35: silence

Lu Jianchuan's silence was like a cold wall, reflecting all of Li Zhe's anger and despair back at him.

In the end, The boy was half-persuaded, half-dragged away by his mother and other relatives. Yet, that gaze, mixed with pain and distrust, still felt like needles in his back, piercing Lu Jianchuan's entire Soul and making it tremble.

He could no longer stay near the family seating area to endure that silent torment. Dragging his leaden legs, he quietly retreated to a relatively secluded corner of the hall. Finding an empty bench, he sat down, trying to hide himself in the shadows of the mourners coming and going.

He lowered his head, his hands tightly clasped together, knuckles white from the force. His blurred gaze fell upon the smooth, icy-cold floor.

However, even with his head bowed, his peripheral vision couldn't completely avoid the sight within the coffin, nestled among flowers and green cypress. The funeral home's makeup artist had clearly done their utmost, employing skillful techniques and heavy cosmetics to try and mend, to reconstruct. But some damage could never be fully concealed.

From the carefully arranged collar of the dark burial clothes, one could still glimpse an unnatural sense of padding, and the stiff contours extending down from the neck, which even thick foundation couldn't completely smooth out. That once broad chest, which had borne responsibility and sheltered him from storms, now appeared strangely flat and sunken beneath the burial garments.

Uncle Li... his body... was incomplete.

This realization struck with more impact than any image, like a barbed chisel forcefully driven into Lu Jianchuan's mind, churning repeatedly, bringing waves of physiological nausea and dizziness. The bloody scene from the warehouse uncontrollably surfaced—the monster's ferociousbone claws, the torn police uniform, the splattered tissue fragments, and the unmistakable, cruelly taken portion... "Ugh..."

He abruptly covered his mouth with his hand, forcibly suppressing the sour fluid rising in his throat as his stomach convulsed violently. He bit down hard on his lower lip until he tasted the distinct metallic tang of blood, using this sharp pain to combat the guilt and agony that threatened to tear him apart. He had gotten Uncle Li killed, and he couldn't even preserve a complete body for him.

All the surrounding sounds—murmured conversations, suppressed sobs, the looping funeral music—seemed distorted and distant, as if heard through a thick pane of glass smeared with blood. His entire world was filled with this brutal reality and the massive boulder named "loss" and "guilt" in his chest, heavy and painful, making it almost impossible to breathe.

At that moment, a somewhat jarring, slightly grating short-video background music, mixed with a child's impatient muttering, came from diagonally in front of him. Lu Jianchuan looked up dazedly, almost instinctively, lifting his heavy eyelids. He saw a boy of about seven or eight, dressed in a little suit, being quietly comforted by his weary and embarrassed mother beside him.

"Alright, alright, stop fussing. Here, play for a bit, just a little while, be good now," the mother said, handing the phone to the child.

The child immediately quieted down, skillfully unlocked the screen, tapped the garishly iconed short-video app, and began aimlessly swiping with his finger.

Lu Jianchuan's gaze rested emptily on the flickering screen. He had no intention of investigating; it was just that the jumping colors and sounds became the only unavoidable, annoying focal point in his dead, blood-scented inner world.

Suddenly, the child's swiping finger stopped. From the phone came an extremely exaggerated, sensationalist reporting voice, the volume not low:

"...Absolutely the news story of the century! Last night's 'Night Market Terror' at Linjiang District Central Square! Thousands of witnesses saw it! That silver figure, like a futuristic warrior, battling that terrifying Whale monster bigger than a truck! My god, the buildings were shaking! The whole internet is looking for this 'Armor Hero'! Click follow to see the first-hand blurry footage sent by netizens on the scene..."

What followed was a chaotic montage pieced together from countless short videos of different angles and clarity. The footage shook violently, filled with the screams of the crowd and chaotic on-site audio.

One could vaguely make out the neon-flashing square backdrop, a huge, distorted white figure rampaging, while a swift silver light weaved and collided within, erupting with visible blue-white sparks. The frightened discussions and excited shouts of the videographers intertwined:

"Look! Over there! They're fighting!" "I got it! I got it on video! It really is armor!" "Where are the police? The Investigation Bureau's cars are here!"

Despite the rough quality and chaotic perspectives, the scale of that night's battle and the sheer number of witnesses were laid bare through this noisy, fragmented footage.

Lu Jianchuan stared blankly, listening.

The silver figure on the screen, chased by countless phone cameras and hailed as a "hero" by the crowd, formed an absurdly cruel contrast with the him sitting in the corner of the memorial service, immersed in endless remorse for failing to protect someone important.

Uncle Li lay there, body incomplete, cold and silent; while he, here, was "active" in the public eye in another way.

This sense of fragmentation brought no vanity or worry; instead, it felt like a silent mockery, adding weight to his shoulders.

Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his head again, pressing his burning forehead against his cold, clasped hands, trying to shut out everything from the outside world—including the clamorous "legend" about himself on the screen, and the lingering, silent accusation from the coffin beside him.

Lu Jianchuan deeply bowed his head, pressing his burning forehead hard against his cold, clasped hands, attempting to use this insignificant physical barrier to block out everything, especially the silent yet immensely heavy pull from the direction of the coffin.

However, eyes could be closed, ears could block out noise, but the voice within was like the most malicious curse, echoing repeatedly in the depths of his mind, growing clearer and sharper:

I'm sorry... Uncle Li... I'm sorry... It's all my fault... If only I had been faster then... If I had mastered the armor's power earlier... If I hadn't been so useless... I'm sorry... Images flashed uncontrollably before his tightly shut eyes:

It was Uncle Li, in the final moment, using all his strength to push him out of the warehouse door. The look in his eyes, mixed with pain, resolve, and... an unspoken entrustment. That gaze hurt him more deeply than any blame.

It was the abruptly cut-off, suppressed grunt when Uncle Li was dragged into the darkness by the monster.

It was now, the body lying among the flowers, which even the most skilled techniques couldn't fully restore to completeness... I'm sorry... I couldn't save you... I couldn't even... preserve your final dignity... This self-reproach, like a surging undercurrent, dragged him deep into an ocean of sorrow and guilt. He sat there, his body stiff as a stone, only his slightly trembling shoulders betraying the violent storm raging within.

He felt as if he had been split in two—one half was Lu Jianchuan, the junior police officer silently mourning before everyone; the other half was the armor Aptitude Holder, burdened with a secret and the heavy debt of another life, struggling alone in the darkness.

The clamorous report about the "Armor Hero" coming from the child's phone no longer sounded like glory or danger in his ears, but the cruelest irony directed at him. Every click, every exclamation of amazement, felt like another handful of salt rubbed into his bloody wound.

I'm sorry... Uncle Li... I can't tell them the truth... I can't let Sister-in-law and Xiao Zhe know that you died protecting someone like me... who brought you harm... He clenched his jaw tightly, forcing back the sobs rising in his throat and the countless unspeakable apologies. The bitter taste burned all the way from his throat down to his stomach.

He could only maintain this posture, almost curling into himself, like a silent statue bearing an invisible cross, frozen at the edge of the mourning crowd. All words, all explanations, all pain were forcibly locked within this exhausted shell, transformed into endless, silent confessions repeated over and over.

I'm sorry... I'm sorry... Time seemed to lose meaning in the solemn funeral music. He didn't know how long he had sat like that, until the Master of Ceremonies announced the memorial service was about to begin officially, and the crowd began to stir slightly, preparing to stand. Only then did he jolt awake from that near-numb state, slowly, with immense difficulty, lifting his head, revealing eyes bloodshot, burdened with too much heaviness, and almost devoid of any light.