Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

Zhou Weiqing's speech continued, his tone sincere: "Doing scientific research is a tough job. When I first started working, I lived in a basement for three years."

In winter, there was no heating, and my hands were covered in chilblains, yet I still had to grip a pen to write derivations. Many people around me advised me to change careers, saying there was no future in this field, but I gritted my teeth and persevered.

Some people in the audience nodded, while others showed expressions of admiration.

Lin Shen's mental power had been fully integrated into Zhou Weiqing's nervous system. Every thought and memory of the other party was laid out before him like an open book.

He saw that Zhou Weiqing was thinking: After the ceremony, I will sign a 30 million yuan investment agreement with President Wang, and I will be elected as an academician next month.

Oh right, I also need to have my men collect all of Song Yuanming's remaining notes and burn them to prevent future problems.

A mocking expression appeared on Lin Shen's face.

He began to weave illusions.

Secretary Liu, who was sitting next to Deputy Director Zhang in the first row of the audience, gradually faded from Zhou Weiqing's view until only an empty mahogany chair remained.

Zhou Weiqing's voice suddenly stopped.

The people in the audience, not understanding what was going on, all looked up at him.

Zhou Weiqing shook his head, the hallucination disappeared, and the guests below the stage were still familiar faces.

He smiled and continued, "Over the years, I've always remembered what my mentor said: to do scientific research, you must be true to your conscience, you must..."

Lin Shen's second spiritual force pierced in.

A figure in a white lab coat slowly emerged from the empty chair. Song Yuanming held a black notebook in his hand, a worn-out fountain pen between his fingers, and looked up at him on the stage.

He would occasionally doodle in his notebook, just like when he first entered the research institute twenty years ago and sat in the audience listening to his thesis proposal.

Zhou Weiqing's voice suddenly stopped.

He stared at that face for three seconds, then closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously, not even noticing his glasses slipping down his nose.

When I opened my eyes again, Song Yuanming was still sitting there, his eyes calm, the pen cap on his fingertip spinning in a circle, exactly as he always did when I listened to him speak.

Zhou Weiqing gripped the microphone tightly, the metal casing digging painfully into his palm, his knuckles turning bluish-white.

The guests in the audience exchanged bewildered glances. Deputy Director Zhang frowned and whispered to his staff, "What's wrong with him?"

The live television broadcast cut to a close-up of Zhou Weiqing's face. The fine beads of sweat on his forehead shone brightly under the crystal chandelier. The recording equipment faithfully captured his rapid breathing, and even through the screen, one could hear the panic hidden beneath his calm.

The listener in front of the radio was fiddling with the knob, thinking the signal had been cut off. He tapped the radio casing twice before he heard the breathing sound coming from the speaker.

Zhou Weiqing opened his mouth, and it took him a long time to find his voice: "It must stand the test of history."

A third surge of mental energy flooded in, instantly covering all his visual and auditory nerves.

The warm light of the crystal chandelier disappeared, and so did the guests below the stage.

Zhou Weiqing stood in the small conference room of the Provincial Institute of Biology. Colleagues from the institute sat on both sides of the long table. The leaves of the sycamore trees outside the window rustled in the wind, and sunlight shone through the glass onto the table, casting half a page of tree shadows.

This is where he held his 20th anniversary meeting. The tea stains on the table, the water dispenser in the corner, and even the ceramic teacup that Director Sun always liked to tap during meetings are exactly the same as he remembered.

The hallucination was so real that every detail perfectly matched his memory, with logical connections and no flaws whatsoever.

With Lin Shen's combined abilities, Zhou Weiqing could no longer distinguish between reality and illusion; he believed that the scenes in his illusions were reality.

Zhou Weiqing's shoulders slowly relaxed. He looked down at his chest, where the research institute's bronze badge was pinned to his white lab coat, feeling cool against his skin.

He smiled, picked up the teacup on the table, and took a sip.

In reality, Zhou Weiqing stood in front of the podium, glanced down at the empty podium, smiled at the air, raised his hand as if holding a cup, tilting his wrist as if he were drinking something.

The audience was completely silent.

The teacup beside Deputy Director Zhang suddenly shook, splashing hot water onto the back of his hand, scalding him. He pulled his hand back, and the teacup lid fell onto the table with a loud clatter, which was particularly jarring in the deathly silent hall.

Someone took out their phone, snapped a picture of the stage, and their fingers flew across the group chat, sending one message after another.

The comment section of the live TV broadcast was flooded with question marks: "What is he doing?" "Why did he suddenly laugh?" "Was that water-drinking gesture part of a skit?" "Could it be a sudden illness?"

In Zhou Weiqing's field of vision.

The door to the small conference room opened, and Director Sun walked in with a familiar smile on his face. He was holding a document with a red cover in his hand. He walked up to him and placed the document on the table: "Professor Zhou, congratulations! You've got enough votes for the final evaluation of the Provincial Science and Technology Award next month."

Zhou Weiqing leaned back in his chair and raised his chin: "What did Deputy Director Zhang say?"

Director Sun bent down and pushed the documents in front of him: "Director Zhang said that if the final three million arrives today, he will call those three people on the evaluation committee tomorrow."

Zhou Weiqing picked up the document, flipped through a couple of pages, and casually tossed it back onto the table. The paper slid off the table with a clatter. "Three million. Last year, his mistress got a job in our office, a monthly salary of 28,000. She doesn't even know how to use Excel, and she leaves work at 3 PM every day. I've been cleaning up his messes for a year, and he still isn't satisfied."

Director Sun smiled and bent down to pick up the document: "Once the science and technology award is announced, you won't have to put up with his attitude anymore."

Zhou Weiqing sneered, tapping his fingers on the table: "When I get this award, the first person I'll replace is him. A deputy director-general, he really thinks he's someone important."

In reality, Zhou Weiqing stood in front of the microphone, his tone shifting from languid to sarcastic, his voice carrying clearly throughout the hall: "Deputy Director Zhang? Last year, his mistress was put into our office, earning a monthly salary of 28,000 yuan, and she can't even use a form—"

Deputy Director Zhang's face turned deathly pale instantly. The teacup in his hand clattered to the ground, splashing hot water all over his trouser leg, but he was oblivious. He stared at Zhou Weiqing on the stage, his lips trembling, unable to utter a word.

The entire room was deathly silent; you could hear a pin drop.

The reporters in the front row reacted the fastest, pointing their cameras at Deputy Director Zhang, and the sound of camera shutters clicking filled the air.

The comment section of the live TV broadcast exploded instantly, with a dense barrage of messages that practically covered the entire screen: "What did he say?" "Mistress? A monthly salary of 28,000?" "Is this live? Am I seeing things?" "My God, is this something he can say?"

"Turn off the broadcast! Cut off the live stream!" Deputy Director Zhang suddenly snapped back to reality and roared at the staff around him, his face turning a deep purplish-red, and the veins on his forehead throbbing.