Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

In the hallucination, Xige Song Yuanming didn't speak, but just walked forward, his steps slow, but he never stopped.

Zhou Weiqing grabbed the last stack of documents from the podium and threw them at him, sending A4 papers scattering in the air and landing on the ground.

"Get out! Get out of here!" he roared, his voice splitting the air. The security guard at the front dodged the flying documents and continued to approach.

In Zhou Weiqing's view, "Song Yuanming" dodged the things he smashed and continued walking forward.

He bent down and picked up the shards of the enamel teacup from the ground. The sharp porcelain edge cut his palm, and blood trickled down between his fingers. He felt no pain, only that all the blood in his body was rushing to his head.

"I wasn't afraid of you when you were alive, why would I be afraid of you now that you're dead?" He clutched the shards in his hand, the porcelain edge embedded in his flesh, blood dripping onto the stage floor, spreading a small patch of dark red.

The second security guard tried to pounce from the side, but Zhou Weiqing suddenly turned around and slashed at him with the shard in his hand.

The security guard retreated hastily, but the shard of porcelain still tore through his uniform sleeve, leaving a long, bloody gash on his arm from which blood immediately seeped out.

Zhou Weiqing brandished the shards, forcing back the people on both sides. His eyes were bloodshot, white foam piled at the corners of his mouth, and he roared, "Come on! I killed you once while you were alive, and I'll kill you a second time now that you're dead!"

In the hallucination, Song Yuanming was still walking forward when the one in front of him reached out and pressed his shoulder.

Zhou Weiqing let out a strange howl and stabbed the shard in his hand hard.

In reality, he gripped a shard of porcelain and stabbed it viciously into the abdomen of the security guard at the front.

The security guard dodged to the side, and the porcelain shard pierced his stab-proof vest, breaking in two with a "crack." One half flew away, while the other half remained in his hand.

Fang Yu lunged at Zhou Weiqing from the side, sweeping his baton horizontally and slamming it heavily onto Zhou Weiqing's wrist.

With a loud crash, half a piece of porcelain flew out of his hand, bounced twice on the ground, stained with blood, and rolled to the edge of the stage.

Zhou Weiqing felt a sharp pain in his wrist, but it was as if he couldn't feel it. The "Song Yuanming" in his field of vision grabbed his wrist and was pressing him down.

He slammed his head into Fang Yu's face, his forehead hitting Fang Yu's cheekbone squarely. Fang Yu groaned, blood instantly flowing from his nose, but he held onto his wrist tightly and wouldn't let go.

The second security guard pounced on Zhou Weiqing from behind, grabbed him around the waist, and lifted him off the ground.

Zhou Weiqing lifted his feet off the ground and kicked wildly, the tip of his shoe hitting the thigh of the third security guard. The man took a half step back in pain, then immediately pounced on him and grabbed his leg.

The second security guard grabbed his other leg, and together they lifted him into the air.

He was still writhing wildly, his spine arched like a fish skewered, his throat emitting hoarse roars.

"Take him down!" Fang Yu shouted, wiping the blood from his nose.

At the same time, the security guards from the west exerted force, slamming Zhou Weiqing hard from the air onto the stage floor.

With a dull thud, his back slammed into the hardwood, forcing all the air out of his lungs and causing him to black out in pain.

Fang Yu's knee slammed down on his chest, two security guards held down his arms and another held down his legs, pinning him to the floor, unable to move.

Zhou Weiqing's chest ached from the pressure, his ribs creaked softly, and his breaths became short and fragmented.

In his field of vision, the "Song Yuanming" on the west side pressed him to the ground, the top knee pressing on his chest, looking down at him with the same confused expression on his face as it had twenty years ago, as it had been in the corridor just now, so clean it was blinding.

He began to struggle violently, trying to catch his breath.

The knee pressing on my chest was too heavy; my lungs felt like a crushed plastic bag, and I couldn't get any air in.

"Ugh—ugh—" He made a crushing sound in his throat, his heels kicking wildly on the floor, one of his leather shoes was scraped off, his toes curled up, his nails digging into the cracks in the floor, revealing bright red flesh.

