Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

December 7th, ten days after the ice rink received that letter.

The first party arrived at 9:00 AM.

Three black official cars stopped at the entrance of the ice rink, and eight people got out—six men and two women, all dressed in dark formal attire and wearing identical badges on their chests.

The team leader was a woman in her fifties with short hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and carrying a silver briefcase.

"International Sports Ethics Investigation Committee." She showed Gu Xidong her credentials. "We need to speak with Ms. Ling Wuwen."

Gu Xidong stood at the door, not moving aside.

Do you have an appointment?

"There's a letter of coordination from Interpol," she said, handing over a document, "as well as a notice of cooperation from the General Administration of Sport of China."

Gu Xidong glanced at it.

The document was real, the official seal was real, the signature was real—he recognized the signature; it belonged to the newly appointed deputy director of the State Administration of Radio, Film and Television, who had spoken at the founding ceremony of the Ice Blade Foundation five years ago.

"She is not in good health."

"We will arrange for medical staff to accompany you." The woman adjusted her glasses.

"Mr. Gu, this is not a request, but a lawful investigation. Ling Wuwen is a key victim of the 'Gu Raising Plan' and a crucial witness. We have a responsibility to protect her safety and a right to obtain her testimony."

"Protect her safety?" Gu Xidong sneered.

Where were you five years ago when she was used as a test subject right under your noses?

The woman's expression didn't change, but the people behind her exchanged glances.

"Mr. Gu, we can't change the past. But we can work together to shape the future—"

"Let them in."

Ling Wuwen's voice came from behind.

Gu Xidong turned around and saw her pushing her wheelchair slowly gliding over from the depths of the ice rink.

Today she wasn't wearing a wide-brimmed hat or sunglasses; her gray hair gleamed under the lights, and the scars on her face were clearly visible.

The woman was visibly taken aback when she saw her.

"Ms. Ling, I am—"

"I know who you are," Ling Wuwen interrupted her. "Three years ago, you published a paper in the Journal of Sports Ethics about the psychological reconstruction of experimental victims. I've read it."

The woman's expression shifted, seemingly surprised, yet also displaying some inexplicable complexity.

"Then you should know that we're here to help you."

Ling Wuwen didn't answer, he just looked into her eyes.

The gaze was calm, but the woman took a half step back because of it.

Just then, the second party arrived.

2

A white van with the "Sports Weekly" logo printed on its body was parked behind the official vehicle.

The car door slid open, and four people got out—three men and one woman—carrying a camera and holding a microphone, a standard interview setup.

"We're reporters from Sports Weekly." The leader pulled out his press pass. "We heard a key witness to the 'Poison Raising Plan' is here, and we'd like to conduct an exclusive interview—"

"No interviews today," Gu Xidong said.

"Just a few minutes, we—"

The woman from the investigation team suddenly spoke up: "Official business is being conducted here. Please leave if you are not authorized to conduct this activity."

The reporters looked at each other but didn't move.

The man in the lead smiled and said, "We'll just wait outside; it won't interfere with your work."

As he spoke, he took two steps back, moving to the side of the bread cart.

The other three people also retreated, but their retreat directions were quite interesting—one retreated to the left door of the ice rink, one retreated to the right window, and one retreated to the back door.

Gu Xidong saw it.

The investigation team either didn't see it, or they saw it but didn't pay attention.

Ling Wuwen saw it too.

She gently tugged at Gu Xidong's sleeve and wrote a word in his palm:

"Needle"

Gu Xidong's pupils contracted slightly.

He was looking at the leading reporter—

His right hand remained in his pocket, with a thin, reflective object peeking out from his sleeve. It wasn't a pen; it was a syringe.

Those who plot to raise poisonous insects prefer to eliminate witnesses using syringes. Silent, traceless, autopsies will only reveal cardiac arrest.

He took a step forward, blocking Ling Wuwen's wheelchair.

The women on the investigation team were still talking about procedures, the law, and the importance of cooperating with the investigation.

The people next to the bread cart slowly approached, but with each step they shortened the distance.

There were only eight people in the ice rink.

The investigation team consisted of eight people, four of whom were disguised reporters, and two others, Gu Xidong and Ling Wuwen.

But Gu Xidong knew there was a third person.

He always knew.

He knew it the moment that man in the baseball cap appeared in the corner of the ice rink.

3

The baseball cap appeared ten minutes ago.

When the investigation team entered, everyone's attention was focused on the official vehicles and identification documents.

Gu Xidong glanced at the stands on the east side of the ice rink and saw a dark figure slip in through the passageway and then disappear into the shadows of the last row.

He didn't move or make a sound.

The man was wearing a dark baseball cap with the brim pulled low, and a black windbreaker with the collar turned up to cover the lower half of his face.

He sat motionless in the shadows.

But Gu Xidong noticed his hand.

Those hands rested on their knees, their knuckles thick and calloused—not from labor, but from long-term gripping of machinery.

Ice skates, horizontal bar, dumbbells—it's all the same.

And the way he sat.

With your left foot slightly forward and your right foot bearing the weight, lean your body slightly forward.

