Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

The shoemaker's thumb rested on the crack in the knife holder.

When skin comes into contact with metal, subtle vibrations are transmitted along the bones.

Gu Xidong stared at the hand—the joints were large, covered with burns and cuts, and the fingernails were embedded with black grime that couldn't be washed off.

"The person who brought the knife rack," Ling Wuwen's voice was clear in the garage, "was Chen Guodong."

Gu Xidong's breath hitched.

That name was thrown into stagnant water, leaving no ripples.

He awaited anger and shock, but only cold emptiness.

The subconscious already knows, but refuses to admit it.

"Three years ago, four days after the competition ended." Ling Wuwen's gaze locked onto the shoemaker.

"Chen Guodong came to the ghost market and requested that the cracks be scanned, the data be backed up, and the original documents be kept here for safekeeping."

The shoemaker's thumb remained still, his eyelids drooping, staring at the crack as if gazing into an abyss.

"Why?" Gu Xidong's voice was dry.

The shoemaker looked up. His cloudy eyes gleamed with a deep, turbulent light in the dim light.

"Evidence." The word weighed heavily, like an anvil.

"Prove what?"

"This proves the knife holder was broken before the competition." The shoemaker tapped the edge of the crack lightly with his index finger.

"This crack was not caused by a single impact, but by the accumulation of abnormal stress over a long period of time. For example, there may be a slight misalignment at the connection between the skate blade and the sole, causing the blade frame to bear excessive torque with each step."

A burst of white light exploded in Gu Xidong's mind.

The locker room surveillance footage flashed by.

Mr. Zhang pried open the storage cabinet to replace the blade. Forty-seven seconds. At the time, he was only focused on the blade being replaced and didn't think about the blade holder.

"Did Chen Guodong leave evidence pointing to himself?" Ling Wuwen took a step forward, his shadow overlapping with the shoemaker's.

"He participated in framing someone, yet left behind physical evidence proving the skates were faulty. It's a contradiction."

The shoemaker's lips twitched slightly, his muscles twitching in pain.

"It's not referring to myself," he said, emphasizing each word. "It's referring to 'others'."

He took out a transparent evidence bag from the bottom drawer; the police identification label sealing it had been torn in half.

Inside the bag was a miniature memory card, and next to it were folded sticky notes.

The shoemaker placed the bag next to the knife rack, as if setting up a silent altar.

"The memory card contains scanned data. The note, in Chen Guodong's handwriting, notes the submission date, serial number, and a single sentence." The shoemaker paused.

"This item can save my life if something happens to me."

The garage was deathly silent.

2

The sound of vehicles passing by in the distance was like the tides of another world.

Gu Xidong stared at the memory card.

Data from three years ago proves that his skates had problems long ago, proving that the "accident" was murder.

Why is it in Chen Guodong's hands? Why preserve evidence that is detrimental to him?

"Save my life..." Ling Wuwen pondered the two words, his eyes sharp. "Chen Guodong is not the mastermind. He has connections above him. This is a backup plan for a counterattack or a deal at a crucial moment."

The shoemaker neither affirmed nor denied it.

He slowly got up, his movements stiff as a rusty machine, and walked towards the wall covered with ice skates.

The withered fingers brushed across the surface of the shoe, stopping on a pair of dark blue ice skates with slightly modified blades.

"The owner of these shoes," he said, his back to them.

"The runner-up in the national championships three years ago ruptured his Achilles tendon and retired three months later. The official conclusion was overtraining."

He picked up another pair of white ice skates from the side; the uppers of the skates had dark red stains that couldn't be washed off.

"The owners of these two skaters suffered a sudden heart attack a week before the World Junior Championships and, after being rescued, will never be able to skate again. The team doctor said it was a sudden congenital heart attack."

The third pair. The fourth pair. The fifth pair.

Each pair of shoes carries a broken career, a buried "accident".

The shoemaker turned around, holding a dark blue ice skate.

For the first time, his eyes held warmth—a burning, scorching anger.

"You think that was an isolated case three years ago?" The voice suddenly rose. "Look at these shoes! Figure skating, short track speed skating, speed skating... in every sport and every era, there are people who 'accidentally' drop out. Too many coincidences are no longer coincidences; it's a system."

