Ice skates forward, regardless of east or west.

1

Axel three and a half.

When jumping, the left foot's serrated edge cuts into the ice, the right leg swings, and the body rotates counterclockwise.

Half a week, a week, two weeks, three weeks—and then that decisive half a week.

Gu Xidong felt time stretching in the air. In his field of vision, the lights on the ice rink roof rotated into a blurry band of light, and the darkness and light spots in the stands blended into a chaotic background.

Ice falling.

The right rear outside edge made contact with the ice, and the impact exploded from the ankle, rushing along the tibia to the knee.

The fluid in the left knee joint cavity seeks an outlet under pressure, compressing the nerve bundles. Pain signals rush up the spine at millisecond speeds, exploding into a brief white noise in the cerebral cortex.

He staggered.

The right skate blade scraped across the ice with a piercing shriek, sending shards of ice flying that shimmered like broken glass under the spotlight.

My body leaned to the left, my left arm instinctively outstretched to maintain balance, my palm swept through the air, grasping only the cold air.

But he stopped.

There was no fall, no interruption, but the arc of that slide was half a meter longer than planned, and the ending position deviated from the marked point.

Applause broke out, but it was sparse and hesitant.

The music continued.

The string section then moves into the second theme, with the melody becoming more somber and viscous.

Gu Xidong transitioned to a series of steps, each push off the ice with his left foot producing a faint, grinding sound deep within his joints.

His breathing rhythm was disrupted, and each inhale pulled on his intercostal muscles, causing pain to spread from his knees to his chest and then to his shoulder blades.

There are 1 minute and 47 seconds left.

After the first technical move, the next step is a rotation combination, followed by the second jump – a back inside loop around the four corners.

That was the most difficult jump in the entire program, and also the move that his left knee was least likely to withstand.

But he had to jump.

It's not for grades, not for performance, it's to let someone hiding in the shadows see it:

He is still alive, still fighting, and can still perform actions that are theoretically impossible for humans even under extreme pain.

Rotation begins.

The swallow spin involves leaning forward, raising the right leg backward, and using the left leg as the supporting leg to rotate at high speed on the ice.

The sound of the ice skates cutting through the ice was masked by the music, but Gu Xidong could hear it—the subtle, metallic hissing sound of cutting through the ice.

Rotational acceleration.

Everything in my field of vision began to blur, stretch, and distort. The stands melted into blocks of color, the lights stretched into beams of light, and the spots of light reflected from the ice surface merged into a flowing, silvery-white ocean.

In this rapid sensory chaos, the brain's self-protective mechanisms kick in:

Block out irrelevant information and focus on core tasks.

Therefore, pain was temporarily relegated to the second line.

And then memories began to surface.

Scenes from three years ago suddenly appeared without warning.

2

It was the same ice rink, the same spotlight, and the same music—"Black Swan," with the same arrangement.

His partner was still there then, the girl whose eyes curved into crescent moons when she smiled, wearing a white performance costume with real swan feathers sewn onto the shoulders.

They are practicing throwing jumps.

The girl flew out of his hand, spun three times in the air, landed on the ice, and stood steadily.

Then she turned around, gave him a thumbs up, and mouthed: Perfect.

The next second, the ice cracked.

It wasn't a natural crack; it started from a specific point, and the spiderweb-like cracks spread at an incredible speed.

The ice beneath the girl's feet collapsed, and she fell into the icy pool below.

Gu Xidong rushed over, knelt on the edge of the ice cave, and reached out to grab her waving hand.

He caught it.

Hold on tight.

Then he saw the girl's eyes—fear, confusion, followed by a sudden understanding.

She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but the ice water poured into her throat, and her voice turned into bubbles, rising to the surface and bursting.

He pulled her up.

Her body was very light, her soaked performance costume clung to her skin, and her white feathers turned gray from being soaked in water.

She trembled in his arms, her lips were purple, her eyes were still open, but her pupils were already dilated.

The ambulance siren grew louder as it approached.

The sound of an ice skate breaking—not hers, but his.

He used too much force when he knelt down, and his left ice skate broke in the middle, with the front half flying out and embedding itself in the protective pad some distance away.

The crowd gasped in surprise.

Then came a long silence. In the hospital corridors, in the police interrogation room, and at the sports bureau hearing.

Everyone is asking the same question: Why did the ice suddenly crack?

The technical report concluded that the equipment was aging, the refrigeration system was malfunctioning, and the ice layer thickness was insufficient in some areas.

But he knew it wasn't.

He saw the starting point of the crack—the point was so precise, exactly the instant the girl fell onto the ice, exactly the moment her entire weight pressed down on the right foot's serrated edge.

He also saw the water beneath the ice; it wasn't ordinary cooling water, but rather pale blue fluorescent particles floating on the surface.

And there was that man in a suit standing on the sidelines.

Chen Guodong.

He was a sports equipment supplier, a contractor for the ice rink's refrigeration system, and also the "chief technical advisor" for that World Championships.

After the accident, Chen Guodong arrived at the scene immediately to direct the rescue efforts, reassure the media, and then—

At the hearing three days later, he presented a flawless technical test report.

