62: Chapter 62 The Second Wave of Capital's Attack

On the top floor of that black glass building in Manhattan, the meeting had lasted for six hours.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sky changed from azure to orange-red, and then to deep purple. But the seven people in the conference room didn't look out the window even once. Those color changes seemed to have nothing to do with them.

Dozens of reports were spread out on the long table, each one about Xinfeng Town—population data, renovation progress, media reports, social media sentiment monitoring, and even psychological profiles of several key figures—George, Edna, Mike, and Sam. The one on top had its title marked in red, bolded, like a shocking wound: [Preliminary Analysis of the "Happiness Resonance" Phenomenon]

William sat at the end of the long table, his fingers tapping gently on the tabletop, one tap after another, as if counting time. His gaze fell on the reports, but he wasn't really looking at them. He was thinking about other things—thinking about the back view of Lin Feng crouching at the courthouse entrance that day, thinking about the look in his eyes when he said, "I didn't win; over six hundred people won," and wondering why that person, who chewed on a straw and looked like he didn't care about anything, could make so many people follow him.

The man with gray-white hair in the middle—the real controller of the Backstone Fund, whom people privately called "Mr. B"—finally spoke. His voice was not loud, but every word was like a nail, driven into the ears of everyone present: "Who can tell me what exactly happened yesterday at 3:00 PM?"

No one answered.

The silence spread like water, drowning the entire conference room.

The middle-aged woman with exquisite makeup—a partner at Risersize Capital, Mrs. V—opened the file in front of her, her voice dry, like sandpaper grinding on wood: "One hundred towns, at the same time, all residents collectively looked up at the sky. The duration was three minutes. Afterward, everyone's emotional state showed a completely measurable positive fluctuation."

She paused, looked up, her gaze sweeping over the people present, and finally landed on Mr. B's face: "Our sentiment monitoring system shows that within those three minutes, negative comments about Xinfeng Town dropped by 97%. Positive discussions rose by 400%. Those internet trolls we spent millions of dollars hiring, the negative reviews we flooded, and the rumors we spread—all were drowned out within three minutes."

Mr. B's fingers stopped.

"The reason?"

Mrs. V shook her head. This simple action seemed exceptionally heavy in the silent conference room.

"The technical team analyzed it all night. They didn't find any traces of external interference. No signal transmission, no chemical release, no known technical means can explain this phenomenon."

The representative from Cestwood Partner—a middle-aged man who had been silent the whole time, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes behind the lenses like two deep pools of water—spoke for the first time. His voice was very low, but every word was clear: "Could it be psychological suggestion? Advance notice, collective action, resulting in self-hypnosis? There are many similar cases of mass hysteria in history."

William looked up at him. This man's name was Harold, and it was said that he used to be a psychological warfare expert for the CIA.

"Those one hundred towns are spread across over a dozen states. The furthest ones are two thousand kilometers apart. What kind of psychological suggestion can cover thousands of people simultaneously? What kind of hysteria can make thousands of people feel the same warmth at the exact same moment?"

Harold was silent for three seconds, then said: "That's why I'm asking."

The conference room fell into silence again. This time, the silence was heavier and more oppressive than before.

Mr. B stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to everyone. His back looked exceptionally tall and lonely in the afterglow of the sunset.

"William."

William looked up.

"You've had contact with that person. What do you think he is?"

William was silent for a long time. He looked at Mr. B's back, looked at the city outside the window stained golden-red, and looked at the ant-like, tiny flow of traffic and people. Then he said: "I don't know what he is. But I know that behind him, there isn't anything we are looking for—no government funding, no consortium support, no political agenda. We investigated him for three months and found nothing. Because there simply isn't anything."

He paused, his voice a little softer than before, but clearer: "He just wants to make those people laugh."

Mrs. V sneered. The laughter was sharp and piercing, like shattered glass.

"Laugh? Just for laughter, can one fight against capital? Can one fight against market laws? Can one fight against the seven of us?"

William looked at her and said seriously: "Have you ever laughed?"

