Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

The iron gate slammed shut behind them, completely shutting out the damp air from the parking lot.

The world inside the door was like the abdominal cavity of a giant creature that had been awakened—sultry, crowded, and turbulent.

Gu Xidong's first reaction was to cover his mouth and nose. The air was filled with dozens of indescribable odors: the pungent smell of chemicals, the sweet and metallic stench of rust, the acrid smell of burning animal fat, and... blood.

The fresh smell of blood wafted from some corner.

"Don't show weakness." Ling Wuwen's voice was extremely low, almost swallowed up by the surrounding noise.

She walked half a step ahead of him, the collar of her black coat turned up, obscuring half her face.

His eyes, hidden behind sunglasses, quickly scanned the entire space, his steps as leisurely as those of a regular visitor.

Gu Xidong forced himself to straighten his back, imitating the bodyguard posture he had seen in movies—hands clasped in front of him, eyes scanning each person who approached him warily.

His left leg was still throbbing, but he used his willpower to suppress his instinct to limp.

Old Zhao walked at the front, like a skilled tour guide.

His scarred face became a kind of pass in this environment—those with indistinct features around him would instinctively make way when they caught a glimpse of the hideous scars on his face.

The ghost market was larger than Gu Xidong had imagined.

This appears to be a converted space from an abandoned underground air-raid shelter, resembling a long, narrow tunnel that extends into the darkness at both ends, with no end in sight.

The stalls on both sides were made of simple iron frames and wooden boards, with exposed wires and flickering light bulbs hanging from above.

The goods on the stall gleamed eerily in the dim yellow light.

Gu Xidong's gaze swept over a stall—a glass jar containing the eyeballs of some kind of animal, with a label scrawled "Enhances night vision, lasts for 72 hours."

The stall owner next to them was injecting something into a young athlete-looking person; the liquid in the syringe was fluorescent green.

"Don't look," Ling Wuwen warned softly.

But Gu Xidong had already spotted the next stall: a whole row of ice skates. Not the standardized products found in sporting goods stores, but custom-made ones in various shapes and sizes.

The vendor was enthusiastically describing a pair of ice skates with their blades covered in fine serrations to a buyer:

"...to guarantee a 15% increase in grip during takeoff, which the referee will absolutely not be able to detect..."

"Illegal modification." Ling Wuwen's voice was cold.

"Those serrated edges will leave obvious marks on the ice, and once discovered, it will result in a lifetime ban."

"But many people are willing to gamble," Old Zhao said without turning his head.

"Especially those who are older, can no longer do quadruple jumps, but are unwilling to retire."

They continued walking.

The deeper you go, the more unsettling the "goods" at the stalls become.

Gu Xidong saw people trading vials of potions with foreign labels and overheard fragments of conversation:

"...The newly arrived EPO has a higher purity than the previous batch..."

"...Bionic Achilles tendon, three-month recovery period, can withstand impact of eight times body weight..."

"...That kid could do 4Lz last year, but he's useless this year. Do you know why? There are miniature vibrators in his skates, and every time he lands..."

Gu Xidong clenched his fist at his side.

This is the world beneath the ice.

Behind the glitz and glamour of the stadium, the fluttering national flags, and the cheers of the audience, lies a group of people trading shortcuts and destruction in the shadows.

"We've arrived." Old Zhao stopped at a fork in the road.

Three narrower passages appeared before us, each leading to a different area.

Loud music and excited shouts came from the left aisle, and the outline of a roulette table could be vaguely seen—that was the gambling area.

The right-hand passage was much quieter, but the air smelled of formaldehyde and disinfectant, and a crooked sign hung at the entrance: "Surgical Consultation".

The middle passage was the darkest, with no lights at the entrance and only a faint glimmer of light shining from the depths.

On the wall at the entrance to the passage, someone had spray-painted a simple icon: a broken ice skate.

"The 'silent shoemaker' is at the very back," Old Zhao said.

"But I can only take you this far. Any further in, and my face will be too conspicuous."

Gu Xidong looked at Ling Wuwen.

She nodded, took a small black velvet bag from the inside pocket of her coat, and handed it to Old Zhao: "Final payment."

