Chapter 6
Comrade Liu Jianjun's home is firmly rooted in an old building in Lishan District that seems to have traveled from the 1980s. The corridor is like a museum of the times: pickling jars line up to welcome you, honeycomb briquettes are piled up like bunkers, and peeling paint enthusiastically reveals the red bricks underneath, featuring a primitive and antique style.
When Jin Zhaoxuan knocked on the door, the storytelling of "The Generals of the Yang Family" was playing at full volume inside the house. The tragic and furious roar of General Yang was so loud that it made people's eardrums itch even through the door.
"Mr. Jin! Come in, come in!" Liu Jianjun snapped the radio off, and the world instantly became quiet. "It's a small place, don't mind it, just think of it as experiencing life."
The room was indeed small, a two-bedroom apartment crammed with old-fashioned furniture that was probably older than Jin Zhaoxuan himself, but it was polished to a gleaming shine, a typical example of the "stubborn neatness of the old working class." The most striking feature was a row of floor-to-ceiling old bookshelves, crammed full: yellowed notebooks squeezed together like compressed biscuits, scrolls of blueprints looking ready to launch, and several tin boxes printed with "high-end biscuits," clearly bearing the weight of history.
“These are all my grandfather’s and father’s ‘legacy’.” Liu Jianjun patted the bookshelf, and dust danced in the light. “I wanted to donate them to a museum, but they said there were too many to choose from, so they only took a few of the best. The rest… well, they’ll just stay here to keep the house in good condition.”
Jin Zhaoxuan glanced at it: "You live alone?"
“My wife passed away the year before last, and my child is working as a ‘city lady’ in Shenyang.” Liu Jianjun smiled, his face crinkling with wrinkles. “I’m here, free and comfortable! Tea or plain water? The tea is jasmine tea, and the water is cool boiled water, as much as you want.”
"Water is fine, thank you."
While Liu Jianjun turned around to pour water, Jin Zhaoxuan quickly took out the "ordinary" power bank from his backpack and accurately placed it in an inconspicuous corner—Comrade Yin Shaoqing was already in place, entering "ghost standby" power-saving mode.
“Master Liu, about that box you mentioned on the phone yesterday…” Jin Zhaoxuan took the chipped enamel mug, “What exactly is the situation?”
Liu Jianjun sat down, slowly lit a cigarette, and as the smoke swirled around him, his eyes scanned the room before finally landing precisely on the power bank, pausing for about half a second.
He didn't ask, "Why did your power bank flash by itself?" nor did he say, "It suddenly feels a bit chilly in the room." Instead, he went straight to the point, as if having an unseen tenant in the house was perfectly normal.
"My grandfather, Liu Fusheng, was summoned to the office by that engineer Takahashi on August 13, 1945—two days before Japan's surrender." Liu Jianjun exhaled a puff of smoke, his tone as calm as if he were recounting last night's weather forecast.
Jin Zhaoxuan relaxed a little, but his ears perked up even more.
"Takahashi gave him a heavy tin box. He said it contained crucial technical data and told him to keep it safe." Liu Jianjun flicked his cigarette ash. "His exact words were: 'If I don't come looking for you within three days, sink this box to the bottom of the old water tower. It absolutely cannot fall into anyone's hands.'"
Jin Zhaoxuan: "And then?"
“My grandfather agreed. The next day, August 14, news came out that Takahashi had committed suicide by cutting his wrists in his bathroom at home—the official explanation was that he committed suicide out of fear of punishment.”
"Suicide?" Jin Zhaoxuan raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
“That’s what all the Japanese in the factory said back then,” Liu Jianjun said. “But my grandfather didn’t believe it. He said that Takahashi was a tough guy at heart, not the type to take his own life. And…”
He paused for a moment: "On August 15th, the Japanese Emperor announced the surrender, and the Soviet Red Army marched into Anshan. My grandfather wanted to hand the box over to them, but then he remembered Takahashi's instructions. He was so conflicted that his eyebrows almost knotted up. In the end, he... hid the box."
Where did you hide it?
Liu Jianjun shrugged: "I don't know. He only told my dad where he was hiding, but my dad had a stroke when he left, and he couldn't speak properly. He just kept repeating 'box... well...' and then he was gone."
well?
Jin Zhaoxuan's mental search engine instantly activated. The old factory area of Anshan was filled with abandoned wells and maintenance wells, more numerous than the weeds on the ground.
"And among these 'treasures' left by your father," he pointed to the bookshelf, "are there any clues about their specific locations?"
