Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

Zhou Chengan's face turned bright red, his lips trembled and he couldn't speak, his fists clenched so tightly they cracked.

Fang Yuan reached out and grabbed his arm, shook his head, and looked on with a hint of helplessness in his eyes.

They have no say now; the orders from above are there, and they can't stop them.

Chen Zhiyuan was pressed against the wall, his face against the cold surface, the dust from the cracks in the bricks smearing all over his face.

One team member twisted his hands behind his back while another began searching him.

He pulled a fountain pen from Chen Zhiyuan's shirt pocket. The cap was screwed on tightly, and the black body of the pen was polished to a shine, as if it had been used for many years.

The team member held up the pen for Fang Heming to see.

"Copied from sheet music?" Fang Heming glanced at it.

The team member unscrewed the pen cap; the nib was new and hadn't been used much.

But there was no ink in the pen barrel; instead, there was a small piece of sharpened iron, its edges gleaming coldly.

Fang Heming took the pen, pulled out the metal piece, glanced at it, and his lips twitched into a mocking smile: "You're quite well prepared."

He threw the pen on the ground, and the metal piece rolled to the corner of the wall, making a faint clinking sound.

Chen Zhiyuan was pinned against the wall and struggled violently, his shoulder hitting the wall with a dull thud.

The teammate's fist slammed into his stomach immediately. Chen Zhiyuan's body arched violently, and he let out a muffled groan as acid gushed up his throat, burning his esophagus with pain.

The second punch landed on his ribs, the bone cracking, and a sharp pain shot through his body like an electric current. He gritted his teeth and swallowed the blood that welled up in his mouth.

Fang Heming stood two steps away, observing his reaction, and understood the situation.

He's acting tough now, but this body won't last long.

Stomach cramps will make him vomit, a broken rib will make him breathless, and after three more punches, he will start talking.

He'd seen plenty of people like that; the tougher they were at the start, the faster they broke down.

With each blow, a scene flashed through Chen Zhiyuan's mind.

He recalled the way Zheng Hongwen and his men surrounded him in the backstage corridor years ago, and the feeling of his vision going black when he was kicked in the Adam's apple. The metallic sweetness in his throat was exactly the same as the taste in his mouth now. The doctor said he could never sing again in his life. He lay on the hospital bed and tore the award certificate to shreds, scattering the fragments all over the room.

Then the screen changes.

Shen Qinghou walked out of the alley, holding a guqin, covered in blood, but the flames in his eyes burned so brightly.

Chen Zhiyuan watched from the street corner. Gu Yanzhi's limbs were broken into pieces, and he was lying on the ground howling like a dog. It was the most satisfying scene he had ever seen in his life. He released all the anger he had held back for six years at that moment. He wanted to rush up and kick him a couple more times, but he didn't move. He just watched and engraved that scene into his mind.

The scene then cuts again.

The two people were separated by a wooden table, talking to each other with humming and piano music.

The fierceness of "Guangling San" and the gentleness of "Liushui" intertwine, needing no words and no explanation.

Shen Qinghou's tendons were severed, and his voice was ruined, but in those few notes, they were still intact.

That was the only time in six years that he felt truly alive, not as a useless person barely surviving by copying sheet music, but as a tenor who once stood on stage and whose voice could shatter windows.

He recalled the look in Shen Qinghou's eyes when he looked back at him from the windowsill; it was as bright as stars, filled with gratitude, worry, and trust.

He nodded and said "Let's go," which meant he was already prepared.

That person did what he couldn't do, and helped him vent the anger he had held back for six years. He couldn't hold them back.

The acid churning in his stomach burned his esophagus, and each breath felt like being stabbed in the crack in his ribs. Blood mixed with saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, leaving small, damp stains on the ground.

It hurts so much.

The pain caused his vision to go black in waves, his consciousness to blur, and the sounds around him to become distant.

He knew he couldn't withstand the torture; if it continued, he would confess.

The teammate punched him again, landing on his lower back. Chen Zhiyuan's body arched up, his face almost touching the ground.

His mouth was slightly open, and salty, metallic blood welled up at the corners of his mouth.

The pen that had been thrown on the ground rolled right to his lips; the black body of the pen was covered in dust, and the polished parts were still gleaming.

He suddenly leaned forward, biting the pen handle with his teeth, his movements so fast that his teammates holding him down didn't even have time to react.

Then he shoved the entire pen down his throat and swallowed it forcefully.

The sharpened iron shard pierced his palate, the pen shaft lodged in his esophagus, and excruciating pain exploded instantly. Blood gushed from the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto the ground, mingling with the bloodstains that had just been dripping.

He thought, "I have never successfully rebelled against anything in my life."

I failed to resist when Zheng Hongwen hit me, I failed to resist when the secretary of the Cultural Affairs Bureau reprimanded me, and I even failed to resist when I was expelled from the music academy.

But this time, I can't lose.

That person avenged me, played the piano for me, and did what I wanted to do but couldn't.

I cannot be the one to snitch.

The teammate holding him was startled and instinctively let go.

Chen Zhiyuan's body slowly slid down and lay on the ground, leaning against a pool of blood.

His eyes were half-open, his pupils began to dilate, and his gaze fell on the spot on the table where the guqin had just been placed. There seemed to be a very faint smile on his lips.

A final breath escaped its throat, as if trying to hum a tune from "Flowing Water," but it lacked the breath, only letting out a faint rustling sound before falling completely silent.

The room was quiet for a few seconds, with only the ticking of the old-fashioned wall clock striking everyone's hearts.

One of the team members crouched down to check his breathing, then stood up, his face grim: "Sir, he committed suicide with a pen."

Fang Heming looked down at the pool of blood on the ground, then at Chen Zhiyuan's half-open eyes, his expression unchanged.

"He'd rather commit suicide than sue?" His voice was calm, yet one could sense the anger within it. "He knew he would be interrogated, and he knew he couldn't withstand it. He chose death so he wouldn't have to speak."

He turned to his teammates and said, "This means we came to the right place. That person was in this room, and for quite a while. He probably hasn't gone far!"

Fang Yuan stood at the door and witnessed the scene of torture leading to death. His face turned ashen, and the veins on the back of his hand gripping the police baton bulged.

Zhou Chengan clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white, his eyes fixed on the blood on the ground. This scene had a great impact on the young security guard. He could even smell the strong smell of blood in the air, mixed with the aroma of the porridge from earlier, so pungent that it made him want to vomit.

Fang Heming ignored their reactions and strode out, issuing orders as he went. His leather shoes crunched on the scattered sheet music, the sound of the pages being torn was jarring: "Search it clean. The entire building, the surrounding basements, the culverts—don't miss an inch..."