He slammed his ice skates onto the worktable.

The loud noise echoed.

"Chen Guodong left evidence because he was afraid he'd be next!" The shoemaker's chest heaved violently, his cloudy eyes bloodshot.

"He knew too much and was involved too much. The mastermind behind the scenes won't let all the pieces who know everything live forever. He needs insurance. This knife rack and this memory card are his bargaining chips."

The ground beneath Gu Xidong's feet shook. His cognitive foundation collapsed.

He always thought the enemy was a specific group of people: Chen Guodong, Zhou Wentao, Master Zhang, Chen Rui... a clear chain of hatred.

The shoemaker's words were like an invisible hand lifting a corner of the ice, allowing him to glimpse the bottomless darkness beneath.

That's not just a few people. It's a network. A system.

A machine that has been running for years and has devoured countless careers.

Ling Wuwen gently pressed her hand against his lower back. Steady and firm. Her voice was as calm as a surgeon's scalpel: "Where's the mold? Is Gu Xidong's ice skate mold here?"

The shoemaker's anger dissipated instantly, like a balloon being popped. He hunched over again, sat back in his chair, and returned to being a silent, withered old man.

"The mold is not here."

"But you know where it is." Ling Wuwen's statement was not a question.

The shoemaker remained silent for a long time. So long that Gu Xidong thought he wouldn't answer.

He pointed to the most concealed compartment under the worktable. The compartment had no handle or keyhole, and its surface blended seamlessly with the countertop.

"A password is required to open this," the shoemaker said. "I didn't set it."

"Who designed it?"

The shoemaker looked up, his gaze landing fully on Gu Xidong's face for the first time.

His gaze was complex and unsettling—a mixture of scrutiny, pity, and a profound, almost tragic resolve.

"Ling Wufeng".

The three words were like three bullets striking Gu Xidong's heart.

"Three years ago, there was no wind..."

"He came here before he died," the shoemaker interrupted, his tone as indifferent as if he were discussing yesterday's weather.

"Three days before the competition, he brought that mold and said he wanted to store it with me. I asked him why, and he said... 'If something goes wrong this time, this thing can save Gu Xidong's life.'"

Gu Xidong's blood froze.

Three days before the competition, Ling Wufeng knew something bad was going to happen. He had a premonition.

"What password did he set?" Ling Wuwen pressed.

The shoemaker shook his head. "He didn't tell me. He only said... 'Gu Xidong knows.'"

The air froze into solid ice.

3

Gu Xidong frantically searched his brain. Three years ago, before the competition.

What did Ling Wufeng say to him? What hints did he give him? Is there a secret between them that only they know?

Countless fragments of memories surged forth: locker room jokes, training codes, sharing earphones in the dormitory late at night, the warmth of palms when high-fiving on the ice...

No password. No password clues whatsoever.

"I don't know," he finally said, his voice hoarse. "He never mentioned it."

The shoemaker looked at him, his eyes gradually dimming as if the last spark had been extinguished.

"Then there's no way." He picked up the soft cloth again and wiped the dark blue ice skates, his movements slow and mechanical.

"The hidden compartment has a self-destruct mechanism. Three incorrect password attempts will permanently lock the contents. Forced opening will trigger acid destruction. You only have three chances."

"Three times..." Ling Wuwen closed his eyes.

Silence fell over the garage again. Only the faint sound of fabric rubbing against leather could be heard.

Gu Xidong stared at the dark compartment. The smooth wooden surface gleamed with a dim sheen under the kerosene lamp.

Ling Wufeng left him with one last door. Behind that door lay the truth, hope, or even deeper despair.

He didn't know where the key was.

"One more question," Ling Wuwen suddenly spoke up.

"Why are Chen Guodong's memory card and notes with you? Since he left the knife holder as evidence, why did he hand over this important item to a shoemaker in the underground market?"

The shoemaker continued wiping.

"Because I owe him my life." He said calmly.

"Years ago, when I was still working as an equipment technician for the national team, I made a mistake—I criticized the ice skate blade holders for not being properly heat-treated, which posed a risk of breakage. If I had been found out, I would have gone to jail. Chen Guodong was the assistant coach at the time, and he helped me cover it up on the condition that I would leave the official system forever and keep quiet forever."

