A Lightning Bolt of Hope in the Darkness of Hell (VOL 2)

The sulfuric scent of burnt "Thunder Sticks" still lingered in the alleys of the Lower City, a silent witness to the small storm of chaos unleashed by the Impure Blood Cell. The synchronized attacks on supply posts, service bridges, and even the army's minor communication tower weren't physically devastating, but they caused neurological paralysis within Liang Jiuyong's system. Whispers had grown into a quiet roar: "The Doll is everywhere!" Fear had changed direction.

In Liang's temporary headquarters, the "Lord of the Sky" was reading a report about the blackout of communication lines with the western garrison. His slender face remained calm, but his thin fingers pressed against the edge of the table until the joints turned white.

"Organized chaos," he said, his voice calm as venom before it spreads in water. "Not senseless. There's... Jin Lian's intellect behind it." He lifted his dark eyes toward Mister Chen, who stood statue-like. "And Mo Tianyin? Where is he in all this 'intellect'?"

Chen didn't lower his gaze. "He's training the new batch in the palace's rear courtyard. His efficiency… is mechanical. But he didn't foresee today's attacks. Gave no warning."

"Does that mean the Device didn't erase his tactical genius?" Liang whispered, as if to himself. "Or is Jin Lian... evolving?" Suddenly, he smiled—a smile that never touched his eyes. "Excellent. The hunt is more thrilling when the prey... innovates."

• • •

In the heart of the abandoned ancient cemetery, where cypress roots intertwined like hungry ghosts, Jin Lian was planning her boldest strike yet. Not a bombing. Not a theft. But a broadcast—a message of hope in the depths of despair.

"The garrison radio we stole…" she said, touching the heavy metal device Doc had snatched from the comm tower. "It reaches thousands of ears—slaves in the mines, servants in palaces, mixed-blood soldiers in the barracks." She looked at the faces surrounding her—Kai, Ming, Lin, Tao, Bao, and Doc. Their eyes carried fatigue, but also a spark of defiance. "We'll speak to them—not as a secret cell. As brothers in chains."

The "Lightning Plan":

Wave Hijack: Use stolen codes to break into the main military frequency at midnight, when guards are most lax.

The Message: Not a fiery speech. A child's voice. "Xiao Feng"—the little girl who lost her parents in the Xinlu mine. Her voice would cut through stone. She'd recite a simple poem about "the stars that remember all our tears."

The Music: After the voice, an old flute melody—a folk tune that would remind every "Impure" and poor "Mixed Blood" of their stolen childhoods. The weapon of memory.

Swift Exit: The signal would be discovered in minutes. They needed to transmit, dismantle, and vanish before the net closed in.

"We're risking everything," said Kai, but his eyes burned. "But… if even half of those who need hope hear her…" "Hope," said Jin Lian, "is a contagion deadlier than bullets."

• • •

The rear courtyard of the palace was a stage for a living nightmare. Under the cold glow of torches, Mo Tianyin was training a new group in "shadow hunting." This time, the targets weren't dolls. They were real prisoners—Impure Bloods arrested on charges of sympathizing with the revolution. Bound, their eyes wide with silent terror, they were being used as live targets to train recruits in lethal strikes.

"The enemy shows no mercy," said Mo Tianyin in his flat, mechanical tone, pointing to a trembling old man. "Weakness is a weakness. Kill it." He pushed a quivering recruit toward the elder. "Strike! Here!" He pointed to the throat.

The recruit, a boy no older than seventeen, hesitated. His eyes brimmed with tears—of terror and revulsion.

"Strike!" barked Mo Tianyin, slamming the boy's back with a short rod. "Or take his place!"

A muffled cry. The wooden knife shook… then pierced the elder's throat. Black blood flowed like a thin stream across the dirt floor. The old man collapsed, convulsed… then stilled. The boy trembled, vomiting at his feet.

Mo Tianyin didn't blink. "Next," he said, pointing to a young woman.

Mister Chen was watching from a high balcony. Usually, his heart was stone. But today… something stirred. The image of the slain old man reminded him of his father—an Impure servant who died under lashes for being too slow with a noble's meal. In Mo Tianyin's glass eyes, Chen saw a strange reflection… himself. A machine serving a system that had crushed him like it crushed his father. His hand clenched around his sword harder than usual.

