Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

In the center of the ice rink.

Three hundred and sixty-five candles are still burning.

That's 365 days. The length of a year.

Also, 365 people who can no longer speak—

The victims of the Volkov experiment, the lives wiped out by the "breeding of worms" program, and the souls that died on the operating table, in the interrogation room, or in some unknown corner.

The candlelight flickered on the ice, bathing the entire venue in a warm orange-red hue.

The light fell on the ice, refracting into tiny specks of light, like countless stars twinkling at your feet.

Gu Xidong stood in the middle of the circle of candlelight.

The bandage on my left knee has been replaced. It's white and wrapped from my thigh to my calf.

The medical tape was wrapped very tightly, and you could vaguely see the bulge underneath the bandage.

Those were pain relief patches, three layers on. The bleeding stopped, but you could still see him gritting his teeth when he walked.

Every breath was taken with endurance, every step taken was a fight against pain.

He looked up at the audience.

Twenty thousand people are still standing.

No one sat down.

Four hours have passed since the first dance. No one has left.

No one sat down. They just stood there, looking at him, at the candlelight, and at the documents scrolling on the big screen.

Someone is holding a candle.

Someone is holding up a cell phone.

Some people were holding up handwritten signs with the names of the victims on them.

Gu Xidong took a deep breath.

The breath was inhaled very slowly, as if drawing in all the air in the venue into the lungs.

He could smell the burning candles, the cold air from the ice, and the smells of sweat, perfume, and tears emanating from the crowd.

He turned around.

They glided toward the edge of the ice rink.

There was a laptop there. Raven sat next to it, his finger on the space bar.

Gu Xidong looked at him.

The raven nodded.

Press the play button.

The music is ringing.

Black Swan.

The original version. The version he used at the 2019 World Championships.

That was the pinnacle of his career, and also the last time he stood fully on the international stage.

Three months later, his left knee was broken. Six months later, Ling Wufeng died. A year later, he disappeared from everyone's sight.

But today's broadcast is not the full version.

It was only left out for three minutes.

The most intense part.

anger.

struggle.

despair.

three minutes.

enough.

Gu Xidong started to slide.

2

First paragraph: Fragments from "The Black Swan".

three minutes.

He doesn't glide like a swan.

Like a trapped beast.

Every movement carries weight.

When landing from a jump, the skates slammed onto the ice with a heavy sound, as if hitting a metal plate rather than ice. As the body spun, it tilted as if about to fall, yet managed to regain its balance at the last moment.

He had no expression.

Only their eyes.

There was fire in his eyes.

He sped up.

The pain in my left knee shot from the sole of my foot to the top of my head, as if someone were scraping my bones with a knife.

Pain relief patches can only relieve pain, not heal wounds.

Every landing, every push off the ice, every spin, tears open the wound that hasn't healed yet.

But he didn't stop.

accelerate.

Speed ​​up again.

Take off.

Axel for three weeks.

Spinning in the air. One circle. Two circles. Three circles.

Ice falling.

The moment my left knee hit the ground, excruciating pain exploded from my knee, as if someone had planted a bomb inside.

He swayed, his body tilted to the left, and he almost fell.

Stand firm.

carry on.

Someone in the audience covered their mouth.

Someone is crying.

He looked at the candlelight.

He "died" here three years ago.

It wasn't real death. It was the death of my career. It was the day my left knee broke.

It was the day the doctor announced that he could no longer compete. It was the day Ling Wufeng died on the operating table.

Was the candlelight like this on that day too?

He doesn't remember.

He glided past the circle of candles.

One by one.

It's like counting the lives that have passed away.

The first one is Ling Wufeng.

The second was the victim whose name he didn't recognize.

The third one is the boy who died in the interrogation room.

The fourth one, the fifth one, the sixth one—

Three hundred and sixty-five candles, three hundred and sixty-five names. He knew some of them, and he didn't know others.

But they all died. Died in that insane experiment. Died from the greed of those people. Died from silence.

