Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

The massacre in Shikan Village by the Song Dynasty occurred yesterday at noon.

Nearly thirty hours have passed by now.

For thirty hours, the safe house remained peaceful.

The members of the Sharp Blade team on the periphery had become accustomed to this calm.

They are still standing guard diligently, still patrolling on time, and still strictly following the regulations and procedures.

But the level of adrenaline in the blood doesn't lie.

It has dropped below the normal value.

In the middle layer, a hundred Sharp Blade team members are stationed in several buildings closer to the courtyard. This is the rapid response force; once any anomalies are detected on the outside, they will be deployed to the battle within one minute.

Their blood flow is slightly more intense than in the periphery because they are closer to danger.

But I was only a little nervous.

Song Chao sensed that there was residual alcohol in the blood of several of them.

After being laid off last night, someone secretly drank some alcohol in the dormitory.

Not much, just a glass or two of beer.

But that's enough to illustrate the point.

Inside the innermost layer, within the courtyard wall, thirty-six elite guards with sharp blades stood guard, divided into three squads, taking turns guarding the three corners of the courtyard.

Their equipment is top-of-the-line, including all-polymer firearms, ceramic bullets, portable tranquilizer dart launchers, and two state-of-the-art vital signs monitors.

But they were too close to the safe house.

As recently as the Song Dynasty, one could clearly discern a person's current emotions simply by observing the flow of their blood.

irritable.

"Damn it, it's been a whole day and night, and there's not a soul in sight. What are we supposed to do guarding these useless guys?"

One of the team members, squatting in the southeast corner of the yard, thought to himself.

His blood has low levels of dopamine and high levels of cortisol.

boring.

This is the situation that elite soldiers fear most.

Fear erodes willpower more than fear.

Song Chao slowly opened his eyes, his dark red pupils devoid of any emotion.

The outer defenses of the safe house were practically nonexistent in his eyes.

The Blade team members are indeed elite among elites when dealing with conventional enemies, but the opponents they face are not conventional enemies.

Their conventional defense methods—infrared sensing, vital sign monitoring, armed patrols, and rapid response mechanisms—are all based on the premise that "the enemy is human."

A person needs to get close to attack.

People need to break through the defenses to enter the core area.

A person leaves a heat source signal on an infrared sensor.

There is no need to get close to the Song Dynasty.

His bloodline power covers a radius of 500 meters centered on him.

He is now 600 meters away from the west wall of the safe house.

Just within reach.

His mental energy continued to extend inward, penetrating the courtyard wall, the floorboards, and the reinforced concrete, entering the interior of the safe house.

The second floor.

The two rooms housed Sun Changhe, the director of the petition office, and a liaison from Blackstone International, respectively.

These two people are still alive.

Sun Changhe was sitting on the bed making a phone call, his voice very low, as if he was reporting something to someone.

His blood was flowing rapidly, his heart was beating fast, and his cortisol levels were very high.

He is afraid.

But what he feared was not that the Song Dynasty would kill him.

What he feared was that Han Qiming would hand him over.

There is not a trace of remorse in this person's blood.

It's all calculated.

He was scheming how to keep his position in this matter, and even how to use the opportunity to climb the ranks.

Song Chao's lips curled slightly.

He turned to look at another room.

First floor.

Zhao Yong and Sun Jianjun were sleeping.

Zhao Yong was covered by the blanket and remained motionless, but the alcohol concentration in his blood indicated that he had drunk a lot of beer before going to bed.

He wanted to numb himself with alcohol.

Sun Jianjun did not sleep.

He leaned back on the sofa, smoking one cigarette after another.

The flickering light from the cigarette butt illuminated the crisscrossing wrinkles on his face in the darkness.

His heartbeat was steady.

It's resignation.

I studied the Song Dynasty for a long time.

He remembered that face.

Three years ago, in the interrogation room.

Sun Jianjun was standing right next to Liu Lei when Liu Lei hit him.

He did not make a move.

He just leaned against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips, watching Liu Lei punch Song Chao in the stomach again and again.