“I turned it upside down.” Liu Jianjun patted the bookshelf, and another cloud of dust rose up. “I studied the notes, blueprints, and even the old factory area pass as a treasure map, but I didn’t find a single thread.”
He stood up and pulled a thick notebook from the bookshelf: "However, you might find some of my old diary entries useful."
Jin Zhaoxuan took it. The notebook cover read "Work Notes, Liu Fusheng, 1935-1945," the handwriting so neat it was almost obsessive-compulsive.
Opening the book reveals dense handwriting in fountain pen, recording which valve was repaired today, what type of screw was used tomorrow, and occasionally interspersed with snippets of daily life such as "the price of vegetables has gone up again today" and "Xiulan has caught a cold."
Turn to August 1945.
"August 13th, sunny. Engineer Takahashi entrusted me with an iron box, which was very heavy. He instructed me to collect it within three days, otherwise it would sink in the water tower. I did not understand his meaning, but I had been entrusted with the task and had to do my duty."
"August 14, overcast. I was shocked to hear that Mr. Takahashi had committed suicide. His adopted son, Yin Shaoqing, has also disappeared, and I suspect something is amiss. The Japanese staff in the factory are all in a panic, and many are burning documents, with smoke obscuring the sun."
"August 15th, rain. Japan surrenders. Soviet troops move in. Hide the iron box in a safe place, waiting for the situation to become clear. Xiulan asks where Brother Yin is, but there is no answer. How can young children know the hardships of the world?"
Jin Zhaoxuan's fingers traced the words "Brother Yin" for a moment before he continued flipping through the pages.
The next few pages recorded the chaos and turmoil in the early days of the Soviet takeover, and then... the notebook was blank for several months, as if Liu Fusheng himself was also bewildered.
It reappeared in March 1946.
"March 12th, snow. I went to check the water tower today. The water was frozen, but nothing seemed amiss. Yet I felt like someone was watching me, and the chill ran down my spine. I suspect I'm just scaring myself."
"March 18, sunny. I went to check the water tower again and met Old Zhao—the former guard. He said that on the night of August 14, he did hear the sound of water falling into the water tower, and there was a loud argument in Japanese. When asked for details, he was vague and avoided the question, as if he was afraid."
Jin Zhaoxuan's breath hitched.
An argument? In Yin Shaoqing's memory, it was "his adoptive father and two Japanese men"!
"And then?" he pressed.
"After that, my grandfather never mentioned the box again; he kept his mouth shut tighter than a clam shell." Liu Jianjun lit another cigarette. "It wasn't until he was on his deathbed in 1980 that he finally told my father the truth. But by then, he was already confused, and what he said was all very vague."
He gave a wry smile: "My dad spent his whole life thinking about finding the box and fulfilling his father's wish. In the end, he didn't even say it clearly before he passed away, sigh..."
"Your father kept repeating 'box... well...' at the end?"
“Yes.” Liu Jianjun nodded. “I’m guessing it’s one of the maintenance wells in the factory area. There are more wells than rat holes in that area, so who knows which one it is?”
Jin Zhaoxuan had a plan in mind. Yin Shaoqing had mentioned it—the one behind the primary rolling mill.
“And this too.” Liu Jianjun took out a tin biscuit box from the bottom of the bookcase, opened it, and inside was a stack of yellowed old photos, exuding the unique “old paper” smell of time.
Jin Zhaoxuan took the photos and flipped through them one by one. Most were group photos of factory workers or family portraits, exuding a simple, nostalgic feel. He stopped in the middle.
It was a group photo of four people: a middle-aged Japanese man in a suit with a serious expression (undoubtedly Takahashi), standing next to a young man named Yin Shaoqing, and on the other side was a young man named Liu Fusheng, holding a little girl of three or four years old with pigtails sticking up in her arms.
The back of the photo reads: "Spring 1937, a photo taken with engineer Takahashi and his son, Shaoqing. Xiulan was three years old."
In the photo, Yin Shaoqing is wearing a school uniform, her smile is somewhat shy, but her eyes are clear and bright.
“This one…” Liu Jianjun looked at the photo, his voice lowering, “My dad always says that Yin Shaoqing’s eyes are so clear, like they haven’t been polluted by this awful world.”
He looked at Jin Zhaoxuan: "Mr. Jin, if Teacher Yin is really 'here', please pass on a message for me: the Liu family has not forgotten him. My grandfather was still saying before he passed away that he was sorry for that child and that he couldn't protect him."
