Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

Shen Qinghou stared at the scar on his neck, lowering his voice slightly: "How did your voice get so bad?"

Chen Zhiyuan reached out and touched the centipede-like scar, pressing it firmly with his fingertips.

"Zheng Hongwen, the nephew of Deputy Director Zheng, asked me to withdraw from the competition that year, but I didn't. I won the silver medal in the finals, and he came backstage with four people and kicked me in the Adam's apple. My cartilage was torn, and my vocal cords were permanently damaged. The doctor said I would never be able to sing again in my life."

His voice was steady, as if he were talking about something unrelated to himself, only his fingers, resting on his knees, were clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white.

"I filed complaints with the Provincial Department of Culture, the Petition Office, and the Public Security Bureau, and I spent a whole year dealing with them. Director Zheng's secretary talked to me and said that young people shouldn't be ungrateful, and if I continued to cause trouble, I wouldn't be able to stay in the province. Later, when I applied to the song and dance troupe, I was directly rejected during the qualification review and didn't even qualify to take the exam."

He looked up at Shen Qinghou, his calm gaze concealing a burning fire of hatred: "Zheng Hongwen is now a pillar of the provincial song and dance troupe, and he's going to be promoted to a first-class actor next year. Meanwhile, I've lived in this building for six years, making a living by copying sheet music for others."

Shen Qinghou leaned against the wall, looking down at his hand wrapped in bandages. The ruptured tendon had left a dent, like a ditch that could never be filled.

"My hands are ruined too. I can't play 'Guangling San' anymore. I can't reach the harmonics. I even have trouble holding a pen."

Chen Zhiyuan suddenly asked, "What about 'Flowing Water'? Can you still play the first section?"

Shen Qinghou thought for a moment, then moved his fingers, which were throbbing painfully from the wound. He gritted his teeth and nodded: "The first paragraph is passable."

Chen Zhiyuan didn't speak again, but his throat moved and he suddenly hummed a few notes.

The voice was very soft, so hoarse that the tone was almost indistinguishable, like air leaking from a broken bellows, but Shen Qinghou understood it.

It is the opening of "Flowing Water," the first line of "High Mountain," the voice is hoarse and heavy, yet strangely light and airy.

Shen Qinghou bent down and picked up the broken zither and placed it on his lap. The three intact strings were still taut, and the blood on them had dried and turned into dark brown scabs.

He hooked the thickest string with his right thumb and plucked it forcefully with his fingertip.

"Buzz—"

The sound waves were very low, causing the bowl of porridge on the table to shake slightly.

It is the first note of "Flowing Water," as clear and bright as spring water splashing on rocks in a mountain stream.

Chen Zhiyuan's eyes lit up, so brightly they were almost blinding.

He hummed another line, this time the second section of "Flowing Water," "Chong Guan," in a higher pitch. His voice couldn't keep up, and it broke halfway through, like the sound of a violin string suddenly snapping.

He covered his neck and coughed, his face turning bright red, his shoulders shaking from coughing.

Shen Qinghou stopped plucking the strings and looked at him.

Chen Zhiyuan waved his hand, picked up the cold water on the table, took a big gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and it took him a long time to calm down.

He placed the cup on the table, looked at Shen Qinghou, and said in a voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible: "You can still kill people and play the zither even with your tendons severed. My voice is ruined; I can't even hum a few notes."

He paused, his eyes shining even brighter, as if they were about to burst into flames: "But when you killed Gu Yanzhi, I stood on the street corner watching, and it felt like I did it myself. It felt like I was letting out all the anger I had been holding in for six years."

Shen Qinghou looked at him, put the zither aside, and pressed his fingertips against the edge of the wooden table, the wood grain hurting his palm.

"You saved me. I'll remember Zheng Hongwen's debt. Once I kill Gu Mingyuan, I'll go find him and make him apologize to you."

Chen Zhiyuan looked at him, then suddenly smiled, his facial muscles twitching to reveal a shallow dimple.