Report conclusion: Unexpected.

No one was held accountable.

The girl's family received a "humanitarian compensation payment" and signed a confidentiality agreement.

Gu Xidong was suspended for one year because his "mental condition was unstable after the accident and he was not suitable to continue competing."

A year later, he retired and disappeared.

Three years have passed.

Now he's back on the same ice rink, with the same program and the same choreography.

The music enters the last measure before the end of the rotation.

Gu Xidong slowed down, stopped turning, and prepared for the next taxiing sequence.

Just then—

The music is choppy.

3

It wasn't interference implanted by Ling Wuwen.

It's a different kind of lag—

The audio file suddenly skipped frames, Tchaikovsky's melody was cut off, and replaced by a noisy, distorted live recording:

The crisp sound of an ice skate breaking.

The sound of water splashing when a girl falls into the water.

Gu Xidong roared, "Grab my hand—"

The ambulance's siren blared as it approached from afar.

The echo of gasps from the crowd.

These sounds lasted for three and a half seconds.

For 3.7 seconds, the entire stadium fell silent.

The audience's expressions froze; some covered their mouths, some stood up, and some looked blankly toward the sound system.

Inside the private room, Ye Shen suddenly turned around and looked at the technician in front of the control panel: "Who put it there?"

"It wasn't us!" The technician's face turned ashen.

"The audio file has been replaced! The replacement occurred seventeen minutes before the performance started. The replacement's permission code is—"

"What is it?"

"The private key of Chief Referee Ivan Petrovich".

Ye Shen's expression froze.

Chief Referee.

Ivan Petrovich, a white-haired, highly respected figure skater who served as a judge at seven Olympic Games.

On the ice rink, Gu Xidong stopped.

He stood in the middle of the ice, his back to the judges' table, his shoulders heaving, his breathing heavy.

The spotlight shone on him, the black costume absorbing the light, creating a thin, shadowy figure peeled from the darkness.

The audio playback ended at 3.7 seconds.

The music did not resume.

The venue fell into absolute silence.

Even the hum of the ventilation system has disappeared.

Gu Xidong slowly turned around.

He faced the referee's table.

Seven judges sat there, dressed in matching dark blue suits, with scoring tablets in front of them.

Their expressions varied: some were shocked, some were angry, some avoided eye contact, and some stared at him with complicated expressions.

Gu Xidong raised his hand.

His hand reached towards the collar of his performance costume, his fingers slipped inside, groped, and then—pulled out a miniature microphone.

The microphone cable was hidden inside his performance costume, running down his spine to a transmitter at his ankle.

He raised the microphone and brought it to his mouth.

The sound of breathing was amplified by the sound system, echoing in the deathly silent stadium.

Then he spoke.

The voice was very calm, eerily calm:

"Three years ago, I lost my partner here."

pause.

"When the ice cracked, I grabbed her hand. Her hand was cold, as cold as the ice."

He looked down and tapped the ice beneath his feet with his ice skate.

"I asked her, 'Does it hurt?' She shook her head and then closed her eyes. That was the last time I saw her open her eyes."

Some people in the audience started sobbing.

Gu Xidong raised his head and glanced at the seven referees.

"The accident investigation lasted six months. The technical report was two hundred pages long, and the conclusion was an accident. No one was held responsible, and no one was punished. My partner became a file number, a compensation payment, and a 'regrettable accident.'"

He slid forward a step.

The sound of the ice skates scraping against each other was ear-piercing.

"But I know it wasn't an accident," Gu Xidong said.

"I saw blue fluorescent particles beneath the ice, I saw the precise starting point of the cracks, and I saw Mr. Chen Guodong's expression as he directed the rescue from the sidelines—it wasn't worry, it was confirmation. Confirmation that the plan had been executed, confirmation that the objective had been achieved."

On the referee's stand, the middle-aged man sitting on the far right trembled.

Chen Guodong.

His role tonight wasn't that of a supplier, but rather an "invited technical observer," seated in a separate seat next to the judges' table.

Gu Xidong's gaze fell on him.

"Mr. Chen," he said.

"How much did you pay the investigation team three years ago to revise the ice thickness data? How much did you pay the media to shift the focus of their reporting from 'equipment malfunction' to 'athlete error'? How much did you pay the General Administration of Sport to agree to suspend me for a year until the public outcry subsided?"

Chen Guodong stood up, his face ashen: "This is slander! I have the right—"

"You have the right to remain silent," Gu Xidong interrupted him, "but I have the right to ask questions."

He turned around and faced the seven referees again.

The microphone trembled slightly in his hand—

It wasn't fear, but rather the pain that made it impossible to fully control the muscles in my left arm.

"Before I continue my performance today, I would like to ask the judges to answer a question."

He took a deep breath.

The sound was amplified through the sound system, spreading throughout the stadium and reaching every terminal broadcasting the event globally.

"Among the seven of you, which one received 'technical consulting fees' from Mr. Chen Guodong?"

Dead silence.

three seconds.

