Chapter 137: The Final Whisper, Five Second Resurrection (5k)

In an instant, the voice message disappeared from his phone, transforming into an arrow of light. It shot out and, in the blink of an eye, pierced Fake Mo Zhicheng’s heart, disregarding his current state, which could only be described as invincible.

Fake Mo Zhicheng could remain expressionless, his eyes unchanged even when Uncle tore his flesh until it was a bloody mess. But now, as the arrow of light pierced his heart—though it clearly hadn’t harmed his flesh, not leaving even a wound—his face turned pale, and he clutched his chest in pain.

His movements were now completely distorted. He could no longer control his strength, and he rolled across the ground, crashing into the wall of a factory building.

Fake Mo Zhicheng leaned against the wall, his face deathly pale as he clutched his chest.

The ethereal figure of a woman slowly materialized before him.

The woman wore an oversized maternity dress, her belly large. Her eyes, full of compassion, welled with tears that fell drop by drop.

She reached out, slowly touching Fake Mo Zhicheng’s face.

"Yuxin..." Fake Mo Zhicheng was stunned, staring blankly at the ethereal figure before him. "No, this isn’t real! You’re trying to deceive me with a fake! You think you can trick me? Impossible!"

He lashed out with a punch, but the woman’s ethereal figure remained unchanged. Tears in her eyes, she looked at him with despair and regret, her hands cradling Fake Mo Zhicheng’s face.

"Brother Ming, I can’t hold on anymore. I can’t endure it any longer.

The doctor said that at this point, the child definitely can’t be saved either.

I wanted to leave you a child, not to tie you down or become your burden.

I just hoped that no matter how much you change, whenever you see this child, you’d remember who you truly are.

Brother Ming, you haven’t even noticed it yourself, have you? You keep changing identities.

You’re afraid of being recognized, so you throw yourself completely into each new identity.

Each time, it’s like adding another layer to your shadow, until your original self is no longer visible.

You’re almost forgetting who you truly are.

Brother Ming, don’t you remember?

Your happiest days were when you stopped using your abilities.

Back then, you experienced joy and sorrow every day, but that was the real you.

The one I truly loved was the Brother Ming from that time.

I don’t need you to be rich or possess great powers; I just want you to be Brother Ming.

I’m sorry, Brother Ming. I can’t hold on anymore. I wanted to help you find yourself again.

But I can’t endure it. My Brother Ming will never come back.

I’m sorry, I’m so sorr..."

Her voice grew fainter, and her figure gradually faded.

Fake Mo Zhicheng reached out, trying to grasp something, but caught only air. Clutching his chest, he suddenly vomited a mouthful of blood.

This time, the blood didn’t fly back to restore him as it had before.

In the distance, Uncle, his entire being seething with murderous aura, halted and watched him from afar.

It was the final obsession of a pitiable soul. Uncle didn’t move; he was waiting for that wretched man’s last obsession to be fulfilled.

Fake Mo Zhicheng stood up. His face was ashen, as if someone were gripping his heart and squeezing it forcefully.

A selfish, self-serving person like me... without my abilities, no one would truly like me...

Every word I’ve said in the past hour is true.

The words he had once used to brainwash Zhuge Wanjun surfaced in his mind.

Amidst that voice—strong, unwavering, and as assertive as if proclaiming an undeniable truth—were the words of a dying woman. In her extreme weakness, she seemed to be crying out with all her might, afraid he wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t understand.

"The one I truly loved was the Brother Ming from that time."

CRACK. It was as if something inside him broke.

"I’m sorry, Brother Ming. I wanted to help you find yourself again."

CRACK.

"I’m sorry... I’m so sorr..."

CRACK.

Fake Mo Zhicheng clutched his chest. Beads of sweat, large as beans, dripped down his face, which was a mask of agony, deathly sallow.

CRACK.

His defenses shattered.

The mental constructs built from the words he’d used to brainwash Zhuge Wanjun, which had formed strong walls within him, crumbled thunderously. The heart-walls he had so meticulously constructed within himself over countless, deliberate efforts—walls he had named ’truth’—were violently shattered by a dying whisper, its force unstoppable.

Fake Mo Zhicheng spat out another mouthful of blood.

Suddenly, he remembered. He remembered living an ordinary, difficult life back then. He and Yuxin would enjoy rare moments of peace at night, watching television dramas together and playfully criticizing them.

Back then, I even scoffed at the idea that psychological shock could make someone spit blood.

Turns out, it’s true...

He looked up, desperate to see her again, but there was nothing left.

Wen Yan approached from a distance, observing him.

"Don’t misunderstand," Wen Yan said. "I was merely helping a pitiable woman fulfill her final wish. After she died, she wandered in darkness for at least a year or two. Alone, heavily pregnant, she walked through that darkness just to return to this world, even if she could only take a few steps upon her return before completely dissipating. At the time, I thought her obsession stemmed from not having given birth, a desperate desire to return. Back then, I found such an obsession understandable. Unfortunately, I was wrong. She truly did it all for you. Because you never even heard the last words she sent you. She passed away, yet she was still worried about you, afraid you’d completely lose your way and forget who you truly are."