His face turned purplish-red, then slowly became crimson-purple, his lips turned black, and white foam mixed with blood gathered at the corners of his mouth, trickling down his chin and into his ears.

Lin Shen sat in the corner, and the silver-white seed deep in his consciousness trembled for a moment before he withdrew all his mental energy.

He wanted Zhou Weiqing to die knowing the truth, to know in his last moments of lucidity how everything he had stolen had been shattered, and to know that his ruthless and ugly nature had been seen by everyone.

The western "Song Yuanming" in Zhou Weiqing's vision shattered at the same time, like ashes from burnt paper being blown away by the wind, scattered cleanly.

Behind the shards was the tense face of the security guard, Fang Yu's blood-stained knee pressed against his chest, and the security guard's cold hand holding his arm down.

The coldness of the stage floor seeped into his back, the crystal lights on the ceiling stung his eyes, and suddenly a cacophony of sounds rushed into his ears: shouts, cries, and curses from the audience, static from the sound system, and the buzzing of the security guard's walkie-talkie.

The hallucination ended.

Zhou Weiqing was pinned to the floor, his pupils first contracted violently, then suddenly began to tremble.

His mouth was open, and muffled breaths came from his throat. The words he had spoken in his hallucinations floated into his mind one by one—three million, mistress, sixty million in spoils, bank account, three years of framing, the stab in the back by the review committee, the deal with the Five Mountains Society, personally dismantling the voltage stabilizer, without looking back, all the red checkmarks on the list were cleaned up.

I remembered every single word he said.

These words were amplified through the microphone, spread throughout the venue, and then throughout the city during the premiere. Now, they have probably reached every corner he can imagine.

His name, his title, the dignified robe he wore for ten years, were torn to shreds and trampled into the mud by his own hands today.

His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to squeeze out the first sound: "No—"

"No—that's not how it is—"

He wanted to explain, to shout that he had been framed, to tell everyone that it was all a hallucination, but only broken breaths came out of his throat, which even he himself could not hear.

The people in the audience looked at him as if he were a pile of stinking garbage; their contempt, disgust, and anger pierced his face like needles.

He understood.

Lin Shen looked at his purplish-red face, at his bulging eyes and bluish lips, and his fingertips tightened slightly.

When Song Yuanming died, his face was charred black by the fire from the explosion, making his features indistinguishable.

When the nun died, her face was blue from the gas, and her fingernails were full of wood chips left from scratching the door.

When my junior colleague died, his face was so thin it was unrecognizable, and he was still clutching half a page of an unfinished lab report in his hand.

Zhou Weiqing's face is now uglier than the three of them combined.

The hallucination ended.

Zhou Weiqing was pinned to the floor, his pupils first contracted violently, then suddenly began to tremble.

His mouth was open, and muffled breaths came from his throat. The words he had spoken in his hallucinations floated into his mind one by one—three million, mistress, sixty million in spoils, bank account, three years of framing, the stab in the back by the review committee, the deal with the Five Mountains Society, personally dismantling the voltage stabilizer, without looking back, all the red checkmarks on the list were cleaned up.

I remembered every single word he said.

These words were amplified through the microphone, spread throughout the venue, and then throughout the city during the premiere. Now, they have probably reached every corner he can imagine.

His name, his title, the dignified robe he wore for ten years, were torn to shreds and trampled into the mud by his own hands today.

His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to squeeze out the first sound: "No—"

"No—that's not how it is—"

He wanted to explain, to shout that he had been framed, to tell everyone that it was all a hallucination, but only broken breaths came out of his throat, which even he himself could not hear.

The people in the audience looked at him as if he were a pile of stinking garbage; their contempt, disgust, and anger pierced his face like needles.

He understood.

Lin Shen looked at his purplish-red face, at his bulging eyes and bluish lips, and his fingertips tightened slightly.

When Song Yuanming died, his face was charred black by the fire from the explosion, making his features indistinguishable.

When the nun died, her face was blue from the gas, and her fingernails were full of wood chips left from scratching the door.