Old Zhao weighed the bag in his hand, didn't open it, and stuffed it into his pocket:

"Let me give you a heads-up. The shoemaker doesn't just make shoes. Everything he handles has a little... something he shouldn't have. Be careful what you ask him."

After saying that, he turned and disappeared into the darkness he had come from, like a drop of water flowing into a murky river.

Now, only the two of them are left.

2

Ling Wuwen took a deep breath, took off her sunglasses, and stuffed them into her pocket. Her pale face was even more pronounced in the dim light, but her eyes were sharp as knives.

"Remember," she whispered to Gu Xidong.

"You're my bodyguard, and I'm a collector who returned from overseas, specializing in collecting sports memorabilia with 'stories'. We've heard that the shoemaker has a batch of old molds that leaked from the national team three years ago, and we're interested."

"Three years ago..." Gu Xidong murmured.

"Yes. That's our key to getting in the door." Ling Wuwen straightened his collar. "Let's go."

The two stepped into the central passage.

The air here is even worse—a musty smell mixed with the pungent odor of leather, glue, and some kind of chemical solvent.

There were no stalls on either side of the passageway, only rows of tightly closed iron gates. Most of the gate signs had no words, only numbers or symbols.

Occasionally, a door would open a crack, and prying eyes would sweep over them like cold tentacles before quickly withdrawing.

When Gu Xidong counted to the seventh door, he heard a conversation coming from inside.

The door wasn't closed tightly, and a sliver of light shone through the crack.

He instinctively slowed his pace, and Ling Wuwen stopped as well.

"...Is that batch of goods definitely cleaned up?" a hoarse male voice asked.

"Don't worry, the mold melted long ago." Another, younger voice said, with a hint of ingratiation.

"That incident caused such a huge uproar back then, who would dare to keep it? Maybe the shoemaker had one or two scraps left, but he's tight-lipped and won't say anything."

Gu Xidong's heart skipped a beat.

A mold. Three years ago. That incident.

Ling Wuwen gently placed his hand on his arm, signaling him to calm down.

She pressed herself against the crack in the door and listened intently.

"What a pity," the hoarse voice said.

"Gu Xidong's mold was custom-made, with unique data. If it were still around, we could replicate it for the current kid, and maybe..."

"Please don't say that," the young voice said nervously.

"That mold is cursed. Old Zhang touched it back then, which led to that 'accident'."

"superstitious."

"It's better to believe it exists. Anyway, the things are gone, and the person is ruined. It's time to move on."

The sound of wine being poured could be heard coming from inside.

Then the chair was dragged, and the conversation shifted to a girl who had just arrived at a club.

Ling Wuwen gently tugged at Gu Xidong's sleeve, and the two continued walking forward.

Only after turning the corner and making sure she was far away from the door did she whisper, "Did you hear that?"

"Hmm." Gu Xidong's voice was dry. "They said the mold melted."

"But he also said, 'The shoemaker might still have some leftovers.'" Ling Wuwen's eyes flickered.

"And they mentioned 'Old Zhang'—if I'm not mistaken, it's the same Mr. Zhang who maintained your ice skates back then."

Gu Xidong recalled the man with a mole on the corner of his mouth in the second video. The man who replaced his ice skates backstage three years ago.

"So the mold might still be there." He felt cold sweat seeping from his palms. "It's in the hands of that 'shoemaker' up ahead."

Ling Wuwen did not answer. Her gaze remained fixed ahead.

The passage has come to an end.

It was darker here than anywhere else, with only a kerosene lamp hanging from the low ceiling, its flame flickering eerily inside its glass shade.

The light illuminated a small area: a huge, stained wooden workbench piled high with tools—files, hammers, pliers of various shapes, and several cans of chemicals with illegible labels.

Dozens of ice skates hang on the wall behind the worktable.

Some were brand new and shiny, some were worn out, and several had been clearly modified with strangely shaped blades.

There was a person sitting behind the worktable.

He was facing away from the passageway, his body hunched over, wiping himself with a soft cloth.

The light only illuminated his back: thin shoulders, sparse gray hair, and a faded gray work jacket.

This is the story of the "silent shoemaker".

Gu Xidong and Ling Wuwen exchanged a glance.

She nodded slightly and stepped forward first, her footsteps standing out clearly in the silence.

The old man did not turn around.