• • •

Midnight. The abandoned watchtower on the eastern city wall was the Lightning team's stage. Jin Lian and Tao, the fastest among them, climbed the hanging rope into the rusted comm room. Doc and Kai guarded below. Ming and Lin watched the streets.

"Ready?" Jin Lian whispered, connecting the wires as Tao, surprisingly adept with tech, helped her.

Tao nodded, pale with responsibility. "Frequency... is open. Xiao Feng's ready in the lower hideout."

Outside, the whistling wind made the perfect cover. Jin Lian gave the sign. Tao pressed the button.

In every barrack, every guard post, every noble house with a military receiver... the silence shattered.

A child's voice, pure and trembling like dew on a flower, filled the air:

"O stars in the high night sky...

Do you remember Grandma's tears?

When they took away my father...

And the shaded mine whispered: 'Your fate is slow death'...

So bear witness, stars, for you promised...

That each tear... earns a waiting star."

A pause… then the wail of the old flute. A simple melody, carrying a sorrow centuries old, slid into thousands of ears. In poor soldiers' barracks, hands stopped cleaning weapons. In high servants' rooms, tears streamed down faces long forbidden to weep. Even in Liang's palace, where the signal had been tapped for monitoring, everything halted for a breath.

Liang Jiuyong stood before the receiver. He didn't rage. He simply… listened. His dark eyes gleamed with strange interest, like a scholar witnessing a rare phenomenon. "The child… and the music," he murmured. "The weapon of emotion. Jin Lian… you are full of surprises."

But in the rear courtyard, where Mo Tianyin was preparing to "train" the next, something else occurred.

Xiao Feng's voice reached a distant speaker. The poem's words. Then… the melody. The flute.

Mo Tianyin froze. Completely. His raised hand, mid-strike, stiffened in the air. His glassy eyes… trembled. Not violently—just slightly, like a pane about to crack under unbearable pressure. Deep in his erased memory, something stirred. Something untouched by the Harmony Device. It flinched. A blurry image: A cracked hut… the smell of poor soup… and an old flute's melody in the dark. Jin Lian? No. Older. His mother?

One second. Then he moved again. His hand dropped. His robotic voice resumed: "Continue. The strike is here." But Mister Chen, watching from the balcony, saw it all. The pause. The tremble. And… the opportunity. The heart inside the machine wasn't entirely dead. And that lingering spark… might be more dangerous than the entire revolution.

• • •

Back at the tower, disaster struck. Sirens wailed. Spotlights swept the sky.

"They found us!" Tao shouted, eyes on the signal tracker.

Jin Lian cut the broadcast. "We're done. Go!" They smashed the main unit, grabbed the chips, and sprinted for the rope.

Below, Doc and Kai were in a desperate shootout with a surprise Red Flower patrol. A bullet tore through Doc's shoulder. "Go! Don't wait for me!" he roared, firing back with a tiny pistol, covering their retreat with one arm.

Jin Lian, Kai, Tao, Ming, and Lin dashed across the rooftops. Behind them, Doc finally fell under a hail of bullets—but a smile curved his lips. He'd heard the voice. He'd heard the hope.

At the wall's edge, where the rope hung toward the river beyond the city, Jin Lian looked back one last time. The Lower City was a dark battlefield, but in scattered pockets, she saw tiny lights blooming—lamps, candles, little flames in the shanty windows. A silent answer to their message. The infection had begun.

Then, in the distant palace yard, beneath torchlight, she saw a solitary figure standing tall. Mo Tianyin. He was staring toward the tower. Toward her. The distance was vast, but Jin Lian swore she saw a flicker in his glassy eyes. Two flickers. First: the tremble at the melody. Second: now.

"He won't forget," she whispered as she vanished over the wall. "Something inside him… has awakened."

And beneath the wall, as they fled into the river's mist, the sound of Xiao Feng's voice and the flute followed them like a beautiful ghost in a merciless night. Hope had unleashed its first lightning strike… and it hit true. Even in the heart of the machine.