Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

Memories flooded in like a tidal wave: the corridor on the third floor of the old building, more than twenty corpses lying haphazardly, Chen Zhiyuan's figure lying in a pool of blood, the feeling of fingers pressing on a broken string...

The feeling of weightlessness as mental energy was drained from the depths of consciousness, and the process of those sounds disappearing one by one—first the distant sirens, then the footsteps of special agents, then the sound of one's own heartbeat, and finally the world became completely quiet.

The sound wave is absolutely silent.

He would sacrifice his hearing to save the lives of all his enemies.

He killed Gu Yanzhi, Old Zhang, Fang Heming and more than twenty special operations team members, Fang Yuan and Zhou Chengan, avenging himself and also venting the anger that Chen Zhiyuan had been holding back for six years.

The price is that he will never hear any sound again, never hear the vibration of the strings again, and never hear Chen Zhiyuan humming the tune of "Flowing Water" in his hoarse voice again.

My hands started to shake, starting from my fingertips, spreading to my wrists, and then to my entire forearm.

He lowered his hand, pressing his fingertips against the bed frame. The wood grain hurt his palm, but he could still feel touch and pain; only his hearing was gone.

Lin Shen confirmed Shen Qinghou's deafness based on his behavior.

He picked up the pen and paper from his lap, unscrewed the pen cap, wrote two words on the paper, and pushed it to the edge of the bed.

The forest is deep.

He pointed to himself and then wrote: I found you in a building in the old town of Chenxi City.

Shen Qinghou stared at the words on the paper, his breathing gradually calming down, and his tense back relaxed a little.

Lin Shen continued writing: You are surrounded by corpses.

You are holding a guqin in your arms.

Upon seeing the words "guqin," Shen Qinghou's fingers unconsciously curled, causing the wound on his fingertip to ache painfully, and blood seeped out, dripping onto the wooden board on the edge of the bed.

Lin Shen paused for a moment, then wrote: I am the same kind of person as you; I also have a seed of soul.

It is safe here.

Shen Qinghou looked up at him, and the wariness in his eyes lessened a little.

He reached out and took the pen Lin Shen handed him. The pen trembled between his fingers as his newly scabbed wound reopened, leaving dark red marks on the pen.

He wrote on the paper, his handwriting crooked and messy: How long I slept.

Lin Shen took the paper and wrote: One day and one night.

Shen Qinghou stared at those four words, his Adam's apple bobbing.

After a day and a night, Chen Zhiyuan's body should have been discovered. The Gu family may have already launched a city-wide manhunt for him. His mother lies alone in the funeral home, with no one to collect her body.

Lin Shen wrote a new line: Who are you?

Shen Qinghou held the pen and remained silent for a long time.

The pen tip hovers on the paper, the ink spreads into a small dot before slowly sinking down.

The handwriting gradually became steady from crooked to steady, line after line, the pen tip pressing deep indentations into the paper.

He wrote about how his mother was surrounded by three masked men at the market, and the dull thuds of their fists hitting her are still etched into his bones.

Outside the ICU, he smashed the enamel mug with a peony design on it to the ground, scattering ceramic shards everywhere.

The passage describes Gu Yanzhi standing in the music room, laughing, and saying, "Your mother died in vain."

Describe the cold, icy touch of a utility knife slicing through tendons in a dark alleyway late at night, blood splattering on a gray brick wall.

He described the old, centipede-like scar on Chen Zhiyuan's neck, and the aroma of rice porridge simmering in the old building's room.

As he looked back while climbing out the window, Chen Zhiyuan stood at the window, nodded to him, and moved his lips to say, "Let's go."

When he wrote about activating the sonic echo, the pen paused for a long time, and the ink swelled on the paper, forming a larger dot.

He wrote: I would trade my hearing for all of their lives.

value.

He also wrote: I am sorry to Chen Zhiyuan, I owe him my life.

From this day forward, I will live with the hatred for Chen Zhiyuan on my shoulders. In addition to my own enemies, I will also avenge and vindicate Chen Zhiyuan.

After reading the words on the paper, Lin Shen looked up at Shen Qinghou.

The young man's face was still very green, and the corners of his eyes still had a trace of redness, but his eyes were as hard as stone. When he wrote the last line, his strokes were so heavy that they almost tore the paper.

He took the pen and wrote: I will help you.

We are all chosen by the Seed of Souls, and we are all victims of this dark world.

Once you've recovered, we'll act together.

Shen Qinghou looked at the words on the paper and then carefully examined the person in front of him once again.

He had high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. He wore a faded shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. There were several fresh scratches on his arms. His eyes were calm, like unfathomable water. There was no fear, no curiosity, only a kind of sympathetic tranquility.

He picked up a pen and wrote a word on the paper.

it is good.

The strokes are straight and even, as if they were carved on paper.

Lin Shen nodded, stood up, and wrote on the paper: I need to go out.

I'll be back in a few days.

Shen Qinghou looked up at him and traced a line on the paper with his pen: Where to?

Lin Shen took the pen and wrote very simply, without any further explanation: Kill someone.

Shen Qinghou stared at those four words for a few seconds, then didn't ask any more questions.

People like them have blood on their hands and are burdened with hatred. There's no need to ask too many questions about who they're going to kill and why.

He picked up his pen and wrote: Be careful.

Lin Shen nodded and turned to walk towards the door.

When his hand was on the doorknob, he paused, then turned around and wrote a few lines before pushing them in front of Shen Qinghou: There is dry food on the table and water in the thermos.

There were bandages and iodine in the bedside table.

Don't go out.

Shen Qinghou nodded after reading it.

Lin Shen opened the door, and the morning light pierced through the crack, falling on the ground like a gleaming knife.

The chirping of insects outside the window seeped into the room through the crack in the door, the rustling of the sycamore leaves in the wind, and the barking of dogs from the distant village, all mixed with the morning light.

Shen Qinghou couldn't hear anything, he only saw Lin Shen's back disappear into the light, the door was gently closed, and the room returned to silence, with only his own breath falling into the cold air.

------

The old bread truck rolled over the gravel road of the provincial highway, and in the rearview mirror, the iron gate of the abandoned research institute grew smaller and smaller until it shrank into a blurry black dot in the morning light.

Lin Shen gripped the steering wheel, the morning sun outside the windshield stinging his eyes. He squinted slightly, and the silvery-white seed deep in his consciousness twitched, as if responding to a burning thought.

Turn the steering wheel to the left and onto the highway leading to the provincial capital.

He freed one hand and pulled a folded photocopy from the inside pocket of his coat.

The pages were worn and frayed, with curled edges; it was a scanned copy of the last page of Song Yuanming's experimental notes.

In the footer, a line of small, bold blue ink words read: "The core of beacon theory is not decoding neural signals, but understanding what the person behind the signal wants to convey."

Lin Shen's fingertips traced the raised ink marks on the paper, and his gaze lingered on that line of text for a long time.

The highway stretched straight ahead, like an endless line, pulling my memories back to seven years ago.