Mrs. V was stunned. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but couldn't say anything.

William continued: "Neither have I. In this room of ours, has anyone ever laughed?"

No one answered.

Mr. B's back moved slightly, but he didn't turn around.

William stood up, walked to the window, and stood beside Mr. B.

"Yesterday at 3:00 PM, they laughed. Thousands of people laughed simultaneously. The thing we spent hundreds of millions of dollars, hired thousands of people, and studied for three months to destroy—they just laughed, and it became even more solid."

He looked out the window, his voice very soft: "What do we have to fight against laughter?"

That night, the second wave of attacks began.

It wasn't a hacker attack, it wasn't public opinion smear campaigns, it wasn't those methods already used—those methods had already failed.

This time, it was a more covert, more insidious method: division.

They no longer tried to destroy Xinfeng Town from the outside. They wanted to dig people away from the inside, one by one.

Millfield, Ohio.

Dave received a call. The voice on the other end was gentle, sincere, and carried a magnetism that made it impossible to refuse.

"Mr. Dave? I am a representative of such-and-such foundation. We have been paying attention to Millfield for a long time. Your story is very moving."

Dave held the phone, asking vigilantly: "What do you want?"

"We want to help you," the voice said. "We are willing to invest five million US dollars to acquire Millfield's mushroom farm separately. You can retain the right to operate independently and continue to grow mushrooms in your own way. It's just changing an investor."

Dave was silent for three seconds.

The voice continued: "That Lin Feng of yours is Chinese, right? Have you checked where his money comes from? We are different. We are a local American fund with transparent capital and a clean background. Cooperating with him, you never know what will happen tomorrow. Cooperating with us, you have guarantees."

Dave's hand holding the phone tightened slightly. He glanced out the window—in the courtyard, over four hundred people were drying mushrooms. The sunlight shone on them, on those white mushrooms, and on those smiling faces.

He put the phone on the table and walked out of the office. He walked into the courtyard and shouted to the four hundred-plus people: "Someone wants to pay five million to buy our farm! Do you say we sell it or not?"

Over four hundred people looked up simultaneously.

Someone shouted: "Don't sell!"

Another shouted: "Tell him to get lost!"

And an old lady raised the mushroom basket in her hand, her voice as loud as a twenty-year-old girl's: "We grew it ourselves, why should we sell it!"

The young people followed, shouting: "Why should we sell!"

The elderly followed, shouting: "Don't sell!"

The voices rose wave after wave, echoing under the sky of Millfield.

Dave stood there, listening to those voices, his eyes suddenly a little hot.

He walked back to the office and picked up the phone: "Did you hear that?"

The other end of the phone was silent for two seconds. Then came a soft sigh, followed by a busy signal.

Dave put down the phone and walked back into the courtyard.

Someone asked him: "Who called?"

Dave thought for a moment and said: "Someone who can't sleep."

Carbon, West Virginia.

Tom met a man driving a black SUV at the entrance of the town. The man was wearing a custom dark blue suit, gold-rimmed glasses, and holding a document in his hand, his smile just right—neither overly enthusiastic nor appearing distant.

"Are you Tom? The one who films documentaries?"

Tom looked at him vigilantly. The man's suit was too new, his shoes were too shiny, and the smile on his face was too standard, as if it had been measured with a ruler.

"What is it?"

The man smiled and handed over a business card. The card had a matte texture, printed with a New York film production company. Tom hadn't heard of the name, but the address was on the most expensive street in Manhattan.

"We watched your film. It's filmed very well."

Tom took the business card and glanced at it.

The man continued: "We want to invite you to develop in New York. The salary is ten times what you have now. The conditions are all in the contract. Independent producer, free creation, film whatever you want to film."

He paused, his smile deepening a little: "No need to follow that Chinese person around all day."

Tom stared at the business card for three seconds.

Then he raised his camera and pressed the shutter at the man.

The man was stunned, his smile freezing on his face: "What are you doing?"

Tom said: "Keep some evidence. What if you say later that I didn't receive an invitation?"

The man's smile disappeared completely.

