Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

He knew the music association president's temper all too well; any further words would only provoke more anger.

"Shen Qinghou has the ability to control sound waves; we are no match for him at all." Old Zhang lowered his voice even further. "He's running towards the old town now, and I'm chasing after him."

Gu Mingyuan took two deep breaths, his voice returning to its icy tone, laced with a venomous ruthlessness: "Old Zhang, we've been working together for so many years. Before, when he filed a complaint with the provincial authorities, it was you who helped me submit the materials, and it was you who kept an eye on the case for me. Now that he's killed my son, you know what to do."

Old Zhang nodded.

"I don't want him to get away; I want him dead. Back then, he knelt in front of the Provincial Department of Culture, and I suppressed the case with just one phone call. A cotton fluffer, a piece of trash whose mother died without anyone to bury her, dares to compete with my son? And now he dares to kill someone?" Gu Mingyuan's voice was icy cold. "Old Zhang, once this matter is settled, I'll put in a good word for your daughter's music academy entrance exam. I've already spoken to the professor; as soon as Shen Qinghou's head rolls, the acceptance letter will arrive at your house next month."

Old Zhang's fingers gripped the phone tightly, his knuckles turning white.

His daughter studied violin for ten years, hoping to get into the provincial music academy.

"I understand." He hung up the phone, put it back in his pocket, swept the flashlight beam across the fresh bloodstains on the ground, and walked deeper into the alley.

------

As Shen Qinghou leaned against the wall on another street, panting, his ears were still ringing.

His hearing was enhanced several times by the [Sound Annihilation] ability. The sound of the wind rustling through the leaves, the roar of a car engine in the distance, and the sound leaking from a cell phone receiver in an alley three hundred meters away—every word felt like a red-hot needle piercing his skull.

"Chairman Gu" "Your son is dead" "Shen Qinghou"

He froze on the spot, his blood instantly freezing, then rushing upwards with even greater force, making his temples throb.

"Back then, he filed a complaint with the provincial authorities, and I suppressed the case with just one phone call."

Gu Mingyuan's voice clearly reached his ears, carrying that condescending contempt, exactly the same voice that drifted out from the crack in the door when he was kneeling at the entrance of the Provincial Department of Culture.

He remembered.

After his mother was beaten to death, he carried a whole box of materials and took a bus overnight to the provincial capital.

The box contained hospital medical records, and the doctor's signature on the death certificate was so sharp it pierced through the paper. The mediation agreement from the Public Security Bureau had been torn and re-stitched, the cracks resembling centipedes crawling all over the paper.

The eyewitness testimonies were stamped with bright red fingerprints, and the police report that Gu Yanzhi had someone sever his tendons was tucked into his pocket, the edges of the paper wrinkled from the heat of his body.

He spent a long time organizing it, turning each page more than a dozen times, until the edges were worn rough.

Upon arriving in the provincial capital, the staff at the petition office glanced at the suitcase without even lifting their eyelids: "Leave the materials here, go back and wait for further notice."

He stayed in a small hotel for two days, gnawing on hard, chewy steamed buns, only to receive a single line of reply: "After investigation, there is no evidence of judicial injustice; the original verdict is upheld."

He didn't believe it.

He carried the box to the Provincial Department of Culture again and knelt down at the main entrance.

The August sun softened the asphalt road, and he knelt on the scorching ground. His knees were quickly worn raw, and blood seeped into the cracks between the tiles, turning into dark brown stains.

Some passersby glanced at them, some shook their heads, but no one stopped.

He knelt until after 4 p.m. when the door of the Cultural Affairs Bureau opened a crack, and a secretary in a suit came out and threw a piece of paper with a red stamp in front of him.

The paper read, "Shen Qinghou's appeal materials have been processed in accordance with the law. Please do not continue to visit him." The words were cold and perfunctory.

He picked up the paper and looked up to see Gu Mingyuan standing through the crack in the door.

Wearing a dark jacket, with a cigarette between his fingers, he looked down at him with a mocking smile.

He heard Gu Mingyuan turn to his secretary and say, "A son who fluffs cotton, does he even deserve to compete with my son?"

At that time, he thought that Gu Mingyuan was just very influential and could suppress his appeal.

Now he knows, no.

There are people like Lao Zhang who, out of his sight, intercept all the materials he submits, all his appeals and cries, and throw them in the trash.

Together, they crushed his mother's life, his eighteen years of playing the piano, and his entire life into dust.

Shen Qinghou turned around abruptly, the broken pieces of the guqin in his hand causing a sharp pain in his palm.

He had already let the two security guards go.

He didn't want to kill anyone unrelated; his only enemies were Gu Yanzhi and the beast behind him.

Old Zhang is no longer an irrelevant person.

He was an accomplice.

He was the hand that crushed his mother to death.

Shen Qinghou roared, the sound making the glass around him vibrate.

He rushed back, his shoes stomping heavily on the ground, each step filled with humiliation and hatred. Blood spurted from the wound on his arm, splashing onto the wall like dark red flowers.

"You're an accomplice too!!!"

Old Zhang had just hung up the phone when he heard a shout.

He turned his head sharply and saw Shen Qinghou rushing in from the alley entrance like a mad beast, his eyes bloodshot, holding the blood-stained guqin in his hands, the broken strings swaying back and forth like a deadly iron chain.

Old Zhang's hand instantly reached for the police baton at his waist, a flicker of panic crossing his face before he quickly suppressed it: "Don't do anything rash—"

Shen Qinghou didn't give him a chance to finish speaking.

He lunged forward, grabbed Old Zhang by the neck, his forearm muscles taut like iron, and slammed him against the wall.

The back of his head slammed against the brick wall with a dull thud, and plaster began to crumble and fall.

"You started this mess!" Shen Qinghou roared, his voice cracking so badly he could barely utter a coherent tone. "Where were you when I was kneeling in front of the Provincial Department of Culture, when my mother was beaten to death and lying in the morgue, when I was running around with my documents and being kicked out of every department?!"

Old Zhang's face turned purplish-red from being pinched, and he scratched wildly with his hands, his fingernails drawing blood from Shen Qinghou's arm. Drops of blood rolled down and dripped onto his face.

Shen Qinghou felt no pain.

His fingers tightened more and more, his knuckles turning white, and a hoarse sound came from Old Zhang's throat as his eyes began to roll upwards.

Shen Qinghou slammed the man to the ground, then stepped on his chest, the weight pressing down on him, causing the bones to creak and crack.

He picked up the broken pieces of the guqin from the ground, pressed his fingers on the only remaining broken string, and the steel string cut his already bloody fingertips, blood flowing down the string.

Old Zhang coughed up blood, his voice filled with terror: "You're insane! Killing a security guard will get you wanted to death! There's nowhere for you to hide in the whole country!"

Shen Qinghou looked down at him, his eyes red as if they were about to bleed.

"You've killed my mother. My tendons are severed, I can't play the piano anymore. My home is gone, I have nothing left." His voice was hoarse, each word laced with blood and froth. "I'm not afraid of anything anymore."