Jin Zhaoxuan's Adam's apple bobbed: "I will definitely bring it."
"About that box..." Liu Jianjun said, "If you need my help, just let me know. I know every nook and cranny of the factory area like the back of my hand."
Thank you.
Jin Zhaoxuan put away his notebook and photos, then got up to leave. As he reached the door, Liu Jianjun suddenly called out to him:
"Mr. Jin."
"Um?"
"Give my regards to Teacher Yin." Liu Jianjun paused, his voice steady yet deep, "Just say... spring has arrived, the sound of firecrackers is still going off outside, but there's no need to be afraid anymore."
These words were spoken subtly, yet carried great weight. He didn't spell it out, but everything was understood—he knew, he understood, and he respected this bond that transcended life and death.
Jin Zhaoxuan nodded solemnly: "Okay. I will definitely convey these words verbatim."
When we got back to the old house, it was already dark.
Jin Zhaoxuan placed the power bank on the wireless charging pad, and Yin Shaoqing immediately floated out as if he had been waiting anxiously: "How is it? Any clues?"
"A huge harvest." Jin Zhaoxuan spread out his notebook and photos. "Focus on this."
Yin Shaoqing's gaze was fixed on the group photo from 1937, and he remained silent for a long time.
The photo shows him, Liu Fusheng, Gao Qiao, and three-year-old Xiulan. It was a bright and sunny spring day, and everyone's smiles were genuine and warm.
"Technician Liu..." Yin Shaoqing asked softly, "He always felt... that he had let me down?"
“Yes.” Jin Zhaoxuan relayed Liu Jianjun’s words, “He said that his grandfather was still talking about how he couldn’t protect you before he died.”
Yin Shaoqing lowered his head, and his semi-transparent figure rippled slightly.
Jin Zhaoxuan then explained his theory about the "two boxes." Upon hearing that Liu Fusheng had been entrusted with the safekeeping of the boxes, Yin Shaoqing's brows furrowed deeply.
"No, that's not right. I clearly heard the box fall into the water. And my adoptive father said it 'must be destroyed,' so why would he let Technician Liu keep it?"
“Unless there are two boxes,” Jin Zhao analyzed, “or… the one you saw sink was a decoy.”
Yin Shaoqing remained silent for a long time, so long that Jin Zhaoxuan thought he had frozen.
“I want to find the box that Technician Liu hid.” He finally spoke, his voice soft, carrying a cautious anticipation that had been cherished for eighty years. “If my adoptive father really entrusted it to him… there must be something very important in that box. Perhaps… in the end, my adoptive father wanted to leave something for me.”
Jin Zhaoxuan looked at him, feeling a pang of unease. This was probably the kind of obsession that even a ghost couldn't let go of.
“Liu Jianjun said that his father mentioned ‘well’ before he died,” Jin Zhaoxuan said. “You mentioned before that there was a maintenance well behind the primary rolling mill…”
“Yes!” Yin Shaoqing’s eyes lit up instantly. “That’s the most likely place. The workers often hid their personal belongings there, and my adoptive father also knows that place.”
Jin Zhaoxuan glanced at the time; it was exactly 7 p.m.
"Should we charge in now?"
"Immediately, right now!"
When the two (or rather, one person and one ghost) reached the old factory area of Tiexi District again, it was already pitch black, the moonlight was scarce, and only the wind howled among the ruins, like telling a ghost story.
Jin Zhaoxuan held up a powerful flashlight, its beam slicing through the inky darkness. Yin Shaoqing floated beside him in projection form, his brightness turned down to the lowest setting to save power, resembling a faint blue holographic image with a weak signal, appearing and disappearing in the darkness.
“This is it.” Yin Shaoqing pointed to a ruin where weeds grew more rampant than people.
Jin Zhaoxuan pushed aside the sprawling weeds and sure enough, he saw a cement manhole cover with "Made in Showa 13" cast on it—an antique from 1938.
The manhole cover was so heavy it felt like it was welded shut; Jin Zhaoxuan used all his strength to pry it open even a crack. He pierced the hole with his flashlight, but couldn't see the bottom; all he could see was a rusty, seemingly unreliable ladder.
"I'm going down." Jin Zhaoxuan stretched his wrists.
"It's too risky," Yin Shaoqing objected. "There might be a lack of oxygen, flooding, or other problems down there..."
“Maintaining the projector is riskier; it drains the battery like water,” Jin Zhaoxuan interrupted him. “I’ll go downstairs, and you can remotely control the projector via headphones. That’s the best solution.”