The unique sitting posture of ice skaters.

Now, as the investigation team confronts the posing journalist, that person makes a move.

He stood up, emerged from the shadows, and slowly walked down the aisle of the audience seating area.

The footsteps were very light, almost silent. The brim of the hat was still pulled low, obscuring the face.

The disguised reporter leading the group was approaching Ling Wuwen, his right hand already halfway out of his pocket, the syringe needle flashing under the light.

The woman from the investigation team was still talking, but her eyes suddenly looked in that direction—she saw it.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

The fake reporter froze for a moment, then suddenly accelerated and rushed towards Ling Wuwen.

In that instant, the man in the baseball cap moved.

No one saw how he got there.

Three seconds.

In the first second, he leaped from the last row of the audience, his right foot bracing against the armrest of his seat, and he shot out like an arrow.

The next second, he landed beside the lead reporter, grabbed the other's wrist holding the syringe with his left hand, and lifted it upwards—with a snap, it dislocated. The syringe flew out, tracing an arc in the air.

In the third second, he swept his right leg across, knocking another reporter who was rushing towards him to the ground, and at the same time, he struck a third person squarely in the face with his right elbow. The sounds of the three people falling were heard almost simultaneously.

The fourth person stopped, stood there stunned, and then turned and ran.

The man in the baseball cap didn't pursue her.

He just stood there, panting, his right hand supporting his left leg—which was trembling as if it couldn't bear the weight.

The entire investigation team was stunned. Eight professionals, eight investigators who had seen all sorts of situations, were all speechless after those three seconds of shock.

Gu Xidong was not stunned.

He kept looking at the man.

Look at that posture. The left foot is slightly forward, and the right foot is bearing the weight—but now, the right foot that is bearing the weight is shaking, shaking violently.

Look at his hands supporting his left leg. Those hands have distinct knuckles, calloused fingertips, and on the little finger—

There is a scar.

From the base of the finger to the fingertip, there is a diagonal line, very straight.

Gu Xidong's heart stopped beating.

Ling Wuwen's wheelchair slid forward a step. She saw the scar too.

4

The man in the baseball cap slowly straightened up and turned around.

The brim of his hat was still pulled low, revealing only the lower half of his face—the outline of his chin, the line of his lips, and the thin scar at the corner of his mouth.

That was left from the explosion five years ago. Ling Wuwen remembered that she had personally applied medicine to it for him.

He raised his hand and took off his baseball cap.

The light shone on his face.

Gu Xidong gasped.

That was Ling Wufeng's face. But it wasn't.

He looks ten years older than he did five years ago.

This isn't a metaphor; I've really aged ten years—rough skin, deep wrinkles, prominent cheekbones, and sunken eye sockets.

The left eye was cloudy, with a grayish-white film covering the pupil, a sign of blindness.

When standing on his right leg, he leans slightly to the left because that leg is lame.

But the eye—the right eye—is lit.

It was so bright it looked like you could see right through it.

He looked at Ling Wuwen.

Ling Wuwen also looked at him.

The ice rink was so quiet you could hear the hum of the light bulbs.

Then he spoke, his voice terribly hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time:

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting for five years."

Ling Wuwen's lips moved, but no sound came out.

Tears flowed first.

She gripped the armrests of her wheelchair, trying to stand up. Her legs trembled violently, and her knees buckled as soon as she lifted them off the wheelchair.

Gu Xidong tried to help her up, but she pushed him away and continued to stand.

Ling Wufeng took one step, two steps, three steps forward.

He walked up to her and squatted down—his right leg on the ground, his left leg supporting him. That was the same posture he used to help her up every time he taught her to skate five years ago.

He reached out and took her hand.

"Don't stand there," he said. "I'm back."

Ling Wuwen looked at his face, at the blind left eye, at the bloodshot in his right eye, at the scar on the corner of his mouth, at his graying temples—

It was much grayish-white than she remembered; it was almost entirely white.

She raised her hand and touched his face.

My fingers traced his forehead down to his brow bone, then down to his cheekbone, and finally down to the scar at the corner of his mouth.

"Is that you?" she asked, her voice trembling.

He took her hand and pressed it against his face.

"it's me."

She suddenly pulled her hand back and slapped him across the face.

Snapped.

It was so loud that the investigation team members all took a step back.

Ling Wufeng didn't dodge; he simply turned his head to the side and then looked back at her.

"This slap," she said, "is for the five years you've been dead."

He nodded.

She raised her hand again and slapped him once more.

Snapped.

"This slap was for those ice skates. Do you know how long I cried when I received them?"

He nodded.

She raised her hand again. This time he didn't wait, but grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his arms.

She struggled for a moment, then stopped moving, her whole body going limp in his arms, and she burst into tears.

It wasn't the restrained tears of a reunion, but the wailing of a five-year-old. She clutched his clothes, buried her face in his chest, and trembled all over.

Ling Wufeng held her in his arms and looked up at Gu Xidong.

Their eyes met in mid-air.

Gu Xidong didn't speak, he just looked at him.

Ling Wufeng didn't say anything either.

