Gu Yanzhi's throat, his gaze venomous, as if he wanted to bite through his throat.

"Don't say there's no evidence. Even if there were, who do you think could do anything to me?"

Gu Yanzhi's voice was light and airy, but his words were as heavy as a stone, causing the hatred in Shen Qinghou's chest to surge like a raging sea.

His fingers were clenched into fists under the bandages, and the dull pain of the torn tendons spread from his wrist to his fingertips, but he couldn't feel the pain.

These hands have been playing the piano for eighteen years. The fingertips are covered with calluses from pressing the strings. He used to be able to play the clearest piece, "Flowing Water," but now he struggles to even hold a pen. However, he still grips it tightly, and his knuckles are white.

Gu Yanzhi leaned closer, tilting his head to look at him as if he were looking at a mouse whose tail had been stepped on.

"Do you think success is only related to talent?"

His voice suddenly turned somber, carrying an almost sincere mockery.

"Then what about all the wealth and resources our families have accumulated over the years?"

He spread his hands out, palms up, as if displaying some rare treasure.

"It's all to get rid of people like you outside the stadium!"

Shen Qinghou's breathing instantly became heavy, his chest heaving violently. The hatred in his chest surged up like oil being poured on a fire, burning his vision until it went black.

He clenched his back teeth, his cheeks bulging with veins, his gums bleeding, and the metallic taste spreading in his mouth.

Countless images exploded in his mind, shards of which pierced his head and caused him excruciating pain.

A month ago, on the awards stage of the National Youth Guqin Competition, Gu Yanzhi held the championship trophy that should have been his, and smiled gently at the camera.

He stood below the stage, clutching the substandard certificate in his hand, the pages crumpled into a ball, his knuckles white.

He practiced "Guangling San" for five whole years, every note was etched into his bones. The judges in the audience were clearly stunned, but when the champion was announced, they read out Gu Yanzhi's name.

He questioned the fairness of the competition on the spot, and the next day the leaders of the music academy talked to him. Their tone was gentle, like they were coaxing a child, but their words were like ice shards: "Drop out of school. It's better for everyone."

The day he cleaned the music room, he touched the strings of his guqin, which had been with him for ten years. He didn't cry, but he twisted all seven strings one by one and broke them. The steel strings cut his fingers, and blood dripped onto the surface of the guqin, spreading out in dark red patterns.

Later, it was late at night in the alley.

Three masked men pinned him down from behind, and the cold blade of a utility knife sliced ​​through the tendons in his wrists. Blood spurted out, splattering onto the gray brick wall like blooming red plum blossoms.

He screamed at the top of his lungs. The security camera at the alley entrance was flashing red, even though it was clearly pointing in his direction. But the police later said the camera was broken and there was no recording.

The driver turned himself in the next day, saying he lost control of the car while driving under the influence of alcohol, offered to pay 300,000 yuan in compensation, and asked him to sign a settlement agreement.

He looked at the mediation agreement, his injured hand unable to hold the pen, blood dripping onto the paper, spreading a red stain.

He tore the mediation agreement to shreds and threw it at the security guard's face.

He refused to sign, searching everywhere for evidence and filing appeals.

Then my mother had an accident.