He placed his backpack by the well; inside was Yin Shaoqing's "lifeline," a power bank.
“If I don’t hear anything for ten minutes after I go down, you should… try to call the police.” Jin Zhaoxuan tied one end of the safety rope around his waist and the other end to a crooked, dead tree next to him. “Although I guess the police can only help call an ambulance if they come.”
Yin Shaoqing wanted to say something more, but in the end he just nodded: "Be careful."
Jin Zhaoxuan put on his headlamp, took a deep breath, and began to climb down the creaking iron ladder.
The well was deep, and the deeper you went, the damper and colder the air became, mixed with rust, soil, and some indescribable smell of decay. After climbing about ten meters, my feet finally touched solid ground.
Below was a circular space about three meters in diameter, with a thin layer of rusty water covering the cement floor. Scattered around were some abandoned machine parts, all corroded beyond recognition, like a pile of silent steel skeletons.
"Any discoveries?" Yin Shaoqing's voice came through the earpiece, mixed with crackling electrical noise—the signal from the bottom of the well was indeed impressive.
"A pile of industrial waste." Jin Zhaoxuan shone his flashlight around, "but I didn't see a single box."
“Take a look at the west wall,” Yin Shaoqing instructed. “There used to be a maintenance cabinet embedded in the wall there.”
Jin Zhaoxuan walked to the west wall. There was indeed a metal cabinet door on the wall, but it was so rusted that it was almost integrated with the wall. He pulled hard a few times, but it didn't budge, as if mocking his strength.
"Move aside," Yin Shaoqing suddenly said.
"What?"
The next second, Jin Zhaoxuan felt the surrounding temperature plummet, and his hair stood on end. A semi-transparent figure pierced through the well wall and appeared in front of him—Yin Shaoqing had forcibly switched from the energy-saving projection mode to the energy-intensive "physical penetration" mode!
"Are you crazy!" Jin Zhaoxuan roared in a low voice, "How much electricity would that consume! Do you think you're a perpetual motion machine?!"
"Just for a moment." Yin Shaoqing placed his hand lightly on the rusted cabinet door and closed his eyes.
His figure began to fluctuate violently, like a television screen with a severely distorted signal, its colors flashing brightly and dimly. At the same time, the cabinet door emitted a teeth-grinding creak; the rusty latch... had actually come loose!
Yin Shaoqing's figure instantly faded to almost transparent, as if it would dissipate with the wind in the next second.
"Quickly..." His voice was so weak it sounded like it might disconnect at any moment.
Jin Zhaoxuan, forgetting all about cursing, immediately stepped forward and pulled with all his might—
Clang! The cabinet door opened.
The space inside wasn't large, and several items were piled up tightly wrapped in oil paper. On top of them, there was a rusty tin box.
The box had a blurry Japanese label that read: “Showa Steel Works - Confidential”.
Jin Zhaoxuan's heart pounded like a drum. He carefully picked up the box—it was much lighter than he had imagined.
"Found it!" he exclaimed excitedly into his headset.
There was no response.
"Yin Shaoqing?"
He turned around abruptly, only to see that Yin Shaoqing's figure had faded to an almost invisible outline, slowly dissipating like snowflakes with a poor signal.
"Hold on!" Jin Zhaoxuan held the box tightly with one hand and instinctively reached out to grab him with the other, but passed right through the phantom.
Yin Shaoqing raised his head, facing his direction, and forced an almost transparent smile: "Open the box... and take a look..."
Before he finished speaking, his figure vanished completely into the cold, damp air at the bottom of the well, like wisps of smoke scattered by the wind.
All that remained in the headphones was a monotonous and piercing hiss of electrical current.
"Damn it!" Jin Zhaoxuan cursed, no longer bothering to carefully inspect the box. He tucked it into his arms, grabbed the iron ladder, and desperately climbed up.
He climbed incredibly fast, oblivious to the rough rust cutting his palms. The moment his head emerged from the well, his eyes immediately fell on the backpack on the ground—
The indicator light on the power bank, which symbolized life, was now off, leaving only a deathly silence.
Jin Zhaoxuan's heart skipped a beat. He frantically tried to restart it, but there was no response. The cold and damp environment underground, coupled with the excessive energy consumption from Yin Shaoqing's forced penetration of the physical body, had caused the high-capacity power bank to simply "go on strike."
"Damn it!" Jin Zhaoxuan cursed under his breath, looking around at the dark bottom of the well. He was truly helpless now. Clutching the cold metal box, climbing back to the surface via the iron ladder was his only way out.
