Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

At six o'clock in the morning, the temperature at the abandoned ice rink was minus five degrees Celsius.

Gu Xidong and Ling Wuwen stood ten meters apart on opposite ends of the ice, like two frozen statues.

This was the first time they had looked at each other since the explosive standoff in the duty room last night.

The air still carried the lingering stench of blood from Lao Zhao's words, "Ling Wufeng."

But neither of them mentioned it.

Ling Wuwen even changed back into his signature black training uniform and reapplied tactical camouflage to his face, covering up any skin that might betray his emotions.

She was like a pre-programmed machine, expressionlessly adjusting the heart rate monitor strapped to her wrist.

"Land-based synchronized training, forty minutes." Her voice was as cold as an ice scalpel scraping across ice. "Do as I say, one wrong move, one extra set."

There was no explanation.

No apology.

They didn't even make eye contact.

She turned around directly, with her back to Gu Xidong, and began her first basic step—a front cross step followed by a back outside edge arc.

Gu Xidong stared at her retreating figure.

Stare at the patch of skin on the back of her neck that was covered by her high-necked training clothes.

Old Zhao's words from last night lingered in his mind like a venomous snake: "His blood soaked through my gloves... I've remembered that temperature for three years."

And when Ling Wuwen heard those words, his hand, holding the ice pick, trembled for the first time.

"Do it." Ling Wuwen's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Gu Xidong gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep up with her pace.

Left foot pushes off the ground, right foot crosses, body tilts, blade slices across the ground—

wrong.

The center of gravity shifted by at least five centimeters.

"Stop." Ling Wuwen didn't even turn around, as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

"Your weight should be on the third metatarsal bone of your left foot, not the ball of your foot. Try again."

Gu Xidong took a deep breath and started again.

This time, he closed his eyes.

It's not about giving up, but about forcing yourself back to three years ago—

Let's go back to those days when we trained together with Ling Wufeng. Back then, they could synchronize even with their eyes closed; muscle memory was more reliable than the brain.

Left foot.

Third metatarsal bone.

Stomp on the ground.

cross.

tilt--

"right."

For the first time, a very faint, almost imperceptible hint of approval appeared in Ling Wuwen's voice.

Gu Xidong opened his eyes.

On the ice, the shadows of the two people overlapped, separated, and overlapped again in the morning light.

The forty-minute land training session was like a silent ritual, with only breathing and the sound of ice skates.

Gu Xidong made a mistake once and practiced an extra set; Ling Wuwen made zero mistakes throughout, and every movement was so precise that it seemed as if it had been measured with a ruler.

By the end of training, both of their training clothes were soaked with sweat.

Ling Wuwen raised her hand and glanced at the heart rate monitor—her peak heart rate was 162, while Gu Xidong's was 198.

"Take a 15-minute break."

She walked to the edge of the ice rink, took out two bottles of electrolyte water from the insulated box, and tossed one to Gu Xidong, saying, "Go on the ice this afternoon to practice lifts."

Gu Xidong caught the water bottle, his fingers touching the condensed water droplets on the bottle, which were icy cold.

He stared at Ling Wu and asked, "Don't you have anything to say?"

Ling Wuwen unscrewed the bottle cap, tilted his head back, and drank half the bottle, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Then she put down the water bottle and wiped her mouth with her sleeve.

"What should I say?" she retorted. "Who am I? Or should I tell you whether you should believe me or not?"

"Everyone says so."

"I am Ling Wuwen, your rehabilitation therapist."

She said, word by word, "Whether you believe me or not is your freedom."

"What about Ling Wufeng?" Gu Xidong took a step closer. "Old Zhao said—"

"What Old Zhao says is unimportant," Ling Wuwen interrupted him, his eyes suddenly turning cold.

"The important thing is whether you want to find out the truth, whether you want to return to the ice rink, and whether you want to bring out those who were hiding in the shadows back then."

She stared into Gu Xidong's eyes, her voice so low that only the two of them could hear:

"If all you want to know is who I am, you can leave now."

"But what if you still want revenge—"

She paused, a chilling smile curving her lips.

"Then shut up and follow me."

2

At 2 p.m., the temperature on the ice rink dropped to minus eight degrees Celsius.

Ling Wuwen changed into the ice skates that belonged to "Ling Wufeng". The moment the skates touched the ice, her entire posture changed—

The spine is straightened more, the shoulders are lowered, and the center of gravity is lowered even further. That's the kind of ice feel that only professional athletes have, ingrained in their bones.

"Basic pairs skating lift, underarm grip." She skated over to Gu Xidong and demonstrated the move.

"You hold my right arm under my armpit with your right hand, and support my left hip with your left hand. When I jump, you push upwards simultaneously, using your leg strength, not your arms."

Gu Xidong looked into her eyes: "Are you sure you want to practice this? Your... injury."

He was referring to her trembling hand from last night.

Ling Wuwen's eyes narrowed: "My affairs are none of your concern."

First attempt, failed.

