Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

At 2:17 a.m., the wind whistled through the abandoned factory, carrying with it the howls of stray dogs.

Gu Xidong squatted in the shadow of the electrical distribution box, three meters away from the window of the duty room, his old injury on his left leg throbbing faintly in the cold, damp air.

He stared at the window that emitted a faint blue light from the television, his breathing extremely low, the lingering taste of blood from the aurora training four hours earlier still in his throat.

Ling Wuwen was beside him.

She blended into the shadows, like a ghost without a physical form.

A black bodysuit hugged his lean physique, his face was painted with matte tactical camouflage, and only his eyes shone brightly in the darkness—the eyes of a hunter locking onto his prey.

"Old Zhao goes to the east side toilet every night at 2:10," she whispered in Gu Xidong's ear, her voice barely a whisper.

"It takes six minutes to go round trip. We have four and a half minutes."

Her breath brushed against his ear, carrying a very faint scent, like mint mixed with metal—

It is a specially formulated sedative used to suppress the surge of adrenaline after strenuous exercise.

Gu Xidong could smell it; the scent was about 70% similar to the surface smell of that "energy drink" bottle from backstage years ago.

His heart sank.

But there wasn't time to investigate further.

The blue light from the television in the duty room was turned off precisely on time.

Heavy footsteps echoed from inside the building, passed through the corridor, and faded into the distance to the east of the factory area.

"Walk."

Ling Wuwen, like a black cat, silently slipped out of the shadows. Instead of using the door, she braced herself against the windowsill with one hand and slipped through the half-open window with an almost uncanny flexibility, landing without even stirring up a speck of dust.

Gu Xidong followed closely behind.

His movements weren't exactly graceful, but they were fast enough—the agility of a wild beast honed by three years of life in ruins.

2

The duty room was cleaner than I had imagined.

A cot, an old wooden table, an old-fashioned CRT television, a steaming enamel mug, and walls covered with faded safety slogans.

A typical duty room for old bachelors.

But Ling Wuwen noticed something was wrong just three seconds after entering the room.

"The humidity is wrong." She crouched down, running her fingers across the cement floor.

"It's at least 15 percent drier here than outside. There's a dehumidifier."

Her gaze swept across the room, finally settling on the old wooden wardrobe against the wall.

The wardrobe looked at least thirty years old, with peeling paint and rusty door handles.

But Gu Xidong followed her gaze and also noticed the problem—there was no dust accumulation in the gap between the bottom of the wardrobe and the ground.

A person who cleans every day won't just clean under the closet.

Ling Wuwen walked over but didn't pull open the wardrobe door directly. She stretched out her finger and gently tapped on the side panel of the wardrobe.

"Thump, thump, thump."

The dull thud of solid wood.

But when I tapped the bottom right corner—

"despair."

A very faint, hollow echo.

Ling Wuwen's fingertip paused at that spot, then pressed down hard.

"Click."

A 30-centimeter square wooden board sprang open inward, revealing a dark, gaping cavity.

There was no gold or silver treasure in the interlayer.

There was only one small, silver-gray metal device, with a faint green indicator light flashing on the front.

The device is connected to four thumb-thick coaxial cables that pass through the wall and lead to an unknown direction.

"Military-grade full-band signal transmitter," Ling Wuwen's voice turned cold.

"Its coverage radius is at least 500 meters. This thing can block all civilian communications while sending encrypted signals to specific terminals."

She took out her phone and glanced at it.

Signal grid: zero.

"So for the past three years," Gu Xidong gritted his teeth, "the reason I couldn't make calls or receive messages wasn't because this place is remote..."

"It's because he's been keeping you locked in a signal cage." Ling Wuwen interrupted him, his fingers already reaching into the wardrobe.

She found a hard-cover notebook under her neatly folded work pants.

The leather cover is badly worn at the edges, making it look like a work diary that has been used for many years.

But as soon as Gu Xidong turned the first page, he stopped breathing.

Surveillance Log

Number: TA-07 (Target A: Gu Xidong)

Start date: November 20, 2022 (the day after the event)

The diary entries were written in extremely neat handwriting, one entry per day, brief and cold:

11.20: The target returned to the nest, broke down emotionally, drank 800ml of alcohol, and had no abnormal contact.

11.21: The target attempted to make 37 phone calls, all of which were blocked.

12.05: The target's left leg injury worsened, and self-harming behavior increased.

March 3.12 of the following year: The target showed suicidal tendencies for the first time (attempted wrist cutting with ice skates).

August 8.30 of the following year: Nightingale first appeared, her identity yet to be verified.

This month's record: 10 boxes of tranquilizers have been mixed into the alcohol supply, increasing the target's dependence.

Gu Xidong's fingers gripped the edge of the paper tightly, his knuckles turning white.

Sedatives.

No wonder that for the past three years, every time he drank the wine that Lao Zhao brought him, he would fall into a hazy, numb calm. He thought it was the effect of the alcohol, the price of his self-exile.

It turns out they were drugged.

"Keep flipping through." Ling Wuwen's voice remained calm, but Gu Xidong could hear the chilling killing intent beneath.