However, just as he was about to climb up, he suddenly heard a dull gurgling sound beneath his feet. Immediately afterward, the thin layer of rusty water began to rise at a visible rate!
Jin Zhaoxuan felt a chill and suddenly shone his flashlight on the well wall—he saw that several cracks had appeared at the cement joints near the bottom, and turbid groundwater was constantly seeping in and gushing out!
Did Yin Shaoqing penetrate the well wall, or did he pry open the cabinet door, or did it naturally crack due to years of disrepair? It's impossible to know now. The water level was rising at an alarming rate, instantly submerging his ankles, and it was still rising!
The icy groundwater quickly took away his body heat, and Jin Zhaoxuan shivered. He tried to speed up his climb, but carrying a box in one hand and climbing with only one hand was already difficult, and the slippery iron ladder made it even harder. To make matters worse, the rising water pressure seemed to exacerbate the instability of the well walls, and debris and small pieces of cement began to fall down.
"Cough cough..." The murky steam and dust made him cough. He looked down at the box in his arms—this was the answer Yin Shaoqing had waited eighty years for, the secret guarded by three generations of the Liu family, and it absolutely could not be left here!
But the water had already reached my thighs. The iron ladder was vibrating, as if it might fall off its rusted anchor points at any moment. A feeling of suffocation and a chilling sense of despair began to spread.
Meanwhile, in his apartment on the other side of the city, the "automatic broadcast in case of abnormal situations" program that Jin Zhaoxuan had specially set up before setting off was triggered—this was a backup plan he had left in case of any unforeseen circumstances. The live broadcast signal was directly connected to the camera and microphone on his helmet.
Because Yin Shaoqing often used this account to broadcast his history of Anshan Iron and Steel Group in the form of "historical projections," he had accumulated a group of loyal and perceptive viewers. At this moment, the black screen of the live stream suddenly lit up, revealing a dimly lit, violently shaking screen, the sound of rushing water, suppressed breathing and coughing, and Jin Zhaoxuan's intermittent muttering: "The box... can't be lost... the ladder..."
The audience was stunned, and then the live chat exploded with comments:
[Teacher Yin? Is this Teacher Yin's live stream?]
What's going on here? Is this some kind of adventure show?
[The scene is so dark! Is it down in a well? There's the sound of water!]
[The streamer seems to be in danger! Call the police immediately!]
However, older viewers who were more familiar with Yin Shaoqing's live streaming style caught an unusual "interference" in the chaotic audio background—a faint, intermittent electromagnetic noise that seemed to be about to dissipate at any moment. Upon closer listening, it sounded like a suppressed lament and an anxious call.
That was Yin Shaoqing's remaining consciousness struggling. Even though the carrier—the power bank—had lost power, and even though his "body" had dissipated, thanks to the special connection with Jin Zhaoxuan and his strong obsession with this land, his remaining consciousness managed to barely attach itself to the signal of the live broadcast equipment that still had a weak power source. However, he was powerless to convey any effective information and could only emit almost instinctive waves of pain.
The number of viewers in the live stream skyrocketed due to uninformed sharing and platform push notifications. Amidst the chaotic chat, some began trying to decipher the strange "noise":
Wait... listen carefully to the background noise... it's not just the sound of water!
[It sounds like... someone is crying? Or calling for help? The static is so eerie!]
Is that Teacher Yin? Has something happened to Teacher Yin?!
As everyone anxiously speculated, the live stream showed the water level rapidly rising to Jin Zhaoxuan's chest. He had to balance the box on his head, gripping the trembling iron ladder tightly with one hand while frantically paddling with the other to maintain his balance, his breathing becoming increasingly rapid and labored. The situation was extremely critical!
Suddenly, the live stream flickered violently, and the persistent, previously mistaken-for-noise scream in the background abruptly intensified and became clearer—
A semi-transparent, extremely unstable virtual figure, seemingly made up of countless snowflakes and broken lines, flashed past the edge of the shaky live stream screen.
That was Yin Shaoqing, who was forcibly condensing a nearly disintegrated phantom in the data stream at the cost of burning his last remaining consciousness!
For the first time in the live broadcast room, he no longer used his usual calm, gentle, and eloquent tone of explanation, but instead uttered a broken, pleading voice carrying the dust of eighty years and the despair of this moment—
The sound penetrated the distortion of the electrical current, resonating in the ears and hearts of every audience member:
"Please...help him..."
