Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

The special operations team members immediately dispersed, their flashlight beams casting pale streaks in the morning mist, and the sound of their boots stepping on the gravel gradually faded away at the alley entrance.

Fang Heming stood by the car, watching their backs, and gently tapped the SUV door with his fingertips.

The incident at Qingyun Horse Farm in Guangyang City caused too much of a stir. Wang Hongyuan died under mysterious circumstances, and the General Administration was severely criticized from top to bottom. Han Qiming was given a major demerit and temporarily relieved of his post as a front-line commander.

Several factions within the General Administration were fiercely fighting each other. Some wanted to retreat and keep their positions, while others wanted to seize military merits and climb the ranks.

He volunteered to come to Chenxi City because he wanted to use this newly awakened superhuman as a pledge of loyalty, to push Han Qiming down, and to gain the right to speak on the front line.

He went through all the files of the superhumans in the General Administration. Chen Guohua, Han Xiao, Li Rui, which one of them didn't suddenly become powerful in a desperate situation and then die immediately afterward?

The man in front of me, Shen Qinghou, has just killed eight people. His mental strength is exhausted to the extreme, and he also has gunshot wounds. What kind of trouble can he cause?

The special operations team he led was entirely trained specifically for superhumans, and their equipment was all specially made with sound wave shielding and infrasound suppression capabilities. Capturing a half-crippled college student would be a piece of cake for them.

Incidentally, it also repays a favor to Gu Jia.

Gu Mingyuan's father, Gu Yunzhang, was the director of the provincial cultural department ten years ago. At that time, Gu Mingyuan was just a minor technical section chief. It was Gu Yunzhang who promoted him and brought him into that intricate circle.

Gu Mingyuan called me early yesterday morning, his voice trembling uncontrollably: "Heming, I only had this one son, and he died such a tragic death. You must bring Shen Qinghou's head back to me."

He only said three words: "I know."

The wind swept across the alleyway, carrying the stench of blood to his face. He squinted and followed the search party.

------

When Shen Qinghou woke up, the first thing he smelled was the fresh scent of laundry soap mixed with a hint of rice from cooking porridge.

The ceiling was grayish-white, with a crack extending from the corner to the light fixture, like a crooked scar.

The hard bed beneath me hurt my bones, and the sheets were faded from washing and frayed at the edges.

The wound on my left shoulder was re-bandaged, the bandage was wrapped neatly, and the cool ointment seeped in, relieving most of the pain.

There was a bandage on my forehead, and the dull pain from the bump was still there, but I was no longer dizzy.

He subconsciously reached out to the bedside, his fingertips touching the wooden body of the guqin. The broken steel wire of the string hurt his fingertip, and his heart, which had been hanging in suspense, instantly fell back into his stomach.

The sound of steam hitting the pot lid and making a steady, rhythmic thud came from the kitchen.

A tall, thin man stood with his back to him by the stove, his shoulder blades supporting his faded shirt like two thin little mountains.

Shen Qinghou's fingers gripped the broken string, his body tensed instantly, and the pulling of his muscles caused a sharp pain in the wound on his left shoulder. He gritted his teeth and didn't make a sound.

The man turned around and walked over carrying a bowl of steaming porridge. He was in his early thirties, with high cheekbones and an old scar on his neck that stretched from his throat to his collarbone, resembling a dark red centipede.

He placed the porridge on the wooden table beside the bed, his voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing against glass, almost inaudible: "Awake? Have some."

Shen Qinghou didn't move, his eyes fixed on his face. He tightened his grip on the broken string, causing the steel wire to rupture the newly scabbed wound, and blood seeped out, dripping onto the bed sheet and spreading into a small patch of dark red.

The man took two steps back, sat down in the chair opposite him, and spread his hands out, palms up, to indicate that he had no weapon.

"You fell at my door, your forehead hit the doorframe, and you bled a lot. I dragged you in."

Shen Qinghou tried to sit up by bracing himself against the bed, but his arms were as limp as noodles. He fell back down heavily halfway up, the shock causing his wound to throb with pain.

He gritted his teeth and tried one more time, his back pressed against the cold wall, and finally sat up straight.

He stared at the porridge on the table. The white rice was cooked until soft and tender, with a few green vegetable leaves floating on top. The steam blurred his vision.

He suddenly realized the person in front of him looked familiar, and his throat bobbed: "Have I seen you before?"

The man didn't speak, but reached up and touched the scar on his neck, his fingertips tracing the uneven mark slowly.

A scene suddenly flashed through Shen Qinghou's mind—backstage at the provincial arts festival four years ago, a young man in a black performance costume stood in the corridor, holding sheet music in his hand, humming a tune with his lips moving, his voice as bright as light piercing through the clouds.

At that time, he had just won the gold medal in the city-level guqin competition. He went backstage to wait for his turn and happened to hear the person singing "Nessun Dorma," which made the glass windows in the corridor vibrate.

"You are Chen Zhiyuan." Shen Qinghou's voice suddenly rose a little, straining so hard it hurt his throat. "The tenor who won the silver medal at that year's performance."

Chen Zhiyuan's fingers paused, and he looked up at him, a very faint light flashing in his eyes.

"I know you too. You're Shen Qinghou. I was in the first row when you played 'Guangling San' that year." He paused, his voice becoming even hoarseer, "Later I heard that Gu Yanzhi severed your tendons."

Shen Qinghou's fingers clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white. The broken steel wire was deeply embedded in his flesh, and blood dripped down between his fingers, hitting the bed board with a soft pattering sound.

"This morning I went out to buy medicine and passed by the alley entrance on Zhongshan Road." Chen Zhiyuan's voice was very calm, as if he were talking about someone else's business. "I saw you come out of the alley, holding a guqin, covered in blood. Later, the security guards arrived, and I hid at the street corner. I saw you use the strings of the guqin to shatter the riot control fork and break that person's arm."

He looked into Shen Qinghou's eyes, his gaze calm, devoid of fear or surprise, only revealing a deep, unfathomable light: "You killed Gu Yanzhi."

Shen Qinghou released his grip on the broken string, and beads of blood from his fingertips rolled onto the instrument, spreading a small patch of dark red.

"I also killed Old Zhang, the security guard who helped the Gu family suppress cases. My mother was beaten to death by them, my tendons were cut by someone they hired, and my championship was stolen by them. I deserve to die."

Chen Zhiyuan nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, his voice trembling a little: "Okay."

Just one word struck Shen Qinghou's heart like a hammer hitting a bell, making a loud hum.

He understood. This word didn't condone his murder; it condoned his ruthless smashing of the injustices rotting in the bones and the suffocating evils.

It was to vent the anger of all those who had been trampled into the mud by them.