122: Chapter 122 I won't get angry, but I'll make you believe I'm crazy.

In the curtain of rain outside the old theater, Chen Fan's breathing was heavy, like a booming drum.

He stared at the scene looping on the stage—Little Candle covered in blood, tears hanging from her eyelashes, her fingers desperately clawing toward the black thread hidden in the shadow of the control console.

A metallic sweetness surged in his throat. He recalled the warmth of Little Candle's blood splashing onto the back of his hand when she collapsed, and the boy's last words: 'Brother Chen, it hurts.'

"Who! Who exactly betrayed us!" He roared, bringing his battle saber down fiercely onto the ground.

The instant broken bricks scattered, a crimson halo erupted with a 'boom,' enveloping his body like molten, burning iron.

Raindrops that landed on the edge of the halo instantly vaporized, creating white mist around him.

A faint 'hissing' sound drifted from a crack in the wall.

Chen Fan glimpsed a thread of ink-colored silk winding along the brick seams out of the corner of his eye, like a snake flicking its tongue.

That was the Shadow Weaver's memory web—he had expected her to come.

"Anger... it's too real, not a disguise." The voice of the Theater Spirit drifted down from above the stage, hoarse like a stuck tape on an old phonograph.

Chen Fan knew this residual spirit could see through the authenticity of emotions.

He deliberately let the rage burn through his reason—the last time the system prompted 'Emotion Contamination 97%,' his critical hit rate soared to 18%. Now, he wanted to make that number jump again.

The sound of fabric rubbing came from a corner.

Little Candle squatted among the rubble, her fingertips touching the damp ground.

The Anti-Contract Rune burned hot in her palm, like a glowing piece of charcoal: "No... the black thread is retreating. She believed it."

She looked up at Chen Fan's halo. Mixed within the red light was a faint trace of calculation. She suddenly understood that this big dummy had never lost control.

A low exclamation came from Black Crow backstage: "Shadow Pavilion secret order update!"

The blind youth's fingers flew across his terminal, his voice tight with suppressed tension, "'Target's emotions are out of control, prepare to close the net'—they are about to make a move."

Chen Fan's Adam's apple bobbed.

He stared at the inscription that had just appeared on the bronze medallion branded on his palm: 'She said this was to save me.' He recalled how Shadow Weaver always said, 'I am saving Little Candle.'

Save? Save until only a residual soul remained?

He dug his fingernails into his palm, but as the pain surfaced, he abruptly closed his eyes—the image of Su Shuang when she was unconscious suddenly flashed into his mind.

That was three days ago. She had collapsed in his arms, her silver hair stained with blood, yet she was still smiling: 'Wait for you to come back.'

This thought poured over him like a bucket of ice water.

The red light surrounding him instantly dimmed, and a faint azure hue spread from his chest, like moonlight rising from a deep pool.

"Chen Fan."

A female voice came from the second-floor private box.

Shadow Weaver stood in the shadows. Blood drops from her hair tips were washed away by the rain, trickling down her jaw onto her ink-black combat uniform.

The black thread at her fingertips had twisted into a web, trembling tautly in the air: "You destroyed Little Candle's final peace."

Chen Fan opened his eyes, the red still lingering in his pupils: "What did you say?"

"But he is still alive!" Shadow Weaver suddenly raised her voice, the web at her fingertips shaking violently. "As long as I don't report it, his residual soul won't be completely erased!"

She waved her hand sharply, and the web surged down like a black tide. "I'll give you a choice—end him yourself, and I'll hand over the Shadow Pavilion map."

Chen Fan suddenly threw his head back and laughed.

Red light shot up from his feet, completely swallowing the azure hue: "Fine! I'll kill you, then burn down the Shadow Pavilion!"

He leaped up fiercely, his right fist wrapped in blue flame, smashing toward the air—"Critical Hit: Resonance Strike!"

The instant the blue flame of the spark exploded, Shadow Weaver's pupils contracted.

She had anticipated Chen Fan losing control, but the web let out a mournful cry the moment it touched the red light.

But just as she was about to retract the web, Chen Fan's left fist suddenly moved.

No sound wave, no firelight.

That fist, wrapped in azure, was like an ice-quenched blade, driving straight toward the core of the web.

"Sorrow Critical Hit!"

The web snapped with a 'pop.'

Shadow Weaver staggered back, hitting the railing of the private box with her back.

She stared at the broken black thread on her fingertips, a metallic sweetness rising in her throat: "You... how did you do that?"

Chen Fan landed in the center of the stage, his battle saber driven heavily into the ground.

Rainwater flowed down the blade's spine into the brick seams, pooling into a dark red puddle at his feet: "Did you think I only knew how to get angry?"

He tugged at the bronze coin around his neck, which Su Shuang had given him. "I haven't even cried out loud when I forget about her."

"Sister—"

The Theater Spirit's high-pitched song suddenly exploded.

The stage spotlights flared brightly, and Little Candle's shadow materialized between the two of them.

The boy was covered in blood, but he smiled at Shadow Weaver: "Sister Zhi, don't come again... I don't want you to become like them."

Shadow Weaver's fingertips began to tremble.

She looked at Little Candle from her memory, then at the broken saber at Chen Fan's feet in reality—that was the last weapon Little Candle had held.

The black threads in her palm broke inch by inch, like snakes having their tendons removed.

The critical hit system's prompt sounded by Chen Fan's ear, like rusty gears finally turning: [Synergy condition met, residual charm can be linked...]

The rain continued to fall.

Shadow Weaver slowly knelt on the ground, beads of blood seeping from her fingertips.

She stared at the looping scene on the stage, a broken sound emerging from her throat: "Little Candle... Little Candle, he..."

(Shadow Weaver's voice was drowned out by the rain. She reached out tremblingly, as if trying to touch the face of the boy in her memory.

And behind her, in the shadows of the second-floor private box, a section of unnoticed black thread was winding along the roof beam, crawling toward Black Crow's terminal backstage.)