When my junior colleague died, his face was so thin it was unrecognizable, and he was still clutching half a page of an unfinished lab report in his hand.

Zhou Weiqing's face is now uglier than the three of them combined.

The hallucination ended.

Zhou Weiqing was pinned to the floor, his pupils first contracted violently, then suddenly began to tremble.

His mouth was open, and muffled breaths came from his throat. The words he had spoken in his hallucinations floated into his mind one by one—three million, mistress, sixty million in spoils, bank account, three years of framing, the stab in the back by the review committee, the deal with the Five Mountains Society, personally dismantling the voltage stabilizer, without looking back, all the red checkmarks on the list were cleaned up.

I remembered every single word he said.

These words were amplified through the microphone, spread throughout the venue, and then throughout the city during the premiere. Now, they have probably reached every corner he can imagine.

His name, his title, the dignified robe he wore for ten years, were torn to shreds and trampled into the mud by his own hands today.

His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to squeeze out the first sound: "No—"

"No—that's not how it is—"

He wanted to explain, to shout that he had been framed, to tell everyone that it was all a hallucination, but only broken breaths came out of his throat, which even he himself could not hear.

The people in the audience looked at him as if he were a pile of stinking garbage; their contempt, disgust, and anger pierced his face like needles.

He understood.

Lin Shen looked at his purplish-red face, at his bulging eyes and bluish lips, and his fingertips tightened slightly.

When Song Yuanming died, his face was charred black by the fire from the explosion, making his features indistinguishable.

When the nun died, her face was blue from the gas, and her fingernails were full of wood chips left from scratching the door.

When my junior colleague died, his face was so thin it was unrecognizable, and he was still clutching half a page of an unfinished lab report in his hand.

Zhou Weiqing's face is now uglier than the three of them combined.

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The hallucination ended.

Zhou Weiqing was pinned to the floor, his pupils first contracted violently, then suddenly began to tremble.

His mouth was open, and muffled breaths came from his throat. The words he had spoken in his hallucinations floated into his mind one by one—three million, mistress, sixty million in spoils, bank account, three years of framing, the stab in the back by the review committee, the deal with the Five Mountains Society, personally dismantling the voltage stabilizer, without looking back, all the red checkmarks on the list were cleaned up.

I remembered every single word he said.

These words were amplified through the microphone, spread throughout the venue, and then throughout the city during the premiere. Now, they have probably reached every corner he can imagine.

His name, his title, the dignified robe he wore for ten years, were torn to shreds and trampled into the mud by his own hands today.

His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to squeeze out the first sound: "No—"

"No—that's not how it is—"

He wanted to explain, to shout that he had been framed, to tell everyone that it was all a hallucination, but only broken breaths came out of his throat, which even he himself could not hear.

The people in the audience looked at him as if he were a pile of stinking garbage; their contempt, disgust, and anger pierced his face like needles.

He understood.

Lin Shen looked at his purplish-red face, at his bulging eyes and bluish lips, and his fingertips tightened slightly.

When Song Yuanming died, his face was charred black by the fire from the explosion, making his features indistinguishable.

When the nun died, her face was blue from the gas, and her fingernails were full of wood chips left from scratching the door.

When my junior colleague died, his face was so thin it was unrecognizable, and he was still clutching half a page of an unfinished lab report in his hand.

Zhou Weiqing's face is now uglier than the three of them combined.

The hallucination ended.

Zhou Weiqing was pinned to the floor, his pupils first contracted violently, then suddenly began to tremble.

His mouth was open, and muffled breaths came from his throat. The words he had spoken in his hallucinations floated into his mind one by one—three million, mistress, sixty million in spoils, bank account, three years of framing, the stab in the back by the review committee, the deal with the Five Mountains Society, personally dismantling the voltage stabilizer, without looking back, all the red checkmarks on the list were cleaned up.

I remembered every single word he said.

These words were amplified through the microphone, spread throughout the venue, and then throughout the city during the premiere. Now, they have probably reached every corner he can imagine.