Five seconds.

ten seconds.

No one moved or spoke on the referee's stand.

Some people were looking down at their tablets, some were straightening their ties, and some were picking up their water glasses—

My hands were shaking, and water spilled out, soaking the rating sheet on the table.

The audience began to stir.

The whispers coalesced into a low rumble.

Inside the private room, Ye Shen's finger rested on the communicator. He was contacting the control room, security, and anyone who could cut off the live broadcast signal.

But the communicator only gave a busy tone—the system was locked.

Control room.

Ling Wuwen stood in front of the control panel, his fingers rapidly tapping on the keyboard.

The screen displays the status of the live stream signal: "Globally synchronized, uninterruptible, encryption level: highest."

The sound of a raven came through her headphones:

"The encryption protocol provided by Interpol has locked down the live streaming system. Ye Shen can't cut off the signal now, and the microphones on the judges' table have been forcibly turned on—every word they say will be transmitted."

"Will the referee answer?" Ling Wu asked.

"I don't know. But Chen Guodong's account transaction records have been sent to the private email addresses of seven referees, and copied to the International Skating Union Disciplinary Committee, the International Olympic Committee's Ethics Department, and investigative journalists from twelve mainstream media outlets. They can now open their emails and see the records of Chen Guodong's transfers to each of them over the past five years."

On the ice rink.

Gu Xidong is still waiting.

His left knee began to tremble violently, and blood seeped from the joint cavity, soaking through the trouser leg of his performance costume.

The black fabric concealed the bloodstains, but the soaked areas reflected a dark sheen under the light.

He needed support, he needed to sit down, and he needed to stop the bleeding.

But he stood there.

Standing there waiting for an answer.

On the far left of the referee's stand, the white-haired chief referee—Ivan Petrovich—slowly stood up.

He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with the corner of his clothes, his movements slow and careful.

Then he put his glasses back on and looked at Gu Xidong.

"Young man." His voice came through the microphone, aged and weary, but clear.

"I participated in the investigation of the accident three years ago. I reviewed all the data, listened to all the testimonies, and signed the final report."

He paused.

"The report concluded that it was an accident. I believed that conclusion then, but now..." He glanced at Chen Guodong, "I still believe in the technical data. But I'm starting to doubt whether the data is complete."

Chen Guodong's face turned ashen.

Petrovic turned to the other six referees.

"You don't need to answer Mr. Gu's questions," he said.

"But you need to ask yourselves—if you have received money from Mr. Chen Guodong, under what name, or from a long time ago, now is the time to confess. Interpol is already outside the door; they have a search warrant, bank statements, and witness testimonies."

He raised his hand and pointed to the door behind the referee's table.

The door opened.

Four men in suits walked in, each wearing an Interpol badge on their chest.

They didn't go to the ice rink, nor to Gu Xidong, but went straight to Chen Guodong.

"Mr. Chen Guodong." The leading man showed his identification.

"You have been formally arrested on suspicion of bribery, obstruction of justice, and manslaughter. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say will be used against you in court."

Put on the handcuffs.

Chen Guodong did not resist. He just stared at Gu Xidong, his eyes filled with resentment and confusion, which eventually turned into an empty sense of relief.

He was taken away.

The door closed.

On the referee's stand, three of the remaining six referees slowly raised their hands.

He didn't speak, he just raised his hand.

admit.

An uproar erupted from the audience.

Gu Xidong looked at the three raised hands, at the shame, fear, and relief on their faces.

He suddenly felt very tired, so tired that his left knee could no longer support his body weight.

He knelt down.

He knelt on one knee, supporting himself on the ice with his right hand, head bowed, breathing heavily.

applause.

It started sporadically, then converged, and finally became a continuous tsunami.

The audience stood up, chanting his name, shouting "Truth!" and "Justice!" The sound made the ice surface tremble slightly.

Gu Xidong raised his head.

His vision began to blur, but he saw Ye Shen backing away through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the private room, turning around and disappearing behind the inner door.

He saw the control room window, where Ling Wuwen stood, his hand on the glass, his lips moving as if to say three words.

He could read lips:

"Leave now."

But he couldn't move.

My left leg was completely numb, and my right leg was cramping due to excessive weight-bearing.

He tried to stand up, failed, and knelt down again.

On the referee's stand, Petrovic stood up, walked to the sidelines, and said something to the staff.

Soon, two medical personnel carried a stretcher onto the ice rink and slid towards Gu Xidong.

The applause from the audience continued.

But Gu Xidong heard other sounds.

Low-frequency vibrations are generated beneath the ice layer by some kind of device.

Ultrasonic transmitter.

Ye Shen has not given up yet.

Medical personnel approached, bent down, and prepared to help him onto the stretcher.

Just then—

The ice surface cracked.

It wasn't a large-scale collapse, but a circular area with a diameter of one meter, right where Gu Xidong was kneeling.

The ice layer caved in, and icy water gushed out from the cracks, soaking through his trousers.

A pool of water beneath the ice.

Ye Shen's backup plan.

Gu Xidong fell downwards.