Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

On the third day after their reunion, Gu Xidong spotted the black sedan.

It was parked under a sycamore tree on the street corner opposite the ice rink, its hood covered with fallen leaves.

But every day at four o'clock in the afternoon—the time when Ling Wuwen appears at the ice rink—its engine will start once, idle for three minutes, and then shut off.

On the first day, he thought it was his parents' car.

The next day, he noticed that the license plate was covered in mud, but the mud was dry—it had been deliberately applied.

On the third day, he had the raven check the license plate. It was a dead number.

"It's not just this one," Raven said on the phone, her voice unusually serious.

"There are at least three groups of people watching your ice rink. One group is clumsy, like they were hired temporarily; another group is too clean, as clean as fake IDs; and the last group, I can't find out anything about them."

What does "cannot be investigated to the end" mean?

"That means their anti-tracking level is the same as mine."

Gu Xidong remained silent.

Raven was a cybersecurity expert for an intelligence agency, and he was "recruited" by Raven five years ago with an email.

It wasn't really a case of turning her to defect; she had wanted to leave for a long time, but she just needed a reason.

Her counter-tracking level is equivalent to the national level.

Which side?

"A third party," said the raven.

"As for the other two parties, I'm pretty certain: the group that dealt with the rough grass were remnants of the original Gu-breeding plan, and they're afraid Ling Wuwen still has evidence; the group that handled the investigation was the International Sports Ethics Investigation Team, and they want her to be a witness. But the third party—"

She paused.

"What's wrong with the third party?"

"They are waiting."

"What are you waiting for?"

"I don't know. But they're not in a hurry. True masters are never in a hurry."

Gu Xidong hung up the phone and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor of the ice rink, looking at the black sedan on the street corner.

The setting sun bathed the car windows in gold, making it impossible to see if anyone was inside.

The sound of a wheelchair came from behind.

He didn't turn around; he knew it was her.

"You found out?" Ling Wuwen's voice was still hoarse, but it was stronger than it had been three days ago.

"It's been three days," he said. "You knew all along."

"I knew it from the very first day I got back."

She slid to his side and looked out the window with him. The setting sun cast a pale gold hue on her gray hair, and the wrinkles on her face appeared softer in the backlight.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"If I told you, what would you do?"

He thought for a moment, but did not answer.

She answered for him:

"You will make them disappear. With Raven, with the Iceblade Foundation's connections, with all the resources you've accumulated over the past five years. You will protect me like a fragile object."

He turned to look at her.

She was looking at him too, and there was something in her eyes that he hadn't seen in five years—

It's not weariness, not vicissitudes, but a kind of tranquility after sinking to the bottom.

"But I don't want to be protected," she said. "I came back, not to hide."

2

That night, they had their first real dinner in a small cabin by the ice rink.

It's called a small room, but it's actually a converted equipment room of the ice rink—15 square meters, with a bed, a table, and an induction cooker.

Gu Xidong has spent half of the past five years living here and the other half traveling around the world working on projects for the Iceblade Foundation.

Ling Wuwen sat in his wheelchair, watching him cook instant noodles.

"You're just going to eat this?"

"Our housekeeper usually cooks for us. She took the day off today."

"It's been five years, and I still can't take care of myself."

He cooked noodles with his back to her, without turning around: "I've learned how. I just don't want to take care of her."

She was silent for a moment, then said, "I know you have many questions to ask."

Once the water boiled, he put the dough in and stirred it with chopsticks.

"But there are some questions I can't answer right now," she continued. "Not that I don't want to, but that I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because speaking out will kill even more people."

He turned off the stove, turned around, and looked at her.

Under the light, her face was clearer than when they met again. Her cheekbones were too high, her eye sockets too deep, and her lips had fine cracks—the marks of long-term medication side effects.

But his eyes haven't changed; they're still the same clear eyes they had five years ago.

"Five years ago," he said slowly, "how did you escape?"

She remained silent for a long time.

The noodles in the pot were almost clumped together after a while.

Then she said, "Someone helped me."

"Who?"

"I can't say."

Why?

"Because that person is still inside."

Inside. Those two words sank into Gu Xidong's stomach.

He knew what she meant by "inside." Not prison, not the organization, but the abyss she had spent five years climbing out of—something deeper than the Gu poison scheme behind it.

"Who paid for your medical treatment?" he changed the subject.

"anonymous."

"Medical team?"

"Keep it a secret."

"Even the ravens can't find it?"

She looked at him without saying a word.

But that look already answered: Yes, even the raven couldn't find it.

Gu Xidong suddenly realized something.

She didn't "escape." She was "released."

The person who released her has the power to make her disappear completely, and also the power to make her "come back".

And that person is still in the shadows, watching everything unfold.

"What is your real purpose in coming back?" his voice was soft.

Ling Wuwen lowered his head and looked at his hands. His hands were much thinner than they had been five years ago, with distinct knuckles and pale blue veins under the skin.

"To finish the last thing."

"What is it?"

She looked up at him.

"I can't say right now."

The noodles in the pot had completely clumped together.

3

On the fourth day, the ice rink received its first anonymous package.

The A4-sized kraft paper box had no sender, no address, only a printed recipient label: "Received by Gu Xidong".

The receptionist thought it was a regular package and put it directly into his locker.

When he opened it that evening, inside was a bank card and a handwritten letter—not a printed one, but handwritten.

The letter contained only four words:

"Ice Blade Forward"

He turned it over; there were no words on the back. Looking at the bank card, he saw it was an anonymous card from a Swiss bank, with a balance of one million euros.

The fifth day, the second package.