He looked up and smirked.

"That's why I came to the Ghost Market. That's why he trusts me. Because we are both people spat out by that system, and we both have something on each other."

Another piece of the truth puzzle has been pieced together.

Gu Xidong looked at the shoemaker's withered face and suddenly realized:

This old man was no bystander. He was both a survivor and a prisoner. He built high walls with silence, hiding countless dirty secrets in the shadows, waiting for a salvation that might never come.

"Three chances," Ling Wuwen repeated, turning to Gu Xidong. "Do you want to try?"

Gu Xidong did not answer immediately.

He walked to the workbench and reached out, his palm touching the hidden wooden surface. It was cool, smooth, and offered no indication.

Ling Wufeng. What are you trying to tell me?

4

He closed his eyes.

The image of Lin Wufeng's last smile flashed through his mind. It was after their final pre-competition practice, when both of them collapsed from exhaustion on the ice rink. Lin Wufeng handed him a bottle of water and said:

"Bro, after this game, let's go eat at that hot pot place. Order extra spicy, so spicy we'll cry."

What did he say at the time?

"Sure. Whoever backs down first treats."

"Then you'd better get your wallet ready."

Then Ling Wufeng smiled. His eyes curved like crescent moons, and he had a shallow dimple on his left cheek.

Those dimples...

Gu Xidong suddenly opened his eyes.

Ling Wufeng's dimples are not in the usual position. They are lower down, closer to the corner of his mouth. He often jokingly calls them "cheating marks" because they are scars from a fall when he was a child, which make them look like dimples when he smiles.

Location. Coordinates.

Gu Xidong moved his fingers across the surface of the hidden compartment, outlining Ling Wufeng's facial features from memory, finally stopping at the approximate location of his dimples.

"First attempt." His voice was clear in the silence.

He pressed the point he had imagined.

The hidden compartment did not react at all.

wrong.

The shoemaker shook his head and continued polishing the ice skates. Ling Wuwen's breathing tightened slightly.

Gu Xidong remained calm. He withdrew his hand and closed his eyes again.

What else? Numbers? Dates? Anniversaries?

He shares the same birthday as Ling Wufeng. August 7th. 0807. They often use it as a password.

He entered 0807.

The hidden compartment remained silent.

The second chance has been used up.

Only one more time left.

Cold sweat trickled down Gu Xidong's forehead. His brain was racing, he could almost hear his nerves burning. The code left by Ling Wufeng. Gu Xidong knew it. It must be something he knew but wasn't aware of.

A scene flashed by in a certain instant.

Three years ago, in the locker room. Half an hour before the race. Ling Wufeng squatted down to wipe his skates, his fingers tracing the joint at the heel, his brows furrowing.

"Something's wrong with this knife."

"How?"

There's a gap. A gap that shouldn't exist.

Then Ling Wufeng looked up at him and said something that seemed completely inexplicable at the time:

"Brother, remember this feeling."

What did you remember? The feel of the ice skates' grooves? Or...?

Gu Xidong suddenly understood.

Not numbers. Not coordinates. It's a feeling.

He reached out for the third time, but instead of pressing anywhere, he placed his entire palm flat on the surface of the hidden compartment and closed his eyes.

He recalled the sensation of the subtle gap at the heel of the ice skate. The abnormal gap between metal parts. The subtle, unsettling, almost imperceptible feeling as his fingers traced it—

dislocation.

He moved his palm across the surface of the hidden compartment, searching for that "dislocation." The wood grain flowed smoothly and continuously beneath his fingertips, without any abnormalities.

Just when he was about to give up, he felt a tiny bump on the edge of his palm.

It's not a texture; it's a result of later processing. A shallow indentation, almost the same color as the wood.

The shape is...

A crack.

The shape of the crack on the ice skate.

Gu Xidong traced the invisible crack with his finger, from beginning to end, forming a complete trajectory. As his fingertip touched the final point—

"Click".

A crisp, mechanical sound.

The hidden compartment popped open.

The shoemaker abruptly stopped wiping. Ling Wuwen held his breath.

There is no mold in the hidden compartment.

