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墨書 Inktalez
A flash that seemed to have arrived twenty years late shone deep into Jiang He's heart.
Twenty-five years ago, when Jiang He was six years old, he was just a primary school student. That day, like any other, he had breakfast and set off for school. As he reached the ground floor, a tremendous explosion echoed through the building. Jiang He watched as his parents were carried away on stretchers, mangled beyond recognition. After that day, he never saw them again.
In his great-aunt's words, his parents' bodies were too horrific to be shown to a child. That fleeting glimpse became a permanent farewell. Whether it was fear or helplessness, Jiang He stood there in a daze, unnoticed by anyone. It wasn't until a pair of large hands lifted him up that he first saw not the person's face but their uniform.
First came a police officer, and then Shaoshilin.
Now lying on the ground with blood flowing from his neck, Old Shao was the same Shaoshilin who had calmed Jiang He's restless heart twenty-five years ago. From that day on, Jiang He could never forget anything; he especially could not forget that uniform, which now seemed rather unappealing.
Yet that ethereal thing had consumed Jiang He for half his life.
Jiang He's great-aunt was a superstitious old woman. Although the burial of Jiang He's parents was simple, all the necessary rituals were strictly followed. As an only child, he held his parents' photo in his arms while waving a flag during the funeral procession. According to tradition, a filial son must wail loudly. If an adult who had long since separated from their parents and had a distant relationship couldn't cry, it would be understandable; but for a six-year-old child facing the tragic death of his parents to show no emotion at all—without shedding even a single tear—was incomprehensible.
Some said Jiang He was born cold-hearted; others claimed he was a star of misfortune.
He did not cry at all, even after the funeral concluded and all his relatives and mourners had left.
That day, his great-aunt pressed his head to the ground and shouted, "Cry! Why aren't you crying?"
Later, Jiang He was beaten black and blue by her, yet not a single tear fell from his eyes. Ironically, it was his great-aunt who broke down in tears at the gravesite.
Jiang He lost the most basic human emotion—feeling.
By familial ties, Jiang He should not have been cared for by his great-aunt; however, among many relatives who pushed him away like a plague-ridden dog, no one wanted to take him in. Finally, it was the eldest of the family who slammed her hand on the table and declared, "None of you will take care of him; I will."
His great-aunt was a stubborn woman. From that day on, she cut off contact with other relatives and took care of Jiang He alone until her own death drew near. Seventeen years later, as she lay dying, Jiang He once again encountered his relatives.
Grandma was not a person who feared death. She had lost her husband long ago and had always lived alone. Her favorite saying to Jiang He was, "Dying is good; once you're dead, everything is over."
But that day, she avoided the topic, refusing to let go of life.
She oscillated between clarity and confusion, repeatedly scolding Jiang He for his faults. She had cared for him longer than his own parents had, yet now that she was on the brink of death, Jiang He showed no emotion at all. There was no sadness, no grief—only a cold and bewildered expression on his face.
She kept turning the words over and over in her mind until all that remained was one question: "How will you live without me?"
Rhetorical questions never required answers. Many years ago, Grandma had left her only small apartment to Jiang He, ensuring that even if he became a useless person in the future, he could still survive in Dragon City with the rental income. Relatives scolded Jiang He for being a white-eyed wolf; after seventeen years of raising him, Grandma was leaving without even a comforting word from him.
The scene mirrored exactly what had happened seventeen years ago, except there was no elder to press his head to the ground and force him to cry.
Once everyone had dispersed, Jiang He pulled a bottle of mustard oil from his pocket. He twisted off the cap and poured it into his mouth. The pungent, spicy flavor made him weep uncontrollably; tears streamed down his face like a broken string of pearls. Yet inside, he felt nothing. Even that day, a bottle of mustard oil had made him cry for three full hours.
But Jiang He understood that this was not what Grandma wanted.
Crying and crying were not the same; he understood this since he was six.
Hyperthymesia was not a blessing; otherwise, it wouldn't be classified as a disorder. Those with hyperthymesia remembered every detail since the onset of their condition, especially negative memories—like death, sorrow, sadness, embarrassment, worry, and helplessness—feelings far more intense than joy or excitement.
Patients with hyperthymesia often suffered from depression. Yet Jiang He was fortunate; while afflicted with hyperthymesia, he also developed a psychological disorder that dulled his pain. He remembered every detail of his parents' and Grandma's deaths but felt no suffering from it.
Now he stared blankly at Old Shao, feeling as if something inside him twisted painfully, making him nauseous and nearly immobile. He didn't know what this sensation was—was this what they called emotion?