The same kraft paper box, the same bank card, the same four characters. But this time, the characters weren't printed; they were handwritten.

He stared at those four words for a long time.

The handwriting was unfamiliar; it wasn't Ling Wuwen's. Yet, there was an inexplicable sense of familiarity about it—

It's not about the specific strokes that resemble someone, but rather the strength of the strokes and the habits of finishing the strokes.

He took a picture and sent it to the raven.

Ten minutes later, Raven called back: "The handwriting analysis is complete. It's not from anyone in any known database. But—"

"But what?"

"But the skeletal structure of the brushstrokes is 78% similar to that of a person."

"Who?"

The raven was silent for three seconds.

"Ling Wufeng".

Gu Xidong almost dropped his phone.

"Impossible," he said. "He died five years ago."

"I know," Raven's voice was calm. "That's why I said 78%, not 100%. It could be someone imitating his penmanship, it could be a coincidence, or it could be—"

She didn't finish speaking.

But Gu Xidong knew what she wanted to say.

It's also possible that he didn't die.

The sixth day, the third package.

This time it wasn't a bank card, it was a photograph.

The photo shows the back of a man standing under the aurora borealis. The aurora borealis flows above his head, intertwining green, purple, and red, shaping his silhouette.

He was wearing a dark down jacket, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly back, looking at the sky.

On the back of the photo, those four words were still written:

"Ice Blade Forward"

But this time, the handwriting changed again.

It wasn't the deliberate neatness of the previous two times, but a kind of urgent, almost trembling scribbling, with each stroke applied so forcefully that it penetrated to the back.

Gu Xidong stood in the center of the ice rink, holding the photo, for a long time.

There were no aurora borealis in the night sky outside the dome, only the dark red reflection of the city lights.

But he seemed to see that figure turn around, revealing a face that was seven parts similar to Ling Wuwen's.

He recalled Ling Wuwen dancing under the aurora five years ago.

He remembered what she said: "The first dance my brother taught me was under the aurora borealis."

He looked down at the photo.

The position of that figure standing there, the shape of that aurora, the angle at which he looked up—it was exactly the same as the position where Ling Wuwen danced back then.

4

On the tenth day, Ling Wuwen discovered that he was checking the three packages.

She didn't ask anything, but simply slid over to him, took the photo, and looked at it for a long time.

"Is it him?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

"You know that, don't you?"

She still didn't answer.

But he saw her fingers gently stroking the edge of the photograph.

"Ling Wuwen." He crouched down to look her in the eye.

"If you know anything, tell me. I'm not asking you to betray anyone, I just—"

"Just what?"

"I just wanted to make sure you're safe."

She looked at him, her eyes a little red.

"I can't tell you," she said softly. "Not because I don't trust you. It's because the moment I tell you, you'll be drawn in. Drawn in even deeper than you were five years ago."

"I've been involved. Ever since you came back."

“It’s different.” She shook her head. “Five years ago, you were a victim. Now, you are the founder of the Iceblade Foundation, a board member of the International Association for Sports Ethics, and a representative in a class-action lawsuit against thirty-seven victims. You have too much to lose.”

"I don't care."

"But I care."

She held his hand; it was still icy cold, and the knuckles were hard.

"Gu Xidong, I spent five years just to come back and see you. Not to drag you back into that abyss."

He looked at her without saying a word.

The night outside the window was deep, as dark as ink. A black sedan was still parked on the street corner in the distance, its windows pitch black, making it impossible to see if anyone was inside.

"And that last thing," he asked, "is it related to me?"

She remained silent for a long time.

It went on for so long that he thought she wouldn't answer anymore.

Then she nodded slightly.

"It's related. But I didn't do it. Someone else did it."

"Who?"

She didn't answer, but simply turned the photo over and looked at the four characters on the back.

"Blade forward," she murmured. "That was the first word he taught you, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"That was also the last thing he taught me."

She looked up at him. The redness in her eyes had faded, replaced by a firmness he had never seen before.

"Gu Xidong, in the days to come, you will receive many more things: packages, messages, clues. Some you will understand, some you will not. But there is one thing you must remember—"

She gripped his hand tightly.

"No matter what happens, no matter what you see, don't ask. Just wait."

"When?"

She didn't answer.

He simply turned his head and looked out the window.

The black sedan on the street corner started, the low hum of its engine carrying across the street. But it didn't drive away; it just idled, like a lurking beast.

"Wait until the day he appears on his own."

5

Late that night, Ling Wuwen sat alone in his wheelchair, staring blankly at his phone screen.

Gu Xidong was sorting through the clues in the package in the next room. Through the half-open door, he could see her profile.

The light softened her features, and her gray hair hung down, obscuring half of her face.

The light from the phone screen reflected on her face, creating a play of light and shadow.

He didn't know what she was looking at.

But her lips were moving, silently saying something.

He crept closer and peeked through the crack in the door at the image on the phone screen—

a photo.

A man's back view, standing under the aurora.

It's exactly the same as the one in the third package.

Ling Wuwen's lips moved again. This time he saw clearly what she said:

"Brother, I'm back."

pause.

"It's your turn."

The phone screen went dark, and her face disappeared into the shadows.

Outside the window, the headlights of a black sedan on the street corner suddenly flashed.

It wasn't starting, it wasn't turning—it just flashed briefly, like some kind of signal.

Gu Xidong stood behind the door, his heart skipped a beat.

The next second, the car silently glided into the night and disappeared around the street corner.

Ling Wuwen didn't turn around, but simply spoke softly to the darkness outside the window. This time, he heard it clearly:

"I know you're here."