These three simple words seemed to have exhausted all his power as a "soul," carrying a grief that transcended life and death and the deepest plea.
The comments section went silent for a moment.
It was as if all the hands that were typing stopped, and everyone in front of the screen held their breath.
Then, like a dormant volcano erupting suddenly, like a frozen river thawing instantly—
A comment popped up first, bolded, carrying the hardness and heat unique to the black soil of Northeast China:
Shenyang is watching.
Immediately afterwards, it was as if some long-dormant collective memory and bloodline resonance were completely awakened:
Changchun is watching.
Harbin is watching.
Fushun is watching.
Benxi is watching.
Qiqihar is watching.
More and more city names are flooding social media, all of them from the old industrial base of Northeast China, cities where people grew up or have their hearts set on the land that was once known as the "eldest son of the Republic," a land that bore the backbone of the Republic's heavy industry:
Daqing is watching.
Jilin is watching.
【Anshan—Anshan will always be watching!】This comment, accompanied by an exclamation mark, scrolled across the screen.
The bullet comments are no longer just words, but have transformed into a fervent, silent cry and a torrent of will. Among those watching the live stream are the grandson of a former steelworker, scholars studying the industrial history of Northeast China, young people moved by Yin Shaoqing's story of "a furnace of molten iron reflecting the red sky," and countless wanderers scattered across the world who have never forgotten their roots.
They may have never met, but at this moment, through this trembling live broadcast line, their thoughts, their shared love and desire to protect that land, have converged into an invisible yet powerful force.
[Eldest sons of the Republic, protect this child!]
This comment was copied and flooded the screen countless times, like a vow that transcends time and space, a collective prayer.
The next second, something unexpected happened!
In the live stream, the barely formed phantom of Yin Shaoqing, amidst the city's barrage of glowing comments—as if a visualization of the audience's will—suddenly stopped dissipating, instead trembling violently, contracting, and then—
boom!
It wasn't a real sound, yet it seemed to resonate in the minds of all the viewers. Yin Shaoqing's phantom, composed of data streams and obsession, didn't become more solid under the infusion of countless wills of "watching" and "protecting," but instead suddenly exploded, transforming into countless shimmering, golden-red specks of light, reminiscent of the splashing molten iron in the steel mill back in the day!
These points of light were not physical entities, but they seemed to carry scorching heat and powerful intent. They did not rush towards Jin Zhaoxuan, but as if summoned, they frantically rushed towards the cracks in the well wall where water was gushing out!
A miracle happened.
The cracks that were widening seemed to be burned and melted by an invisible high temperature the moment they came into contact with these golden-red specks of light! It wasn't physical welding, but a strange phenomenon closer to "will interfering with reality"—
The water seepage quickly slowed down and stopped, and the edges of the cracks showed a glassy luster similar to that of cooled lava, indicating that the seepage had been temporarily "sealed"!
The water level stopped rising and stabilized below Jin Zhaoxuan's chest.
The well wall stopped vibrating.
Jin Zhaoxuan stared in astonishment at this supernatural scene, which was faithfully recorded by the helmet camera. On the surface of the metal case in his arms, the words "Showa Steel Works - Confidential" seemed to be slightly warm in the remaining dim light.
The live stream froze at this moment: in the dim underground, a man wearing a miner's lamp, holding a rusty old box, surrounded by the still warm and miraculous golden-red afterglow that had not yet dissipated.
After a brief moment of shock, the comments section erupted in a frenzy:
What did I just see?
Is it special effects? No... it's a live stream!
Are the spirits of those who died in the old industrial base... really still alive?
He succeeded! The water level has stopped!
[Hurry up! Dude, get up there while you can!]
Jin Zhaoxuan snapped back to reality, knowing that this miraculous chance to catch his breath was fleeting. Without further hesitation, he mustered all his strength, braced himself against the box, and struggled to climb up the iron ladder!
This time, the iron ladder seemed much more stable.
In the final moments before he was about to climb out of the well, he instinctively turned back, gazing at the space at the bottom of the well, now plunged back into darkness yet seemingly still warm, and said in a hoarse voice that only he could hear:
"Thank you... thank you all."
"We... went up."
The live broadcast ended abruptly the moment he struggled to climb out of the well and collapsed in the weeds.
All that remained on the screen was the message "The streamer has temporarily left," and a massive, persistent sea of comments that had completely overwhelmed the screen.
The rusty tin box lay peacefully beside him, bathed in the real, cool moonlight.
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