The following pages contained a list of supplies to be purchased. Rice, flour, cooking oil, alcoholic beverages, daily necessities… until the very last page, in the corner, a line of small print:

Special Procurement (Category B): 10 boxes of sedatives (benzodiazepines), payment already made. Supplier: Wang (channel confidential).

Below the list was a faded receipt.

Recipient's stamp: Kangcheng Pharmaceutical Wholesale Company.

Gu Xidong remembered this company.

Three years ago, when the national team's team doctor purchased sports injury medications, the designated partner was Kangcheng.

The team doctor's assistant who was in charge of the liaison at the time was surnamed Wang.

"Dr. Wang..." Gu Xidong murmured, "He later went abroad, saying he was going to Switzerland for further studies—"

He hadn't finished speaking.

Ling Wuwen had already pulled a cell phone out from the tattered cotton wadding at the very bottom of the wardrobe.

It's not a smartphone.

It's an old-fashioned black Nokia with physical buttons, a model from at least fifteen years ago. But the body has clearly been modified—there's an extra micro USB port on the side, and there are solder marks on the antenna area.

"An encrypted satellite phone," Ling Wuwen weighed it in his hand, "military-grade modification, one month of standby time on a single charge, and can only make and receive calls to five preset numbers."

She pressed the power button.

The screen lit up, the blue light reflecting off her face covered in paint, like a strange mask.

Password required.

Six digits.

Ling Wuwen did not attempt to input.

She took a data cable and a palm-sized black decoder directly from the tactical bag on her side.

Connect one end of the data cable to the phone and the other end to the decoder, then press the power button.

The decoder's screen started scrolling through code like crazy.

"These old-fashioned encrypted phones have very primitive security mechanisms," she explained in a low voice, her eyes fixed on the progress bar.

"Once we find its heartbeat frequency, we can brute-force it. But we only have one chance; failure will trigger self-destruction—"

"Beep".

The decoder screen freezes.

Password cracked: 110923

Gu Xidong stared at the string of numbers, his mind went blank for a second, and then he suddenly realized what was happening.

11 month 09 day.

That was three years ago, the day before the World Championships final.

23 points.

The night before the match, at the end of the final pre-match meeting.

"This is..." His voice began to tremble.

"His password." Ling Wuwen had already opened the call log.

Recent call:

Outgoing number: +41 79 XXX XX XX (Lausanne, Switzerland)

Call duration: 4 minutes and 38 seconds

Time: 1:17 AM, three days ago

three days ago.

It was the very night that Gu Xidong smashed the phone from Lausanne and refused the agent's advances.

Ling Wuwen's finger swiped quickly, opening the encrypted chat software. There was only one contact, and the nickname was blank.

Chat history is loaded automatically.

3

The other party: Prey reaction?

Old Zhao: He smashed his phone. He strongly resisted.

The other party: As expected. And the Nightingale?

Old Zhao: Intervention has been confirmed. The training intensity is abnormal, suspected of activating the prey's bodily memory.

The other party: Proceed as planned (B). Maintain surveillance and provide "stimuli" if necessary.

Old Zhao: Understood. Final trial countdown?

The other side: 87 days. Don't let him die; we want a public trial.

4

Old Zhao: The nightingale is conducting extreme training with its prey, and aurora projection occurs. The prey experiences a memory flashback.

The other party: To what extent?

Old Zhao: I think I saw lights flashing, but it didn't trigger a complete memory.

The other party: Keep provoking. Key segments of the blood test report can be appropriately leaked.

Old Zhao: The risk is too great.

The other party: This is an order.

That concludes the record.

Gu Xidong stared at every word on the screen, his whole body feeling cold.

Plan B.

stimulate.

The final trial is 87 days away.

Public trial.

These words were like icicles, piercing his mind.

He suddenly realized that his three years of pain, struggle, and self-destruction were not only a drama to be watched, but also a carefully choreographed "public execution show" waiting to reach its climax at a certain moment.

"And this too."

Ling Wuwen's voice pulled him back to reality. She pulled out a photograph from the deepest part of the pile of tattered cotton.

The color photograph has yellowed severely and the edges are curled.

The photo shows two young men, arms around each other, standing in front of a stadium, smiling brightly.

The one on the left, looking to be in his early twenties, wearing a tracksuit with "Provincial Team" printed on it, had a youthful face, but Gu Xidong recognized the arrogant air about him even if he died—

It was his senior, Chen Rui.

Back then, he was the team's technical core, and also the first "close friend" to break down in tears in front of the media after the "black swan event," accusing Gu Xidong of "using any means to win." Less than three months after the incident, Chen Rui retired early, citing psychological trauma, and immigrated to Canada with his family, disappearing without a trace.

And the one on the right side of the photo...

Gu Xidong's pupils suddenly contracted.

Although I look at least thirty years younger, although my hair is thick, and although my face doesn't yet have those greasy wrinkles and fawning smile—

But those facial features, that figure, that slight crooked curve of the right corner of his mouth when he smiled…

It's Lao Zhao.

Old Zhao, a young man wearing overalls but with a name tag that reads "Provincial Team Logistics Support" pinned to his chest.