Ling Wuwen stopped three steps away from the worktable and began speaking in fluent but slightly accented English:

Good evening. We've heard that you have some... special collections here.

The old man paused in his wiping motion.

A few seconds later, he slowly turned around.

The light from the kerosene lamp shone on his face. Gu Xidong gasped.

That face was more chilling than Old Zhao's scarred face—not because it was ferocious, but because it was utterly withered and lifeless.

His skin was like crumpled parchment stuck to his bones, his eye sockets were sunken, and his eyes were so cloudy that it was almost impossible to distinguish the pupils from the whites of his eyes.

His lips were so thin they were barely a slit, and they were pressed tightly together.

But what suffocated Gu Xidong the most was the old man's eyes.

Those cloudy eyes narrowed very slightly the moment they saw Ling Wuwen.

That wasn't the reaction speed an old man should have. Then, his gaze swept over Gu Xidong, lingered for half a second, and then returned to Ling Wuwen's face.

"A collector?" The old man's voice was like sandpaper rubbing against rust, but he spoke in Chinese, with a strange dialectal ending.

"Collect some things with a story behind them." Ling Wuwen switched back to Chinese, his tone composed.

"Especially... things related to that 'accident' three years ago."

The air freezes.

3

The old man stared at her, something seemed to be slowly churning in his cloudy eyes.

After a long while, he slowly put down the soft cloth in his hand and the item he was wiping—Gu Xidong saw clearly that it was a blade holder for ice skates, but its shape was peculiar and its curves were unusually sharp.

"There were many 'accidents' three years ago," the old man said. "Which one are you referring to?"

"National Sports Center. Figure skating. A skater named Gu Xidong, and his partner." Ling Wuwen said each word clearly.

"We heard that he didn't completely destroy the ice skate molds he used back then."

The old man smiled.

That smile was extremely ugly, like a crack suddenly being torn open in parched earth.

"Many people have come looking for that thing," he said.

"Police, reporters, sports bureau officials, and... some people who shouldn't be here. Which group are you in?"

"The last batch," Ling Wuwen said, "because we don't just want to see, we also want to buy."

"Buy it?" The old man seemed to have heard some absurd joke. "That stuff is worthless. Just a pile of scrap aluminum."

"But for some people, it's priceless." Ling Wuwen took out another smaller velvet bag from the inside pocket of his coat and placed it on the worktable.

The bag was loosened, revealing several gold bars inside, which gleamed heavily under the kerosene lamp.

The old man's gaze remained fixed on the gold bars, without moving.

"Who are you?" he asked, his gaze sweeping sharply over Gu Xidong once more.

"And who is he? Your bodyguard? He doesn't seem like it."

Gu Xidong's muscles tensed. Ling Wuwen, however, smiled.

"He's my business partner," she said.

"We're in the business of... revising history. Some buried stories are worth getting back in gold."

"Historical revision." The old man repeated the word, his withered fingers tapping unconsciously on the workbench.

Tap, tap, tap. Each sound struck Gu Xidong's taut nerves.

Suddenly, the old man stood up.

He moved much more nimbly than he appeared, turning and heading toward the wall behind the worktable that was covered with ice skates.

He pressed his hand on a spot on the wall, and with a slight mechanical whirring sound, an entire wall of ice skates slid to the side, revealing the entrance to a dark, secret chamber behind it.

"Come in," the old man said without turning his head.

"But only one person is allowed."

Ling Wuwen looked at Gu Xidong, gesturing for him to stay outside. Gu Xidong wanted to object, but she gently shook her head and followed the old man into the secret chamber.

The wall closed behind them.

Gu Xidong stood alone in the dimly lit workshop, listening to the crackling sound of the kerosene lamp wick burning.

Time stretched on endlessly. His gaze swept over the tools on the workbench, over the strangely shaped ice skates, and over the piles of scrap materials and leather scraps in the corner.

Then, he saw something.

A corner of dark red fabric peeked out from the gap in the bottom drawer of the workbench.

He recognized the color—it was the same dark red color from the national team's training uniform three years ago.

As if guided by some unseen force, Gu Xidong squatted down and gently pulled open the drawer.

The mold he had imagined was not in the drawer.

There were only a few yellowed notebooks, some old photos, and...

