Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

Time moves forward.

Shen Qinghou crouched low as he walked through the narrow passage, the sound of his shoes scraping against the puddles echoing softly in the empty basement.

His ears were like an extremely fine net, gathering all sounds and locking them firmly into the warmly lit room on the third floor.

The thud of boots on the wooden staircase, the clang of the wooden door being kicked open, and the low shouts of "Don't move!" from the special operations team members—each sound felt like a hammer blow to his taut nerves.

Then came Chen Zhiyuan's hoarse voice, tinged with just the right amount of bewilderment: "Who are you? Why are you breaking into my home?"

Shen Qinghou paused, his fingertips unconsciously picking at the moss on the wall, the slippery touch making his fingertips wet.

It's fine.

He kept telling himself that.

Chen Zhiyuan knew nothing, and they would leave once they couldn't get any information from him.

Then came the clatter of a drawer being pulled open, the dull thud of a cabinet door hitting the wall, and the crunching of papers being stepped on.

Someone raised their voice and shouted, "Sir, we've found it!"

Shen Qinghou's heart sank suddenly, as if a piece of lead soaked in ice had been dropped into it.

Fang Heming's voice came through three layers of walls and a passageway dozens of meters long, carrying a cold, oppressive feel; every word was like a nail hardened with ice: "Where is Shen Qinghou?"

Shen Qinghou stopped in his tracks.

The musty smell mixed with the dust in the passageway filled his nostrils, making his throat tight.

He heard Chen Zhiyuan's silence—no explanation, no panic, only deathly stillness.

"You bandaged him up. The bandage was wrapped neatly, which means you took the time. You know him." Fang Heming's voice grew closer, as if whispering in his ear, "I'll ask you one more time. Where is he?"

Chen Zhiyuan's voice remained flat, almost inaudible, yet it carried a hardness like a rock: "I don't know."

Shen Qinghou gritted his teeth, his nails digging into his palms. The wound that had just scabbed over split open again, and blood seeped out, dripping down between his fingers and splashing into the puddle, spreading out a small patch of pale red.

Then he heard Fang Heming say, "Let him speak."

The blood froze in that instant.

The dull thud of fists hitting flesh, the cracking of bones, and Chen Zhiyuan's suppressed groans all slid in through the passage, each blow feeling like a blow to his own body.

Shen Qinghou squatted down and dug his fingers into the cracks between the bricks in the wall. The brick fragments hurt his fingertips, and blood flowed down the cracks, but he felt no pain.

He heard Chen Zhiyuan's muffled groans grow weaker and weaker, but he never shouted, begged for mercy, or even cried out in pain.

That's what you said!

He screamed inwardly, his throat tight with anxiety, "If you say it out loud, they'll stop!"

Why don't you say anything!

But Chen Zhiyuan didn't say anything.

Only the dull thuds of fists hitting flesh continued, one after another.

Shen Qinghou's shoulders began to tremble, his fingernails were already scratched raw, and his hands were covered in blood, which he smeared on the cold brick wall, leaving dark red marks.

Then came a brief silence.

He heard a swallowing sound, very forceful, as if someone was trying to swallow something hard whole.

Then came the sound of blood gushing out—thick, oozing from deep in his throat. He would never forget that sound. The sound of his mother's last breaths in the ICU, the sound of blood spurting out when Gu Yanzhi's limbs exploded—all these sounds overlapped and made his temples throb.

Someone cried out, "He swallowed his pen!"

Then came a dull thud as the body hit the concrete floor.

Someone crouched down and checked his breathing, their voice tinged with barely perceptible panic: "Sir, he committed suicide with a pen."

Shen Qinghou crouched in the darkness, his whole body trembling.

Only one thought kept swirling in his mind, making his temples feel like they were about to explode: Didn't he say he was fine?

Didn't he say they wouldn't do anything to him?

Fang Heming's voice came through: "He'd rather commit suicide than confess. He knew he would be interrogated, and he knew he couldn't withstand the pressure. He chose death so he wouldn't have to speak out."

He couldn't hear what was said after that.

Images began to flash through my mind, frame by frame, sharp as a blade slicing across my retina.

Chen Zhiyuan stood at the window, the wind blowing the stray hairs on his forehead. He nodded to him, his lips moved, and he said, "Let's go."

The two were separated by a wooden table. He played the opening notes of "Flowing Water," and Chen Zhiyuan hummed the tune in a hoarse voice. He stopped halfway through, covered his neck, coughed until his face turned red, but his eyes shone as if they were on fire.

Chen Zhiyuan said, "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."

He nodded at the time, thinking that after killing Gu Mingyuan and avenging all his grievances, he would take Chen Zhiyuan away and find a secluded place where he would play the piano and Chen Zhiyuan would hum tunes. Even if his hands were ruined and his voice was hoarse, it would be better than being stuck in this mud.

Now he could picture Chen Zhiyuan lying on the ground, a pool of blood beneath him, his face turned toward the door, his eyes half-open, still waiting for him to go further and further away.

Fang Heming's voice rang out again, tinged with anger: "This proves we came to the right place. That person stayed in this room, and for quite some time. He probably hasn't gone far!"

Shen Qinghou crouched in the darkness, his fingernails digging into the bricks, blood trickling down the cracks and pooling in a small dark red patch on the ground.

He didn't go far.

He's right here.

The contents of his chest cavity exploded.

It was anger, regret, and an overwhelming despair, like magma filling his limbs and bones, burning every bone in his body and making every drop of his blood boil.

------

In an old alley in the fifth district of Chenxi City, Wen Yan leaned against a bench under a sycamore tree, basking in the sun with his eyes closed.

The sea of ​​the soul deep within consciousness is calm and still, with the faint light of a few seeds floating on its surface: Xu Suyuan's pale blue, Liu Zhen's deep blue, Meng Zhaowen's dark green, and Lin Shen's silvery white, like a few distant lamps, shining steadily.

Then he sensed something amiss.

The dark purple seed that had just been planted, Shen Qinghou's seed, which had been quietly shining in a corner like an oil lamp that swayed in the wind but never went out, suddenly began to pulsate violently, its light surging, the dark purple light almost piercing the surface of the Sea of ​​Souls.

Wen Yan's consciousness followed the connection of the seed and sensed a thick, almost solidified emotion.

It wasn't hatred, it was hatred that he had seen it too many times—Chen Guohua's hatred was scalding, Han Xiao's hatred was icy, and Li Rui's hatred burned through everything.

This time, the emotion was heavier than hatred, like a lead weight soaked in blood, so heavy that it was suffocating. It was filled with anger, regret, and the tearing feeling of "I could have saved him," like countless needles pricking the entire connection, making it tremble slightly.