The music reached its climax.

The sound of the cello tore through the air.

He jumped.

All around.

One week. Two weeks. Three weeks. Four weeks.

Ice falling.

Kneel on one knee.

The ice skates made a screeching sound as they cut across the ice, like something snapping.

He knelt there.

three seconds.

Head down.

respite.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, fell onto the ice, and quickly froze.

stand up.

The music stopped.

3

The second section: "Dance in the Rain".

Four minutes.

The sound of a piano rose from all around the venue, like raindrops falling on glass windows, mingling with the sound of rain.

The sound of real rain. Not synthesized, but recorded by Raven himself—the rain in Nice that night.

He remembered that night.

A torrential downpour. Outside the safe house. She stood in the rain, soaked to the bone, looking at him.

Rain streamed down her face, indistinguishable between rain and tears. He walked over. She stood on tiptoe. He lowered his head.

kiss.

The sound of rain. The sound of a heartbeat. The sound of breathing.

That was the last time he kissed her.

He slowed down.

slide.

Large arc.

The body is low to the ground, arms outstretched, as if flying in the wind.

The candlelight flowed around him.

He reached his hand into the air.

It seemed to be holding onto something.

An unseen dance partner.

He spun around.

a circle.

Two laps.

Three laps.

When I opened my eyes, I saw my empty hand.

She wasn't there.

But in my heart.

He remembered that stormy night.

I remember her standing in the rain. I remember her tiptoeing. I remember the warmth of her lips. I remember the raindrops reflected in her eyes.

He continued skating.

Reach out.

Retracted.

Reach out again.

It was as if he was waiting for that hand to grasp his.

The music slowed down.

The piano music grew softer and softer, like the rain was about to stop.

He stopped.

Standing in the center of the ice rink.

Look up and look in a certain direction from the audience seats.

She knew where he was looking.

She stood there. Wearing a white down jacket. Her hat pulled low. Her face was pale. Her hands were trembling.

She stood there, motionless, for four hours, from the very first dance until now.

Women's eyesight.

three seconds.

I smiled.

It's very light.

Keep gliding.

4

Third section: Silent improvisation.

Two minutes.

The music stopped.

The entire room fell silent.

The only sounds were the ice skates cutting through the ice. Only his breathing. Only the occasional crackling of the candlelight.

He was skating.

There was no choreography. There were no pre-set plans. It was just a dialogue between the body and the ice.

He sped up.

He felt a sharp pain in his left knee. He ignored it.

Hurry up.

The wind brushed past his ears. The candlelight formed a flowing river, flowing around him.

He remembered that question.

What is dance?

He gave many answers. Art. Competition. Dreams. Life.

But at this moment, there is only one answer.

Dance is a form of rebellion.

It was a rebellion against those who wanted to silence him. It was a rebellion against those who took everything from him. It was a rebellion against fate.

Take off.

Axel around.

One week. Two weeks. Three weeks. Four weeks.

Ice falling.

The moment his left knee hit the ground, a sharp pain shot from his knee to the back of his head. He heard a tearing sound inside his body.

It wasn't bone, it was ligaments. Or muscles. Or the last intact part of that already broken knee.

He knelt on one knee.

Hands braced on the ice.

He bowed his head and gasped for breath.

Blood seeped from the bandages.

a drop.

Two drops.

Three drops.

When dripped onto ice, it quickly freezes, turning into dark red ice beads.

He knelt there.

three seconds.

The audience was quiet.

No one is breathing.

stand up.

Stand firm.

Raise your right hand.

Three fingers.

Three rounds of external rimming.

Take off. Spin. Land on the ice.

Continuous jumping.

carry out.

He stood in the center of the ice rink.

Hands hanging down at the sides.

He was panting.

Sweat streamed from his forehead into his eyes. He didn't wipe it away.

The candlelight shone on his face.

Three hundred and sixty-five candles are still burning.

The audience was quiet.

three seconds.