Gu Xidong's hand was in the wrong place—too high, blocking Ling Wuwen's shoulder and preventing her from getting a good jump.

The two collided, staggered, and slid three meters before regaining their balance.

"Move your right hand down two inches." Ling Wuwen's voice was frighteningly calm. "Again."

The second attempt failed.

This time, Gu Xidong's timing was off; he exerted his strength half a second too early. Ling Wuwen was forced to fall as soon as he left the ground, the ice blade scraping against the ice with a long, piercing sound.

"Look at my shoulder." Ling Wuwen adjusted his breathing. "The moment I shrug is the signal that you're going to exert force."

The third time, the fourth time, the fifth time...

With each failure, Ling Wuwen calmly pointed out the problem, adjusted the details, and then started over without hesitation.

Her face showed no signs of fatigue or irritability, only an almost obsessive focus.

But Gu Xidong noticed it.

Every time he grabbed her armpits, her body would stiffen for a very brief moment—not from muscle tension, but from a deeper, almost instinctive resistance.

Although she controlled it very well, each stiffness lasting no more than 0.5 seconds, Gu Xidong, as a former pairs skater, was all too familiar with this reaction.

This is a typical manifestation of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

It's the body resisting a posture that caused the injury.

Gu Xidong stopped before his sixth attempt.

"You…" He stared into Ling Wuwen's eyes, "Did something happen when you were practicing pairs skating before?"

Ling Wuwen's body visibly tensed up.

But her face remained expressionless.

"Continue training," she said coldly.

"I'm your partner," Gu Xidong insisted, "I need to know what taboos my partner has."

I have no taboos.

"Then why do you freeze every time I touch your armpit?"

The air freezes.

Ling Wuwen stared at him, her face, smeared with paint, resembling a lifeless mask under the stark white lights of the ice rink. After a few seconds, she slowly spoke:

"Seven years ago, someone grabbed me from behind and choked me with a similar grip."

Her voice was calm, as if she were talking about someone else.

"That man tried to kill me. I broke three ribs to escape."

She paused, then added:

"So my body remembers that feeling. But I will overcome it."

Gu Xidong's throat felt dry.

He wanted to ask "who" and "why," but looking into Ling Wuwen's unfathomable eyes, all the questions got stuck in his throat.

In the end, he simply nodded.

"Then let's do it again."

The seventh attempt failed again.

The problem this time was with Gu Xidong's left leg—an old injury started cramping after continuous exertion, and he was exhausted halfway through the lift.

Ling Wuwen's fall was more pathetic than the previous ones. She managed to stay upright by bracing herself against the ice with one hand, but her wrist was clearly twisted.

She knelt on the ice, clutching her right wrist, her face pale.

Gu Xidong rushed over: "Your hand—"

"It's alright." Ling Wuwen shook off his hand, stood up, and flexed his wrist. "Can you still put weight on your left leg?"

Gu Xidong looked at her wrist—a small swelling had appeared there.

You can't continue.

"I'm asking if you can still exert your strength." Ling Wuwen's voice suddenly turned cold. "If you can't, this ends here. If you can, we'll try one last time."

Her eyes were fixed on Gu Xidong, burning with an almost insane light.

"Gu Xidong, you've been lying in these ruins for three years, waiting for a chance to stand up again, haven't you?"

"The opportunity is right in front of you now."

"Are you going to give up just because of a little cramp?"

Gu Xidong's heart was gripped tightly by those words.

He took a deep breath, bent over, and forcefully pounded the cramped muscles in his left leg until the spasm gradually subsided. Then he straightened up and looked at Ling Wuwen.

"The last time."

3

The two stood in their positions again.

Gu Xidong's right hand gripped Ling Wuwen's right arm, two inches below his armpit—the position she had just adjusted.

With my left hand supporting her left hip bone, I could feel her firm muscle lines through her training clothes.

This time, he didn't look at her shoulder.

He closed his eyes.

Use your body to feel it.

Feel the rhythm of her breathing, feel the subtle tension in her muscles, feel the explosive, upward force about to leap out—

Ling Wuwen's shoulder twitched.

Almost at the same moment, Gu Xidong exerted force with his legs, tightened his waist and abdomen, and lifted his arms upwards!

Ling Wuwen's body, like a light bird, rose off the ground!

Her legs were together, her toes pointed, and her body remained straight in the air.

Gu Xidong steadily supported her, his ice skates moving smoothly across the ice as he adjusted his center of gravity.

One.

two.

three.

Three seconds exactly.

Gu Xidong lowered his arm, preparing to put her down.

But at that moment—

Ling Wuwen's body trembled very slightly, almost imperceptibly, in mid-air.

That's not muscle loss of control.

It was more like a sudden, instinctive fear.

For a fleeting moment, her gaze was fixed on the swaying light at the top of the ice rink—just like the look she had given Old Zhao in the duty room last night when she stared at his throat.

Then she closed her eyes.

Gu Xidong gently placed her back onto the ice.

The moment he landed on the ice, Ling Wuwen's ankle buckled slightly, and his body leaned forward.