"They've known each other for a long time," Ling Wuwen's voice was like ice, "No, it should be said that your senior brother was a member of 'Black Swan' from the very beginning. And Old Zhao was his subordinate, or rather... his guard."

5

"Squeak—"

The door to the duty room was pushed open.

Gu Xidong and Ling Wuwen turned around at the same time.

Old Zhao stood at the door, holding a dripping mop in his hand, his face bearing his usual honest yet slightly surprised expression.

"Xiao Gu? Xiao Ling?" He blinked. "It's so late, and you're here with me..."

He hadn't finished speaking.

His gaze swept over the open wardrobe compartment, over the Nokia phone in Ling Wuwen's hand, and over the old photograph that Gu Xidong was holding.

The smile on his face gradually disappeared.

Instead, there was a cold, almost cruel calm that Gu Xidong had never seen before.

"Ah," Old Zhao sighed, put the mop against the wall, slowly walked in, and closed the door behind him, "You still managed to find me."

His tone was as casual as if he were saying, "It still rained."

Ling Wuwen made a move.

Instead of retreating, she stepped forward, blocking Gu Xidong's path. An ice pick had appeared in her right hand—the very one she used to train Gu Xidong, its tip gleaming coldly in the dim light.

"Don't move." Her voice was low, but each word was like a blade scraping against metal.

Old Zhao stopped, raised his hands, and made a gesture of surrender.

But the expression on his face carried an almost mocking smile.

"Miss Ling, why are you so nervous?" His gaze fell on the ice pick. "This thing can't kill you. At most, it will hurt."

"The pain is enough." Ling Wuwen moved the ice pick forward slightly, the tip pressing against the hollow in the center of Old Zhao's throat.

"Speak. Where is Chen Rui? Who exactly is the 'Black Swan'? What is the final judgment?"

Old Zhao looked down at the ice pick pressed against his throat, then looked up at Ling Wuwen's face covered in paint, and suddenly laughed.

The laughter was low and muffled, as if squeezed out from deep within the chest.

"Miss Ling, I don't know the answer to your question," he said slowly.

"I'm just a doorman, I do what I'm paid to do. Someone pays me to keep an eye on Gu Xidong, to make sure he doesn't die or escape. That's all I do. As for the rest..."

He paused, then his smile widened.

"I advise you not to investigate."

His gaze passed over Ling Wuwen's shoulder and landed on Gu Xidong's face.

"Xiao Gu, these past three years have been tough, but at least you're alive. If you were to continue your investigation..." He shook his head, a hint of regret in his voice.

"You'll die a horrible death. Some people and some things are not for a 'dead person' like you to deal with."

Gu Xidong stared intently at him: "Was it you who arranged for that energy drink back then?"

Old Zhao shrugged: "I'm just a water deliveryman."

"Where are the ice skates?" Gu Xidong took a step forward, his voice hoarse.

"Ling Wufeng told me before he died that something was wrong with the ice blades—did you guys tamper with them?!"

The smile on Old Zhao's face finally disappeared completely.

His gaze became extremely complex at this moment—there was pity, there was mockery, and there was also a trace of something almost sorrowful that Gu Xidong couldn't understand.

"Gu Xidong," Old Zhao said softly, his tone more serious than ever before, "some truths, once you know them, are more painful than death."

He looked at Ling Wuwen again, at her eyes that still shone brightly even under the paint.

"Especially you, Miss Ling."

The corners of his mouth curled up in that eerie arc once again.

"Or should I call you..."

He paused, then uttered, word by word, the name that had frozen Gu Xidong's blood and made Ling Wuwen's hand tremble for the first time as he held the ice pick:

"Ling, Wu, Feng".

Time stood still at that moment.

The dim light in the duty room distorted, spun, and shattered in Gu Xidong's vision.

He could hear his heart pounding wildly, the roar of blood rushing to his head, and the suppressed, broken breaths in his throat.

He turned his head.

He looked at Ling Wuwen.

He looked at the woman blocking his way, covered in paint, her body stiff as a statue.

Old Zhao was still smiling.

The smile grew wider, more distorted, and more... insane.

"What? Surprised?" He tilted his head, like a child who had just pulled off a prank.

"You think you're a good imposter? Change your name, change your gender, learn some medicine, get a fake face—oh, by the way, that bionic skin on your face is really well done, where did you buy it? I want to get one too."

His gaze swept across Ling Wuwen's face like a venomous snake.

"But some things can't be changed."

"The way you look in people's eyes."

"The way your left shoulder slumps when you walk."

"And when you were rummaging through the closet just now, you habitually used your left hand to exert force and your right hand to assist—"

"That's your brother Ling Wufeng's unique way of exerting force when he did the swallow-style balance on the ice back then."

Old Zhao leaned forward, the tip of the icicle piercing the skin of his throat, drawing a drop of blood. But he didn't care.

"I've been watching you for three years, Ling Wuwen."

"From the first day you stepped into these ruins, I knew who you were."

"Because back then, I was the one who personally carried your brother's body off the ice."

He stared into Ling Wuwen's violently trembling eyes and said softly:

His blood soaked through my gloves.

"I've remembered that temperature for three years."