But that look said so much—thank you for waiting for her, thank you for believing in her, thank you for not giving up.

Gu Xidong nodded slightly.

5

Ten minutes later, the ice rink returned to its surface calm.

The investigation team tied up the four posing journalists and stuffed them into an official vehicle.

The woman leading the team made a phone call for backup, her voice very low, but her eyes kept drifting towards Ling Wufeng.

Ling Wuwen sat in her wheelchair, her eyes red and swollen, but she had stopped crying. Her hand remained firmly in Ling Wufeng's.

Ling Wufeng stood next to her, leaning against the ice rink's protective mat—he couldn't stand for long without his limp leg giving way.

Gu Xidong handed him a bottle of water.

He took it, drank two sips, and then spoke:

"Ask whatever you want."

Where have you been for the past five years?

"in."

"Where is it inside?"

Ling Wufeng looked at him, something flashing in his right eye.

"The 'breeding program' is just the tip of the iceberg," he said. "Behind it is a transnational sports betting syndicate. They control athletes, manipulate matches, launder money, and even sell experimental data. The 'breeding program' is their 'research and development department,' specializing in producing obedient, winning, and controllable athletes."

Gu Xidong frowned.

How did you know?

"Because they found me five years ago."

Ling Wuwen's hand tightened.

Ling Wufeng patted the back of her hand and continued:

"That explosion was their doing. They didn't want to kill me, they wanted me to 'die.' Only a dead person can be without identity, without attachments, without a way out. Only a dead person can do things for them."

"You agreed?"

"I didn't agree," Ling Wufeng said. "But they have leverage."

"What kind of bargaining chips?"

He looked at Ling Wuwen.

Ling Wuwen was stunned, then slowly understood.

"Me?" Her voice tightened. "They're using me to threaten you?"

"It's not a threat," Ling Wufeng said. "It's a deal. I'll do things for them, and they'll guarantee your treatment, your safe departure, and that you'll never be used as a test subject again."

"So you signed a five-year indentured servitude contract."

"Yes."

Ling Wuwen's tears welled up again.

"Do you know how I've lived these past five years? I thought you were dead. Every night I dreamt of that explosion, of you pushing me out, of you watching me from the fire—"

"I know," Ling Wufeng said softly. "I know everything."

How did you know?

"Because I've been watching." He looked at her. "For five years, I've been having people send me news about you. Where you were receiving treatment, how your recovery was going, when you'd be able to stand up again, when you'd return to China—I knew it all."

Ling Wuwen was stunned.

"Those ice skates," she suddenly remembered something, "were they a gift from you?"

"Yes."

"That package?"

"Yes."

"That photo?"

"Too."

"Then why didn't you come yourself? Why did you make me wait five years?"

Ling Wufeng remained silent for a while.

Then he raised his hand and pointed to the surveillance camera in the corner of the ice rink.

The camera was pointed directly at them, and the red indicator light was flashing.

"Because their eyes are always with you."

Gu Xidong looked in the direction he was pointing. The camera was part of the ice rink; he had always assumed it was a regular surveillance system.

But now, the frequency with which that red dot is flashing doesn't seem to be operating normally—

"That's not the ice rink's surveillance camera," Ling Wufeng said. "It was installed by their people. It's been there since the first day you built this ice rink."

Ling Wuwen's face turned pale.

Gu Xidong stared at the camera; the red dot flashed like a blinking eye.

"They've been watching all along?"

"I've been watching," Ling Wufeng said. "Watching when I appear, watching when you reunite, watching what you say and do."

"Now—"

"Now they see it."

Ling Wufeng stood up, holding onto the protective mat, and walked step by step toward the camera.

He stopped below, looked up, and stared at the red dot.

"I know you're watching," he said to the camera. "And I know you're listening."

The red dot flashed even faster.

"I'm back," he said. "With five years' worth of your accounts. With all your names, addresses, accounts, and transaction records. With the evidence you thought you had destroyed."

He paused for a moment, and the corner of his mouth moved as if in a smile.

"Now, it's your turn to wait."

The camera suddenly went out.

It wasn't turned off, it was extinguished—the red dot disappeared, a crack appeared in the lens, and a wisp of smoke drifted out from the crack.

Ling Wufeng turned around and walked back to look at Gu Xidong and Ling Wuwen.

"They destroyed that surveillance camera," he said, "but there's more."

"What else?"

He looked at Ling Wuwen, then at Gu Xidong.

"December 21st, Tromsø, under the aurora borealis," he said. "I sent that letter. But we can't be the only ones going."

"Who else?"

Ling Wufeng did not answer.

He turned his head and looked towards the entrance of the ice rink.

The woman from the investigation team was standing there, holding a phone, her face ashen.

She put down the phone, walked over, and looked at Ling Wufeng.

"I just received a notification," she said, "that our superiors want to see you."

"Which superior department?"

She hesitated for a moment, then said a name.

Ling Wufeng's expression changed.

That was the person he had been trying to get close to for five years while undercover, but could never seem to reach.

The mastermind behind a transnational sports betting fraud syndicate, codenamed "Ice King".