Gu Xidong instinctively reached out and grabbed her waist.

The distance between the two instantly closed.

Gu Xidong was so close that he could see her trembling eyelashes under her makeup and smell the faint scent of blood and mint in her breath.

As his right hand touched her waist, his fingers inadvertently slid upwards, brushing against the edge of her training uniform at the back of her neck—

Then, I touched the uneven skin beneath the fabric.

Gu Xidong's fingers froze.

In that instant, his brain automatically retrieved memory data from three years ago.

Ling Wufeng's nape.

Next to the right carotid artery, there is a narrow scar about five centimeters long.

That was when they were thirteen years old, and Gu Xidong accidentally cut himself with his ice skate during a playful fight.

The scar was shallow, but because it was in a vital spot, Ling Wufeng was always concerned about it and always covered it with a high-necked shirt.

But at this moment, the scar that Gu Xidong's fingertips touched...

The position is incorrect.

It's not on the side of the neck, but in the very center of the back of the neck, towards the third cervical vertebra.

The shape is also wrong.

It wasn't a narrow knife scar, but rather irregular, rough-edged scar tissue that felt more like... a burn?

Or is it a suture scar left after major surgery?

Gu Xidong's fingers lingered on the scar for half a second longer than intended.

Then he felt Ling Wuwen's body suddenly tense to its limit.

She jerked backward so hard she almost fell over again.

"Don't get distracted during training." Her voice was as cold as ice, but Gu Xidong could hear the barely suppressed... panic beneath it.

He stared at the back of her neck.

Although the training clothes had covered that patch of skin again, the memory on his fingertips still burned.

"Your scar..." he said slowly.

Ling Wuwen turned around, his back to him, and began to untie the laces of his ice skates.

The movements were quick and urgent, as if they were running away from something.

"Just an old wound," her voice came from behind. "Everyone has them."

"Your brother's scar," Gu Xidong said, emphasizing each word, "is on the left side."

The air suddenly dropped to freezing point.

Ling Wuwen stopped untying his shoelaces.

She remained bent over, her back to Gu Xidong, her shoulders stiff as a rock.

A few seconds later, she straightened up, but did not turn around.

"You remember it very clearly." Her voice was very soft, as soft as a snowflake, but every word was sharp as ice.

"Of course I remember the scar I gave you." Gu Xidong took a step closer.

"But this wound on the back of your neck—that's not something an ice skate could cause."

Ling Wuwen finally turned around.

Her face was still painted, but her eyes shone frighteningly bright under the stark white lights of the ice rink.

There surged complex emotions within it that Gu Xidong couldn't understand—anger, fear, and a weariness bordering on despair.

"Gu Xidong," she said softly, her voice hoarse, "some questions, once asked, cannot be taken back."

"Have you thought it through?"

"You want to know who I am, why I came back, and the origin of every scar on my body—"

She paused, a bleak smile curving her lips.

"Are you prepared to bear the consequences of finding out?"

Gu Xidong stared intently at her.

His brain was racing—Old Zhao's words, Ling Wuwen's reaction, the scar whose location and shape didn't match, and her stiffness every time her armpit was touched...

A terrifying hypothesis is taking shape.

But before he could say it...

Ling Wuwen had already put on his casual shoes, picked up his ice skate bag, and walked out of the ice rink without looking back.

"Training is over for today."

"To be continued tomorrow."

Her figure disappeared at the end of the dimly lit corridor.

4

Gu Xidong stood alone in the center of the ice rink.

He looked down at his right hand—the hand that had just touched the scar on Ling Wuwen's neck.

The fingertips seemed to still retain the feel of that rough skin, and... a very faint, moist, sticky sensation.

He frowned and held his hand up to his eyes.

On the tip of my index finger, there was a dark red, semi-solidified stain...

blood.

It's not his.

His fingers were not injured when he was lifted up.

And this blood...

Gu Xidong suddenly looked up in the direction where Ling Wuwen had disappeared.

He remembered the way she had gripped his wrist earlier.

I remembered the paleness that crossed her face for a moment.

I remembered that when she left, her left hand was still in her pocket and she didn't take it out.

Gu Xidong crouched down and searched on the ice.

He found it very quickly.

Where Ling Wuwen had just stood, there was an inconspicuous drop of dark red blood that had already seeped slightly into the ice.

Very small.

Only the size of a grain of rice.

But on the pure white ice, it looked like a glaring wound.

Gu Xidong stared at the drop of blood, then looked at the bloodstains on his fingertips.

Then he slowly stood up, walked to the edge of the ice rink, took out a sealed bag from his backpack, carefully scraped off the drop of bloody ice with his skates, and put it in the bag.

He needs verification.

To verify whose blood it is.

To verify what Ling Wuwen is hiding.

And more importantly—

To verify that increasingly clear, chilling conjecture:

The woman in front of me named Ling Wuwen may not be Ling Wufeng at all.

But she had the same blood as Ling Wufeng flowing through her veins.