Chapter 704: The Two Poles of Yin and Yang

Chen Shi quickly went to find Lin Dongxue. After briefly explaining the situation, he opened the desktop computer in the living room and transferred the document to it.

Strangely, the mysterious text did not appear in the desktop version of the document. There were only the title and some basic settings at the beginning. Chen Shi said, “I get it. He wrote it in the blank space at the beginning of the document using the same color as the background.”

Chen Shi then selected all the text and changed the color to black. Sure enough, the mysterious text appeared in the blank space at the beginning, written in the smallest font to fit within a few pages of blank space.

“Why did he write this in his draft? Why not send an email? Could it be that he can’t access the internet?” Lin Dongxue speculated.

“He is probably being closely monitored, and the person might also check his computer. But these are his earliest drafts, a blind spot. That person is a reader, so he probably wouldn’t check something he’s already read. Xin Bai was betting on that probability.”

“Why did you copy back the old drafts?”

“Well… I just wanted to reminisce,” Chen Shi said, rubbing his nose.

Lin Dongxue didn’t mind. Looking at the computer screen, she said, “But who would see this if it’s written in the old drafts?”

“Aren’t we seeing it now? He anticipated that one day the police would investigate and take his computer, so this text might come to light.”

They continued reading:

“He started living in my house, interfering with me! I’ve always been lazy, sometimes writing thousands of words when inspiration hits, and sometimes going days without writing, often playing video games all night. I’ve always admired those diligent writers because I’m a lazy one with intermittent bursts of passion. He slept in the living room, making me feel constrained. He forbade me from closing my bedroom door, frequently checking if I was writing. Every chapter I wrote had to be reviewed by him, correcting typos and pointing out inconsistencies. I’m used to editing my drafts, but having a stranger in my house, using my things, and bossing me around? I couldn’t accept that. I’m supposed to be a free and independent person, right?

“On the third day, I confronted him. I said this is strange; we’re not related, so why are you living in my house and controlling me? Saying this out loud made me feel braver. He laughed and said that even strangers can become close if they hit it off, sharing everything. What logic is that? Human relationships are built from nothing. He saw me as a confidant, feeling a strong connection with my writing, like an old friend chatting across from him. He hoped I could treat him the same way. ‘I know you better than you know yourself,’ he said. I yelled at him to get out; this is my house! His expression changed, as if removing a mask…

“He hit me, took my phone, and cut my internet. This weak and scholarly man became a tyrant, supervising me as I wrote. Of course, I resisted, but I couldn’t beat him. He was a manual laborer, and I was just a writer. After being beaten several times, I ran to the kitchen to find a knife. I didn’t care anymore; I wanted to kill him, chop him up, and bury him! But the knife rack was empty; pots and pans were gone too. He appeared behind me, leaning against the door with crossed arms, saying, ‘We need to establish some rules!’

“Rule one: The work is everything. Whether I have inspiration or not, I must write 8,000 words daily and submit them for his review and publication. The plot direction must be discussed with him. Rule two: I am not allowed to leave the bedroom without permission or contact outsiders. He would handle receiving packages, taking out the trash, and grocery shopping. Rule three: If I complete my work to his satisfaction for seven consecutive days, I could earn a reward, usually a small request like food or a few hours of gaming. Rule four: I must regularly report my mental state to him without hiding anything.

“Though I’m weak, I’m not someone who likes to obey! There are two types of people in the world: destroyers and protectors, like the two poles of yin and yang. Destroyers like to break the status quo and create new things. Essentially, antisocial elements, writers, and revolutionaries belong to this type. Protectors, on the other hand, prefer to maintain and manage. They cherish order and are suitable for jobs like police, doctors, and officials. Superheroes are also protectors, as their stories often revolve around maintaining the status quo. Evil protectors can become defenders of outdated systems, lackeys of the powerful, and henchmen. I didn’t become a lawyer after graduating from law school because I realized I desired creative work. I’m a freedom-loving destroyer. I won’t obey, never!

“I pretended to be sick, sabotaged the computer, went on a hunger strike, and screamed for help from the window while he slept. We went through a long and arduous struggle. His violence escalated as he realized my hidden resilience. He decided to break my ‘spine’! One day, he bought many strange tools and made me wear them. It was S&M gear, utterly humiliating. I shouted that he might as well kill me! After a beating, I cried and wore it. He whipped me, made me crawl like a dog. The humiliation was overwhelming. For moments, I really thought I was a dog, but I hoped to be a mad dog and bite his throat off!!!

“He reveled in this training game. Though uneducated, often not understanding some phrases in my book, he knew one thing: enforced obedience could break the spirit. This is something Nazis, scam artists, and unscrupulous entrepreneurs all understand. A terrifying thought appeared in my mind—obeying him could make things easier. I fought this idea, but it spread like a virus. I was losing myself. Who can save me? Batman, Superman, Iron Man, where are you?

“I wanted to kill him! I tried to stab him with a sharpened chopstick. He caught me and made me kneel before him. The floor was littered with my prepared weapons. He stood in the backlight, looking sinister. Suddenly, survival instincts drove me to cry and beg for mercy, banging my head on the floor, pleading for his forgiveness. He lifted my chin, and through my tears, I looked at him in fear. Time seemed to freeze. He said, ‘Punish yourself until I’m satisfied.’ I felt a surge of hope and nodded vigorously. In that moment, I knew I was done for. I had fallen into an abyss…”