Applause erupted.

Twenty thousand people clapped at the same time.

It wasn't just polite applause; it was the kind of applause that exploded from the heart, an uncontrollable, volcanic eruption. Some people stood up and shouted. Some people cried.

Someone held the candle above their head and shook it.

He stood in the middle of that circle of candlelight.

Didn't move.

I just looked at that sea of ​​people.

5

The applause lasted for three minutes.

He took the microphone.

Sweat dripped from his chin, landing on the ice and freezing quickly.

He spoke.

"I 'died' here three years ago."

The voice wasn't loud. But the entire room was silent. Every word reached the last row.

"Today, I want to speak out for all those who have been forced to remain silent."

He paused.

"Also for the person who taught me that 'dance is for yourself'—"

He looked in a certain direction from the audience.

There, Ling Wuwen stood.

She was still trembling.

He looked at her.

"To finish the final dance."

The big screen lit up.

The first page.

The full text of the Volkov experiments. Original Russian version. English translation. Chinese translation. Over 300 pages. Scroll through the pages.

Some people in the audience gasped.

That was the first time they had seen the full version.

Page 2.

List of 132 known victims of chimera experiments worldwide. Photos included.

Ling Wufeng was in the first row.

Ling Wuwen was in the third row.

She looked at her brother's picture on the screen. A face exactly like hers. The man who was already dead.

Page 3.

A chart showing the flow of funds in the "Raising a Gu" scheme. From Monaco to Switzerland to Hong Kong to the Cayman Islands. Red lines. Blue lines. Yellow lines. Intertwined into a network.

Page 4.

The International Skating Union's internal investigation results. List of 47 people involved. Records of bribery. Records of match manipulation. Records of evidence destruction.

The large screen scrolls.

The audience was quiet.

The camera pans across the crowd.

Someone is crying. A middle-aged woman covers her mouth with her hand, tears streaming down her face.

Someone is taking pictures. A young man is holding up his phone, the screen displaying a scrolling list.

Some people lowered their heads and remained silent. An old man wore a handwritten sign around his neck: "My son was an athlete who retired in 1998."

Someone raised their fist.

Someone lit a candle.

People started reading those names.

One by one.

Like a ritual.

6

Scrolling has ended.

The large screen froze on the last page.

One line of text:

"The trial is over."

Gu Xidong stood in the center of the ice rink.

He held the microphone to his mouth.

"Now--"

He paused.

"It needs to be rebuilt."

He put down the microphone.

Turn around.

Slide towards the exit.

My left knee was bleeding with every step. The blood left a trail of red marks on the ice.

The bloodstains stretched from the center of the ice rink to the edge of the barriers. They gleamed in the candlelight, like a red path.

Ling Wuwen stood there.

She reached out her hand.

He grasped it.

She helped him out.

He leaned against her.

She supported him.

The applause from the audience continued. People stood up, chanting his name. Gu Xidong. Gu Xidong. Gu Xidong.

He didn't turn around.

They walked through the passage.

Step into the darkness.

Behind me, on the ice rink, 365 candles were still burning.

The candlelight illuminated the red bloodstains.

One drop. One drop. One drop.

They connect to form a road.

Leading to the exit.

Leading outwards.

The direction leading to dawn.

At the end of the passage, a breeze blew in. It was cold. It carried the scents of the outside world—the scent of snow, the scent of night, the scent of freedom.

He stopped.

Leaning against the wall.

He looked down at her.

She looked up at him.

The two people looked at each other.

three seconds.

She suddenly stood on tiptoe.

Kiss him.

My lips are cold.

My tears were scalding hot.

They kissed for a long time.

He reached out and hugged her.

She trembled in his arms.

"It's over," he said.

She nodded.

"Um."

"It's time to go back."

She shook her head.

"Where to?"

He looked into the darkness at the end of the passage.

"have no idea."

She smiled.

The smile was faint and gentle, like sunshine after the rain.

"Then let's go together."