Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

Shen Qinghou leaned against the wall as he walked out of the alley and turned into an even narrower alley. The buildings on both sides blocked out the sunlight, making it as dark as dusk inside. Only a few scattered points of light leaked out from the broken windows and fell on the ground like pieces of congealed blood.

A cacophony of roars exploded in his ears, seemingly from over a dozen streets away, yet each word felt like a needle piercing his ears, causing them sharp pain.

"That beast ran towards the old town! Chase after him!"

"Close the road! Block all exits of Zhongshan Road! Don't let a single fly out!"

"I'm going to kill him with my own hands! To avenge Old Zhang!"

There were sounds of things being smashed, car doors being kicked, and walkie-talkies crackling with electricity. All those sounds mixed together, sounding incredibly harsh, like countless knives scraping against his eardrums.

He knew those people were still far away, at least ten blocks away, but his ears caught every roar clearly, as if they were standing right behind him, their batons about to smash into his head.

His left knee was so swollen he couldn't bend it, and every step felt like stepping on broken glass. The pain made him gasp for breath, and cold sweat dripped down his chin, splashing into the muddy puddle on the ground.

The infection from the gunshot wound to my left shoulder was spreading, and the burning sensation on my skin was spreading from around the wound to half of my shoulder. With each heartbeat, the wound throbbed with pain, and half of my body was numb. I couldn't even lift my arm.

The broken zither on his back grew heavier and heavier, like a thousand-pound burden. The broken strings swayed in front of his chest, occasionally catching on his clothes, making it hard for him to breathe and causing his wounds to burn with pain.

He tried to quicken his pace, but a sharp pain shot through his knee, as if someone had slammed a hammer into his kneecap. His leg buckled, and he almost fell. He had to reach out and brace himself against the wall to steady himself, his fingernails digging into the cracks in the brickwork, causing another wave of excruciating pain.

He gasped for breath, his lungs feeling like they were filled with lead. Each breath was so painful that he trembled all over. He continued walking, sweat mixed with blood streaming down his forehead, blurring his vision. He raised his hand to wipe it away, leaving his face covered in blood, making him look like a vengeful ghost that had just crawled out of hell.

The sounds of pursuit in his ears grew closer and closer—no, it was his condition that was deteriorating. His vision was getting darker and darker, the world was spinning, and his sense of distance was failing. The sounds, though far away, sounded like they were right next to his ear.

"Listen up, everyone! The suspect is injured and can't have gone far! Surround the old town! Search house to house!"

"Whoever finds it first goes first! I'll take responsibility if they die! I'll take full responsibility if anything goes wrong!"

The roar of engines came from several directions at the same time, the screeching of tires against the ground rose and fell, and the siren was so sharp it seemed to pierce one's eardrums.

Shen Qinghou gritted his teeth and walked forward, his body trembling with every step, his bones creaking as if they were about to fall apart.

He knew he had to find a place to hide. His body wouldn't last much longer. If he kept going like this, he would bleed to death in the alley before the security guards even found him.

After turning another corner, we came to an even more desolate street. The road surface was full of potholes and overgrown with weeds. Some of the houses on both sides had collapsed, and the broken walls were covered with ivy, which was so green that it looked black, like congealed blood.

One of them is a standalone three-story building with red brick exterior walls. Ivy covers half of the wall, making it look like an old building from the 1970s or 80s. Most of the windows are broken, leaving them dark and gaping like the eyes of a dead person.

Shen Qinghou stared at the building for two seconds, a vague thought flashing through his mind—he seemed to have been here before, but he couldn't remember. Blood loss and infection made his consciousness intermittent, like a radio with a bad signal, occasionally jamming.

The shouts behind them continued to press in their direction: "Search! Search house to house! Dig him out if you can!" "He can't have gone far! He's injured, he must be hiding somewhere!"

He walked toward the building, through the overgrown yard, the gravel under his feet scraping against the soles of his shoes with a crunching sound, the grass blades scraping against his wounds, making his mouth twitch in pain.

The door on the first floor was made of iron, rusted and welded shut. He reached out and pushed it, but it wouldn't budge. Rust slag from the iron door fell off and landed on the back of his hand.

He went around to the side and saw a wooden door with a cracked panel and a broken lock that dangled from the doorknob. He pushed it open with his shoulder, and the hinges made a piercing creaking sound, like a ghost's wail.

Behind the door was the stairwell, piled with broken furniture and waste cardboard boxes. The musty smell was pungent, mixed with the smell of dust. One breath made him cough, and the shock made the wound on his chest ache so much that he grimaced.

He climbed the stairs holding onto the handrail, which was covered in a thick layer of dust that clung to his hands. He had to pull himself up with both hands with each step, and the blood from his arms smeared onto the handrail, leaving dark red marks.

When he reached the corner on the second floor, his knees gave way completely, and he knelt on the steps, his forehead hitting the handrail. The impact made him see stars, and the pain took him a long time to recover.

He lay there for a while, biting his tongue to force himself to stay awake with the pain. He tasted the saltiness of blood in his mouth, then stood up, supporting himself on the handrail, and continued climbing. Every step required all his strength, as if he were climbing a mountain of knives.

At the end of the third-floor corridor, there was a door through which a dim, warm light shone, contrasting sharply with the surrounding coldness.

He walked toward the door, his steps growing slower and slower, each step feeling like walking on cotton, light and airy. The world spun around him, and the scene before him began to blur. The door would sometimes appear as two doors, and sometimes as three.

He walked to the door, reached out to knock, and as soon as his fingers touched the door, everything went black; all sound disappeared, and all light vanished.

He fell forward, his forehead hitting the door frame with a dull thud, but he didn't utter a sound from the pain.

The broken zither slid off his back and fell to his feet, the broken strings emitting a faint hum, like a sigh.

He leaned on the threshold, his fingers twitching as if trying to grab something, but he grasped nothing. His fingertips only touched the cold threshold, leaving his hands covered in dust.

Before his consciousness completely faded, he heard footsteps coming from inside the door. Someone was walking towards the door with light and steady footsteps.

Then came the sound of a key turning, and the door opened.

He completely lost consciousness.