His name, his title, the dignified robe he wore for ten years, were torn to shreds and trampled into the mud by his own hands today.

His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to squeeze out the first sound: "No—"

"No—that's not how it is—"

He wanted to explain, to shout that he had been framed, to tell everyone that it was all a hallucination, but only broken breaths came out of his throat, which even he himself could not hear.

The people in the audience looked at him as if he were a pile of stinking garbage; their contempt, disgust, and anger pierced his face like needles.

He understood.

Lin Shen looked at his purplish-red face, at his bulging eyes and bluish lips, and his fingertips tightened slightly.

When Song Yuanming died, his face was charred black by the fire from the explosion, making his features indistinguishable.

When the nun died, her face was blue from the gas, and her fingernails were full of wood chips left from scratching the door.

When my junior colleague died, his face was so thin it was unrecognizable, and he was still clutching half a page of an unfinished lab report in his hand.

Zhou Weiqing's face is now uglier than the three of them combined.

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Zhou Weiqing was pinned to the floor, his pupils first contracted violently, then suddenly began to tremble.

His mouth was open, and muffled breaths came from his throat. The words he had spoken in his hallucinations floated into his mind one by one—three million, mistress, sixty million in spoils, bank account, three years of framing, the stab in the back by the review committee, the deal with the Five Mountains Society, personally dismantling the voltage stabilizer, without looking back, all the red checkmarks on the list were cleaned up.

I remembered every single word he said.

These words were amplified through the microphone, spread throughout the venue, and then throughout the city during the premiere. Now, they have probably reached every corner he can imagine.

His name, his title, the dignified robe he wore for ten years, were torn to shreds and trampled into the mud by his own hands today.

His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to squeeze out the first sound: "No—"

"No—that's not how it is—"

He wanted to explain, to shout that he had been framed, to tell everyone that it was all a hallucination, but only broken breaths came out of his throat, which even he himself could not hear.

The people in the audience looked at him as if he were a pile of stinking garbage; their contempt, disgust, and anger pierced his face like needles.

He understood.

Lin Shen looked at his purplish-red face, at his bulging eyes and bluish lips, and his fingertips tightened slightly.

When Song Yuanming died, his face was charred black by the fire from the explosion, making his features indistinguishable.

When the nun died, her face was blue from the gas, and her fingernails were full of wood chips left from scratching the door.

When my junior colleague died, his face was so thin it was unrecognizable, and he was still clutching half a page of an unfinished lab report in his hand.

Zhou Weiqing's face is now uglier than the three of them combined.

The hallucination ended.

Zhou Weiqing was pinned to the floor, his pupils first contracted violently, then suddenly began to tremble.

His mouth was open, and muffled breaths came from his throat. The words he had spoken in his hallucinations floated into his mind one by one—three million, mistress, sixty million in spoils, bank account, three years of framing, the stab in the back by the review committee, the deal with the Five Mountains Society, personally dismantling the voltage stabilizer, without looking back, all the red checkmarks on the list were cleaned up.

I remembered every single word he said.

These words were amplified through the microphone, spread throughout the venue, and then throughout the city during the premiere. Now, they have probably reached every corner he can imagine.

His name, his title, the dignified robe he wore for ten years, were torn to shreds and trampled into the mud by his own hands today.

His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to squeeze out the first sound: "No—"

"No—that's not how it is—"

He wanted to explain, to shout that he had been framed, to tell everyone that it was all a hallucination, but only broken breaths came out of his throat, which even he himself could not hear.

The people in the audience looked at him as if he were a pile of stinking garbage; their contempt, disgust, and anger pierced his face like needles.

He understood.

Lin Shen looked at his purplish-red face, at his bulging eyes and bluish lips, and his fingertips tightened slightly.

When Song Yuanming died, his face was charred black by the fire from the explosion, making his features indistinguishable.

When the nun died, her face was blue from the gas, and her fingernails were full of wood chips left from scratching the door.

When my junior colleague died, his face was so thin it was unrecognizable, and he was still clutching half a page of an unfinished lab report in his hand.

Zhou Weiqing's face is now uglier than the three of them combined.