HEIFEIGU -Chapter 153

With such an unexpected turn, today’s topic was hot enough.

The media hurried back to write their stories, and the promo event naturally ended.

“A Big Bucket of Popcorn” and the fake experts were detained by security.

Actions like this inevitably meant a trip to the police station.

The backers didn’t want their previous investments wasted, so they quickly guided public opinion and cut ties with him.

#The male lead of Shan Hai Wu Ming is based on a traitor# remained trending.

But the discussion had shifted: although the blogger failed, whether Yin Wenshan was truly a traitor remained unresolved.

【The blogger failing is the blogger’s problem. How does it relate to Yin Wenshan being a traitor?】

【Agreed! The blogger’s failure was his own stunt gone wrong. It doesn’t change historical facts!】

【Even if the blogger hired fake experts, Qian Shuyun still didn’t have real experts to endorse Yin Wenshan.】

【Didn’t Qian Shuyun say in the live stream that they found evidence Yin Wenshan was an underground party member? Why not show it?】

【Only giving it to the blogger? Does the public not deserve to see? Or PR failure because too little money was paid?】

Although after the “giant bucket of popcorn” incident, many netizens had calmed down and stopped blindly joining the boycott, the matter was too serious. Everyone was waiting for a final conclusion, and this had greatly affected the general audience appeal of Nameless Mountains and Seas.

The box office kept declining. It had fallen from first place back to fourth.

Even the theaters that had previously increased screenings could no longer sit still and began considering cuts.

Qi Zhen was overwhelmed every day. Whenever his phone rang, even the hair on his body seemed to stand on end.

At this critical moment, the final “bullet” in the discussion about Yin Wenshan’s life finally hit its target.

An account called @Quan Chengcong Talks Modern Chinese History started a livestream.

After the “Secret Room” show aired, City C’s Historical Archives suddenly became popular online.

Director Quan Chengcong’s account also gained massive attention.

Though the old man was advanced in age, he was full of energy. Every two days, he would go online to teach history.

He was highly authoritative, yet his lectures were vivid, gentle, and immersive.

Many viewers became fans after just one session. Quan Chengcong Talks Modern Chinese History even became a popular “mealtime show.”

Its view count was astonishing.

But a while ago, Grandpa Quan had suddenly disappeared for several months.

Now that he was live again, the barrage exploded.

【Grandma, the blogger you follow is back!】

【Missing person returns!】

【Grandpa Quan finally remembered his account and password.】

【Wait—why did Grandpa Quan bring the tag #MaleLeadOfNamelessMountainsAndSeasBasedOnATraitor#?】

【Uh… why wade into this mess? Chasing clout?】

【No need, Grandpa Quan! You’re already popular!】

After sitting down, Quan Chengcong saw the comments. He wiped his reading glasses.

“I’m not chasing popularity. I’m here today to talk about this matter.”

【About Yin Wenshan?】

【???】

【This is a real expert. Which side he supports will decide everything.】

Someone reposted the news to Weibo’s trending list.

The livestream’s viewer count skyrocketed.

Quan Chengcong ignored the urging comments and, as usual, chatted casually first.

“I disappeared for months. My assistant told me my inbox was full every day. Thank you for your concern. I’m fine. I was just dealing with something important.”

He brought over an old metal box and opened it.

“A close friend of mine passed away overseas. His children found these among his belongings. They couldn’t understand them and didn’t dare handle them, so they asked me to help sort things out.”

The topic was somber. The comments filled with comforting words.

Quan Chengcong smiled.

“At my age, I’ve already made peace with life and death. My friend had a legendary life. Except for never meeting his biological father, he had few regrets.”

“Most of these are family letters, correspondence, and telegrams. Their value is immense.”

He carefully lifted the yellowed papers with tweezers.

“Because they mention one person—Yin Wenshan.”

“My friend’s parents came from prominent families. His father was a doctor, and his mother a minor literary figure.”

“After the war broke out, his father joined our Party and worked in underground intelligence. Because it was too dangerous, he sent his pregnant wife abroad.”

The old man sighed softly.

“No one expected it would be a permanent farewell.”

“At first, they still exchanged letters.”

“These letters mostly talked about health and the child’s growth, and about missing each other.”

“But the last letter was strange—hurried handwriting, unusual content.”

He held it up.

“It was his father’s last letter. It was almost a farewell.”

‘I have fallen into the abyss. Darkness surrounds me. I see no light.
If I vanish someday, take care of yourself and live well. Do not grieve too much for me.’

“After that, no more letters came.”

“The only news came from occasional telegrams.”

He showed a photo of an old publication.

The ink had faded, but a passage could still be read:

‘Those dots arranged in rows slithered across my heart like venomous snakes.
I could not read them, yet they filled me with despair.

From the first slip of paper, I tried to decipher them,
and yet I was afraid to understand.

I feared they concealed a burden of life I could not bear.

Today, three years have passed without a telegram.

I still cannot read those dots.
But I know I may have forever lost my love—and my fear.’

The entire livestream fell silent.

People suddenly realized how many families had been torn apart in those years.

“After losing contact, his mother’s health deteriorated. She passed away four or five years later.”

“We met when he returned to China to search for his father.”

“He studied architecture. We traveled and researched ancient buildings while looking for clues.”

“Finally, in H City’s Martyrs’ Cemetery, we found his father’s grave.”

“He died alone, with no relatives in China.”

“My friend later returned overseas.”

Quan Chengcong showed another note—dense rows of dots.

“These are his father’s telegrams. I tried Morse code first. It was all gibberish.”

“Do you remember when I decoded an underground Party cipher before?”

【No way?!】

【This is like a real spy drama.】

【So he was a colleague of the embroidery spy?】

【The movie has that character too!】

Quan Chengcong shook his head.

“They shared the same system. But Ruan Manqing wasn’t Yin Wenshan’s subordinate. My friend’s father was.”

【What?!】

【That’s insane!】

【So Yin Wenshan was really underground Party?】

“During scriptwriting, I was a consultant. I suggested that setup… for artistic effect.”

【So that’s why!】

【Credits matter!】

【Grandpa, you did big things quietly!】

【Ticket sales, go!】

“Back to the point,” he said.

“I used that cipher. It worked.”

A comparison board was brought out.

The decoded messages read:

‘I am useless. Yin Wenshan was captured. I couldn’t save him.’
‘They call him a traitor. That’s slander.’
‘He died to save me.’
‘I’m going insane, Jingqiu. I raised a knife to myself.’
‘If I don’t say this, I’ll die of pain.’
‘I saw his body. Covered in wounds, no bullet holes. He was tortured to death.’
‘I hate myself. He protected me, and I couldn’t even bury him.’

After translation, the dots seemed to turn blood-red.

Each one dripping.

Truth was always cruel.

A few scraps of paper recorded Yin Wenshan’s final suffering.

Only a sigh remained.