"Go... go."
Old Shao's voice was weak and powerless, yet it struck Jiang He’s mind like a thunderclap.
There were still ten minutes left, still hundreds of lives at stake.
Jiang He understood that this might be the last time he saw Old Shao.
Old Shao continued to urge, "Go, go."
Being torn between choices was the beginning of having feelings.
Jiang He’s moment of hesitation was evidence of that.
Then, he grabbed a mask and cloak nearby and rushed out the door.
"Help! Xu Yiman, come quickly! Old Shao's carotid artery has been cut!" Jiang He was surprisingly calm. "Guan Deng, get over here right now!"
In the night, under the colorful lights, Jiang He once again saw the uniform he had seen when he was six years old.
"Quickly, record a video for me using the voice changer commonly used by Criminal Consultants." Jiang He donned the black cloak and mask, addressing the nearest detective.
The video was being recorded on a mobile phone; Jiang He felt time slipping away.
He tried to soften his tone amidst the noisy background and spoke into the camera, "Hello everyone, I am the Criminal Consultant. From the background noise, you should know that I am with you. Forgive me for conveying my final orders to you in this way as we welcome the arrival of a new world. When you see this video, please tear off the collars around your necks with all your strength and throw them into the air as high as you can. Goodbye."
After finishing the video, Jiang He ripped off the mask and tossed it aside.
He was just about to ask where Guan Deng had gone when a plump figure appeared in front of Jiang He. The sweaty person was none other than Guan Deng, who was clutching a laptop. Guan Deng seemed exhausted; he simply collapsed onto the ground, the laptop already open in his lap.
"Immediately send the video I just recorded to everyone's phones in this square. There's less than ten minutes left; it should be enough time, right?"
Guan Deng continued typing on his computer. "Sending the video to everyone's phones isn't difficult. If Criminal Consultant can do it, so can I. But there's an electronic lock on Criminal Consultant's collar. Once it's locked, brute force won't open it; otherwise, the neck would snap. I wasn't idle either; I set up a jammer not far from here."
"How long will it take?" Jiang He asked.
Guan Deng shook his head but kept typing. "Definitely before the new year."
Jiang He suddenly felt a strange sensation rise in his heart, a deep sense of desolation that made him say, "Do your best; we don't have much time left. You handle the video and the jammer."
Jiang He glanced at the time on his computer—only five minutes remained.
At that moment, Yuan Jun had also rushed to Jiang He's side and asked, "What's going on? What happened to Old Shao?"
Jiang He turned to look at the café; one corner had already plunged into darkness due to the explosion that had affected the light bulbs. In the distance, he spotted a familiar figure—Xu Yiman was charging into the café.
Jiang He couldn't help but think of Xu Yiman's unique psychological condition; she couldn't face a patient who might die. When confronted with such patients, Xu Yiman would feel an innate fear that made her tremble all over, rendering her unable to perform as a doctor should.
"What about the ambulances nearby?" Jiang He looked at Yuan Jun. "Old Shao's carotid artery is ruptured; he can't hold on much longer. We need to get him to the nearest hospital immediately."
"They're parked outside the square," Yuan Jun replied. "Cars aren't allowed in the square."
"What were you doing in the armed police? Didn't you learn how to drive in special terrains? There's so much open space in this square; can't an ambulance get through?" Jiang He said.
Yuan Jun suddenly understood Jiang He's meaning. He spoke up, "Give me five minutes, and I will drive the car right to the entrance of the café."
Everything had been arranged, and time was running short.
With only three minutes left, everything was about to be revealed.
Jiang He patted Guan Deng on the shoulder and said, "No matter what happens later, make sure to protect yourself."
With that, Jiang He dashed toward the café.
Guan Deng's fingers tapped nervously on his notebook. At that moment, he was drenched in sweat but had no time to wipe it away. Suddenly, a wave of joy washed over him; the jamming device was ready, and he just needed to press the button.
However, when he pressed it, he found that the transmission had failed.
Instinctively, he glanced at the equipment he had set up not far away. It turned out that the flash from inside the café had startled many spectators in the square, who began to crowd over. The equipment Guan Deng had placed earlier had already been knocked down by someone, and the connections were severed.
Three minutes—less than ten meters. If he could just plug it back in, both the video feed and the jammer would cover the entire square.
Guan Deng abandoned his computer and rushed toward the connection point, but the equipment was surrounded by a throng of people.
He suddenly felt an inexplicable fear wash over him.
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