Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

Their eyes were bloodshot, their eardrums ruptured instantly, and blood gushed from their ears, noses, and mouths, dripping down their chins.

Then, as if their bones had been removed, they fell down one after another, their muffled thuds echoing across the ground.

Fang Heming felt as if a bomb had been shoved into his head, making his vision go black and the world spin.

The intense pain felt like countless steel needles piercing his ears, making his brain feel like it was boiling.

He tried to raise his hand to cover his ears, but before he could even raise his fingers halfway, he lost his balance and crashed heavily into the wall, his back hitting the wall so hard that the bricks cracked.

The last thing he saw was a blood-soaked figure walking up the stairs at the end of the corridor, supporting himself against the wall. He was carrying the remains of a guqin in his arms, blood was still dripping from his fingers, and his eyes were so red they looked like they were about to bleed.

Then his consciousness ended, his body slid down the wall, blood flowed from his seven orifices, and he stopped breathing.

------

When Shen Qinghou went up to the third floor, the corridor was already full of people lying down.

More than twenty special operations team members, along with Fang Heming, all lay on the ground, bleeding from their seven orifices, their eyes wide open, their faces still bearing the fear of their impending death.

There was no sound in his ears; the world was as quiet as a tomb.

His vision was so blurred that everything looked as if it were seen through a layer of water. He walked over the corpses, looking down to check his footing with each step, because he might trip at any moment.

He stopped at the door of Chen Zhiyuan's room.

Chen Zhiyuan lay on the ground, beneath him a pool of blood that had begun to congeal. His face was turned toward the door, his eyes half-open, still looking in the direction he had returned from.

Shen Qinghou squatted down and reached out to touch Chen Zhiyuan's fingers. The fingertips were still warm, but there was no reaction.

A low growl escaped his throat, his vocal cords throbbing painfully, but he couldn't hear his own voice. However, he could taste a metallic sweetness in his throat—blood was rising.

He wanted to turn Chen Zhiyuan over, to wipe the dust off his face, and to clean the bloodstains on his neck, but his fingers were too weak, and he couldn't grab Chen Zhiyuan's arm after two attempts.

His tears fell, landing on the back of Chen Zhi's hand, leaving a small bloodstain.

He stood up, turned around, swayed slightly, and only managed to steady himself by holding onto the door frame.

At the other end of the corridor, there were two more people standing.

When Fang Heming ordered the torture, Fang Yuan and Zhou Chengan retreated to the far end of the corridor.

They disapprove of this approach but are powerless to stop it, so they can only stand back and avoid seeing it.

This distance saved their lives—Shen Qinghou's sonic boom locked onto the area where Fang Heming and the core team members were located, while Fang Yuan and Zhou Chengan were only hit by the edge of the shockwave.

Fang Yuan leaned against the wall, his ear bleeding, one eye cut open by broken glass and swollen shut, and his other eye seeing double.

His right leg was cut by shards of glass, blood streaming down his trouser leg. Unable to stand, he braced himself against the wall with his left hand, his right arm hanging limply at his side, likely broken by the shockwave.

Zhou Chengan knelt on the ground, blood flowing from both ears, and his vision blurred intermittently.

He had been briefly knocked unconscious by the shockwave and was just recovering; his mind was still foggy and buzzing.

He shook his head, wiped the blood from his face, and saw the figure at the end of the corridor.

The man was covered in blood, clutching the remains of the instrument, with a long red line of blood trailing behind him from his fingers, like a vengeful ghost crawling out of hell.

Zhou Chengan recognized him—it was the madman he had run away from at the alley entrance, the beast who had killed Old Zhang!

Zhou Chengan drew his gun from his waist, his fingers trembling and unable to grip it properly. He then reached up with his other hand and gripped the gun handle with both hands.

With the gun pointed at Shen Qinghou, he roared, his voice cracking and his ears ringing; he couldn't even hear his own shout: "You fucking—"

Shen Qinghou also noticed the two survivors at this moment. His eyes were fixed on Zhou Cheng'an, as if he wanted to devour him alive.

He raised his right hand, his fingers pressing on the last broken string taut at the edge of the tattered zither, blood dripping from between his fingers.

His fingers were trembling, he couldn't press the string steadily, it slipped, and the steel string cut his already badly mangled fingertip, blood droplets rolled down and hit the ground.

He pressed it down again, holding it down with his thumb, his fingernail digging into the string, the bone at his fingertip pressing against the string so hard it vibrated slightly.

Zhou Chengan pulled the trigger.

Shen Qinghou couldn't hear the sound of the bullet leaving the barrel, but he could feel the vibration of the bullet tearing through the air, like a tiny breeze coming towards his chest.

He didn't try to dodge, nor did he have the strength to do so.

The bullet grazed his left arm, cutting a deep gash that exposed bone, and blood spurted out, splattering onto the wall beside him.

He plucked the strings.

A sound wave burst forth from the broken string, no longer possessing the earth-shattering power it had before. It only managed to coalesce into a thin line, like a thin knife, piercing through the air and striking Zhou Cheng'an's chest.

Zhou Cheng'an's chest immediately caved in. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but blood gushed from his mouth. His body swayed, the gun in his hand fell to the ground, and he fell backward, his head hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. He stopped breathing.

Shen Qinghou didn't look at him, but turned and rushed towards Fang Yuan.

Fang Yuan, bracing himself, saw Shen Qinghou rushing over and raised the police baton in his left hand.

His right arm was broken and hung in a sling at his side, unable to move.

His sense of balance was completely disrupted, and his vision was distorted, but the moment Shen Qinghou rushed over, he swung his baton with all his might.

The police baton struck Shen Qinghou's left rib. Shen Qinghou couldn't hear the sound of bones cracking, but he could feel a numbness in his left side, followed by a wave of intense pain that almost made him kneel on the ground.

He swayed and almost fell, but managed to steady himself by grabbing the wall for support.

He did not back down.

He lunged forward and rammed his forehead into Fang Yuan's face.

Fang Yuan felt the sharp, throbbing sensation of his forehead hitting his nose, and blood gushed from his nose, splattering all over his face. Warm blood dripped down his chin.

Fang Yuan's vision went black, his hand loosened, and the baton fell to the ground with a clatter.

Shen Qinghou grabbed Fang Yuan's left arm and bit down.

He bit down on Fang Yuan's forearm, his teeth digging into the flesh, blood gushing into his mouth, the metallic taste spreading. He swallowed it in large gulps, as if drinking the blood of an enemy.

Fang Yuan screamed and rammed his knee into Shen Qinghou's stomach, making his stomach churn and his stomach churn with acid mixed with blood. He didn't let go, but instead clenched his teeth even tighter, almost biting into the bone.

Fang Yuan's screams grew weaker and weaker, and his struggles became less and less intense.