Just a piece of folded paper and a small, old-fashioned cassette recorder.

Gu Xidong took out a piece of paper and unfolded it.

Ling Wufeng's handwriting was hasty and rushed, as if it were written under extreme tension.

"elder brother:

If you've read this far, it means my worst fears have come true.

The mold is in the third location. Do you know which one?

Don't listen to what's on this tape recorder lightly. Wait until you have the ability to overturn the entire system before turning it on.

Remember, you are not alone.

"No wind"

Gu Xidong's vision blurred. He clenched the paper tightly, the edge of which cut into his palm.

A tape recorder. The third location. He knew where it was.

The shoemaker slowly got up, walked to him, and handed him the pair of dark blue ice skates.

"The owner of these shoes opened a hot pot restaurant after retiring from the military." His voice was unusually calm. "The restaurant is called 'Spicy Enough to Make You Cry.' It's located in an old alley in Dongcheng District."

Gu Xidong looked up.

For the first time, there was something almost tender in the shoemaker's eyes.

"He's still waiting," the old man said. "Waiting for an answer."

The sound of a car engine came from outside the garage, growing louder as it approached.

Ling Wuwen immediately became alert, grabbing the memory card and recorder: "Let's go."

Gu Xidong stuffed the note into his pocket and took the dark blue ice skates. He glanced at the shoemaker one last time.

The old man sat back down in his chair, picked up the soft cloth again, and bent down to wipe another pair of ice skates. The glow of the kerosene lamp enveloped his hunched back, like a silent, slowly weathering stone statue.

5

They rushed out of the garage and jumped into the car. The engine roared, the tires screeched as they sped into the dimly lit streets of the early morning.

In the rearview mirror, the garage lights receded into the distance, eventually shrinking to a faint glimmer and disappearing into the folds of the city.

Gu Xidong looked down at the ice skates in his hands. The dark blue leather was worn, and the tongue of the skate bore the initials of the owner's name, ZX, embroidered by hand.

He didn't know who ZX was. He didn't know what he had been through.

But he knew that from this moment on, his revenge would no longer be just for himself.

There was no wind.

For ZX.

For every silent pair of ice skates on the wall.

Ling Wuwen turned the car into the alley and stopped. She turned to look at Gu Xidong, her gaze falling on the tape recorder in his hand.

"The third location," she said, "is that?"

Gu Xidong looked out the window. The city lights blurred in the early morning mist, like an inverted Milky Way.

He's in that place.

Three years ago, he and Ling Wufeng would go there every night before a match. Not for training or warm-up. They went to feed the stray cats.

An abandoned place, so deserted that even homeless people wouldn't spend the night there, a place whose name can't be found on any city map—

Old ice rink.

"Do you want to listen to the recording now?" Ling Wuwen asked softly.

Gu Xidong ran his fingers over the cold casing of the tape recorder. Ling Wufeng said, "Open it when you have the ability to overturn the entire system."

He is not strong enough.

But he could no longer wait.

He pressed play.

The tape was spinning, making a hissing noise.

A few seconds later, Ling Wufeng's voice came through the miniature speaker. It wasn't the clear, youthful voice he was familiar with; it was a suppressed, trembling voice, as if he were forcibly maintaining his composure in extreme fear.

"Today is November 22, 2022. The night before the match."

"I discovered something I shouldn't have discovered."

"There's a list on Chen Guodong's computer..."

The recording suddenly stopped.

The sound wasn't the end of the tape, but rather static cut off by an external force. Immediately afterward, another voice cut in—calm and low, carrying a certain condescending cruelty.

"Xiao Ling, curiosity killed the cat."

Gu Xidong's blood froze instantly.

That sound.

He had heard of it.

In many post-match interviews, at award ceremonies, and in the television commentary booth.

Zhou Wentao.

The tape recorder slipped from Gu Xidong's hands and smashed into the car floor.

The tape was still spinning, making a hollow hissing sound, like an unfillable silence.

Ling Wuwen placed his hand on the back of his violently trembling hand.

Outside the car window, the first rays of dawn pierced through the clouds, turning the city into a cold, iron-gray hue.

A new day begins.

And some truths that should have been revealed three years ago are only just beginning to emerge.