A neatly folded dark red tracksuit. (Top)

Embroidered on his chest was the pinyin of his name:

Gu Xidong

Gu Xidong's hand trembled as he reached for the garment. The moment his fingertips touched the fabric, the icy touch sent a shiver down his spine. It was his old team uniform.

The same shirt he wore three years ago during his last training session as a member of the national team.

Why are you here?

4

He turned his clothes inside out. On the label inside, besides his name, there was a line of small, faded handwriting written in ballpoint pen:

"Backup data has been transferred. Be careful, Zhang."

The handwriting was messy, but he could recognize it.

This is Ling Wufeng's handwriting.

The door to the secret room slid open at that moment.

Ling Wuwen came out, her face even paler than before she went in. She wasn't carrying anything, but there was a certain solemnity in her eyes that Gu Xidong couldn't understand.

The old man followed behind her, carrying a long, narrow object wrapped in oilcloth.

"I can give you the things." The old man looked at Gu Xidong, his gaze lingering on his face for a long time, so long that Gu Xidong almost thought he had been recognized. "But there's a condition."

"What are the conditions?" Ling Wu asked.

"After you leave here, never come back." The old man placed the oilcloth wrapping on the workbench.

"And stop investigating what happened three years ago. Some truths, once uncovered, will do no good for anyone."

"What if we refuse?"

The old man smiled. For the first time, that smile revealed a genuine emotion—not mockery, not greed, but a deep, almost compassionate weariness.

"Then pretend you never saw me tonight," he said. "And pretend you've never heard of any mold."

He paused, his cloudy eyes gazing towards the secret chamber, his voice so low it was almost inaudible:

"There's more than just molds inside... there's something else. Something that even 'they' didn't know existed."

"What is it?" Gu Xidong blurted out.

The old man looked at him, and after a long while, slowly shook his head.

"You're not ready yet," he said.

"Come back when you've truly decided to face everything..."

He pushed the oilcloth wrapping towards Ling Wuwen:

"This is the deposit. A spare knife holder from back then, related to your injuries. As for the mold—"

He pointed to the secret room.

"It's at the very back. But I don't have the key to open that door."

"With whom?" Ling Wuwen pressed.

The old man didn't answer. He sat back in his chair, picked up the soft cloth and knife holder again, and began wiping them as if they didn't exist.

The gesture of seeing guests off.

Ling Wuwen took a deep breath, picked up the oilcloth wrapping, and gave Gu Xidong a wink. The two turned and left.

Only when Gu Xidong stepped out of the passage and returned to the noisy and chaotic main road of the ghost market did he feel like he could breathe again.

He looked at the package in Ling Wuwen's hand: "What's this?"

Ling Wuwen did not answer immediately. It wasn't until they had walked through the entire ghost market, pushed open the rusty iron gate, and returned to the cold, empty parking lot, that she slowly unrolled the tarpaulin in the dim light.

Inside was an ice skate holder. It was made of dark gray metal and had a plain design.

But Gu Xidong recognized him at a glance—

This is the original blade holder that was replaced on his "problematic" ice skates. There is an extremely fine crack at the heel joint of the blade holder, almost invisible to the naked eye.

"The shoemaker said," Ling Wuwen's voice echoed in the empty garage, trembling slightly.

"This knife rack was brought here for 'restoration' three years ago. But the person who brought it in didn't ask for 'restoration'."

She raised her eyes and looked at Gu Xidong:

It means "leave evidence".

Gu Xidong felt ice-cold all over.

"Who sent it?"

Ling Wuwen remained silent for a long time.

Then she whispered a name that Gu Xidong would never have thought of.

The night breeze swept through the empty parking lot, carrying the faint sounds of the distant city's hustle and bustle.

Behind them, within the iron gate, the ghost market continued to churn with desire and secrets in the dim light.

Beside the kerosene lamp, the silent shoemaker put down his knife holder and pulled a yellowed old photograph from his pocket. The photograph showed two young athletes, arms around each other, standing on the edge of the ice rink, their smiles radiant.

His fingers gently traced the face of one of the people.

Then he flipped the photo over.

On the back, there is a line of faded text:

"If something happens to me one day, my things will be in the same old place."

The signature is:

Ling Wufeng