His face was expressionless.

It's like watching a machine in operation.

Later, Liu Lei got tired of playing and went out for a drink of water.

Sun Jianjun walked up to him, squatted down, pinched his chin with two fingers, looked him over, and said, "You hit him a bit too hard; his mouth is swollen. It will be difficult to take his statement later."

His voice was calm.

It's like they're saying whether today's boxed lunch is braised pork or eggplant with garlic sauce.

Song Chao was in so much pain that he couldn't speak, and could only stare intently into Sun Jianjun's eyes.

He wanted to see even the slightest bit of reluctance, guilt, or any trace of being treated as a "person" in those eyes.

He didn't see it.

He only saw two dark pupils, like two dry wells, with nothing inside.

Later, Sun Jianjun returned to the wall and continued smoking against it.

He finished his cigarette, stubbed it out on the windowsill, picked up the notepad, and began to read it aloud in a completely emotionless tone.

"Song Chao, male, 24 years old, a steelworker at Longteng Construction Company in Zhaoming City, was detained in accordance with the law on suspicion of stealing steel bars from the construction site. The suspect confessed to the crime and showed a good attitude in admitting his guilt. It is recommended that he be given a lighter sentence."

After he finished reading, he handed the pen to Song Chao.

"Sign it."

Song Chao was covered in blood, his wrists were handcuffed, and his ten fingers were swollen like carrots.

He mustered all his strength to raise his hand, snatch the pen from Sun Jianjun's hand, and smash it into his face.

The pen tip grazed the corner of Sun Jianjun's eye, leaving a shallow cut from which a bead of blood seeped out.

Sun Jianjun did not get angry.

He raised his hand to wipe the corner of his eye, looked down at the bloodstains on his fingers, then picked up the pen and put it back into Song Chao's hand.

"Don't bother."

"Sign it."

Song Chao's fingertips suddenly tightened.

The blood droplets suspended in the warehouse exploded simultaneously, turning into fine blood mist that tumbled wildly in mid-air.

Those memories were like a rusty knife, churning inside his mind.

He remembers every detail.

The dull thud of Liu Lei's fist hitting his ribs.

Sun Jianjun leaning against the wall smoking.

His blood-stained handprint was pressed on the confession.

Outside the interrogation room, Zhao Yong accepted the 30,000 yuan handed to him by Tang Ming, his face crinkling with smiles.

"Song Dynasty".

A hoarse voice suddenly came from outside the window.

Song Chao suddenly opened his eyes.

His mental energy touched a thin, hair-like thread of blood. The thread drifted out of the safe house and, carried by the night wind, floated to his face.

The other end of the bloodshot vein was connected to Sun Jianjun.

A name surfaced in Sun Jianjun's blood.

Dog.

His cousin called him by that nickname in the video.

Sun Jianjun saw the video.

He silently recited a sentence in his heart.

"Doggy".

Song Chao stood by the window, his blood-red pupils surging with intense emotions.

He continued his investigation.

Sun Jianjun is still alive.

Zhao Yong is also alive.

They were both in a room on the first floor.

Zhao Yong was sleeping, and Sun Jianjun was smoking.

In the next room, Sun Changhe finished his phone call and was sitting on the bed, lost in thought.

Next door, Blackstone International's liaison was huddled in a ball wrapped in a blanket, shivering.

A silent smile spread across Song Chao's lips.

It's very shallow.

It's cold.

He stepped out of the warehouse.

The night swallowed his figure.

The searchlight from the safe house slowly rotated in the yard, its beam sweeping across the two half-dead pomegranate trees, casting long shadows on the gravel ground.

The green light on the infrared sensor hanging on the wall is flashing.

The vital signs monitor on the rooftop showed that everything around was normal.

No one noticed that a very faint smell of blood had begun to waft through the air.

The smell was so faint that it dissipated with a night breeze, so faint that several soldiers on duty rubbed their noses and thought it was the rusty smell coming from the puddle under the pomegranate tree.

But the color of that puddle was much redder than rust.