He nodded without saying a word, and pushed the bowl of porridge towards Shen Qinghou: "Drink the porridge first. It'll hurt your stomach if it gets cold."

Shen Qinghou picked up the bowl of porridge. The temperature of the porridge was just right, and the aroma of rice mixed with the fresh scent of green vegetables wafted into his nose.

He hasn't eaten anything hot in a long time; from yesterday until now, he's only drunk a few mouthfuls of sewage.

He scooped up a spoonful of porridge and put it in his mouth. The warmth slid down his esophagus, making his stomach ache, and his eyes instantly welled up with tears.

The morning mist outside the window slowly dissipated, and sunlight shone through the broken window, falling warmly on the two of them.

Shen Qinghou suddenly felt that even if he died tomorrow, today would have been worth it.

After living for twenty-two years, he finally met someone who understood him.

He understood the hardship of his eighteen years of piano practice, the hatred of his severed tendons, the pain of his mother's tragic death, and the resentment burning in his heart.

This person is his soulmate.

……

After finishing his porridge, Shen Qinghou put down the bowl, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes for a while.

The wound on my left shoulder still hurts, but it's much better than when I was on the run; at least my fingers aren't shaking so much anymore.

Chen Zhiyuan sat opposite him, his fingertips lightly tapping the edge of the wooden table. His gaze was fixed on the blood-stained remains of the ancient zither, as if he was still savoring the lingering charm of the music he had just heard.

The room was quiet, with only the ticking of the old-fashioned wall clock, each tick echoing in the air, mingling with the two people's even breathing.

Shen Qinghou could even hear the sound of the wind swirling fallen leaves against the wall outside the window, and the steam rising from the steamer of the breakfast vendor at the far end of the alley. These sounds were very soft, but to his enhanced ears, they were as clear as if they were right next to him.

Then a series of very rhythmic footsteps broke in.

The footsteps were light and frequent, at least a dozen people were approaching the building from different directions. The sound of their boots rolling over the gravel was kept very low, but it did not escape his notice.

Someone was speaking into the walkie-talkie, their voice extremely low. The buzzing of the electricity mixed with the voice, but Shen Qinghou could hear it clearly: "Third team report: fresh bloodstains and drag marks have been found outside this building. The suspect is very likely hiding here."

Another voice replied, as cold as ice: "Roger that. Everyone take cover. Don't alert them. The main force is assembling and will arrive in one minute."

Shen Qinghou's body tensed instantly, and his fingers instinctively gripped the broken string of the guqin by the bedside. The steel wire cut into his newly scabbed fingertip, and blood seeped out, but he felt no pain.

When Chen Zhiyuan saw his face suddenly turn pale, he immediately stood up, walked to the window, and opened the curtains a crack to look outside.

The street below was deserted, the morning mist had not yet dissipated, and the tip of a black combat boot was vaguely visible next to the trash can at the alley entrance. Looking further away, several figures dressed in black were moving towards this side along the wall, their movements swift and their demeanor fierce, definitely not ordinary citizens.

Chen Zhiyuan lowered the curtains and turned around: "There are a lot of strangers outside, dressed in black, they don't look like the police."

Shen Qinghou had already begun bandaging the remains of the guqin onto his back. The bandages were wrapped around his shoulders twice, causing a sharp pain in his wounds. He gritted his teeth and tightened the knots: "It must have been aimed at me."

Chen Zhiyuan looked at him, remained silent for two seconds, then reached out and pushed open the small window in the corner. A cold wind rushed in, rustling the sheet music scattered on the table and making the stray hairs on his forehead fly up, revealing the old, centipede-like scar on his neck: "Go out the window, and to the right there's a hidden door that leads to the basement of the building next door. There's been a pile of junk outside that door for over a decade; very few people know about it. If you go through there, no one will notice."

Shen Qinghou stopped what he was doing, looked up at him, and asked, "And you?"