Tom stuffed the business card back into his hand: "Ten times? Do you know what I filmed in Xinfeng Town?"

The man didn't speak.

Tom pointed to his camera and tapped the lens gently with his finger: "Yesterday at 3:00 PM, I filmed hundreds of people crying, laughing, and looking up at the sky simultaneously. Where are you going to find this kind of scene? New York? Manhattan? In those office buildings, will anyone look up at the sky?" (Because there's no sky when looking up, how could they see it?)

He turned and walked into the town without looking back: "Ten times isn't enough. One hundred times isn't enough either. The things I want, you can't give."

The man stood in place, watching his back disappear at the town entrance. The wind blew over, a bit chilly. He put the business card into his pocket, got into the car, and started the engine. After driving a long way, he realized his palms were full of sweat.

Coal Creek, Kentucky.

That group of old miners was basking in the sun at the church entrance. The sun was warm, shining on their wrinkled faces, on their rough hands, and on their squinting eyes.

A pickup truck stopped at the town entrance, and two young people got out. They were wearing vests with the words "Independent Investigator" printed on them, holding a stack of flyers in their hands, with an official, business-like seriousness on their faces.

They walked up to the old miners and handed over the flyers.

"Everyone, we have received a report that the Xinfeng Town model has suspected fraud. Are you willing to cooperate with the investigation?"

The oldest man, eighty-seven years old, took the flyer and squinted at it. His eyesight wasn't very good anymore, so he had to hold things very close to see them.

After reading it, he tore the flyer in two and threw it on the ground.

"Investigation? What are you investigating?"

One of the young men said, "We're investigating Lin Feng's background, his sources of funding, and checking if he has—"

The old man raised his hand, cutting him off.

"I've mined coal for sixty years." His voice was raspy, but every word was clear. "I've seen more con artists in my life than you've seen living people."

He pointed to his chest, that wrinkled area:

"Yesterday at three in the afternoon, it warmed up right here. What made it warm wasn't what you gave, but what he gave."

The two young men looked at each other. One of them wanted to say something, but was silenced by the old man's gaze.

The old man waved his hand:

"Leave. If you don't leave now, I'll have those young men escort you out."

He pointed to a few young, strong men standing not far away—all of whom had recently returned from out of town, all brawny and broad-shouldered, standing with their arms crossed, watching them.

The two young men exchanged a look and slunk back to their truck. The pickup turned around, kicked up a cloud of dust, and quickly disappeared at the end of the road.

Someone nearby asked the old man, "Old timer, how did you know they were here to cause trouble?"

The old man smiled, revealing gums without a single tooth:

"Because the questions they asked were exactly the same as the ones from those people in the black SUV last time. Not a single word different."

He picked the two halves of the flyer up from the ground and tossed them into the trash can nearby.

"They even memorized the same script. Young people these days, no good."

Mill Town, Pennsylvania.

A FOXX news van was parked in front of Edna's house. It had a white body, a huge logo, and a tall antenna standing high.

A young reporter stood at the door, holding a microphone. A cameraman followed behind, carrying the equipment, with the lens pointed at Edna's door.

"Ms. Edna, we are with FOXX News, and we'd like to interview you regarding Xinfeng Town—"

Edna stood at the door, leaning on her cane, squinting at them. Her back was straight, not at all like someone in her eighties.

"FOXX? The station that said my ear sculpture was a cult last time?"

The reporter's smile froze for a moment, but quickly recovered. Clearly, they had received professional training.

"Uh... that was a different program. We are the news department; it's different."

Edna nodded. "Oh. Then what do you want to ask?"

The reporter cleared their throat and adjusted their expression to make it look more sincere for the camera:

"There are reports that the Xinfeng Town model is expanding rapidly, but many people question its sustainability. Do you think this model can really last?"

Edna thought for a moment, not answering directly. She asked:

"Are you married?"

The reporter was stunned. "What?"

Edna asked again, "Are your parents still around?"

The reporter didn't know how to answer. This question wasn't in their interview outline.

Edna smiled. That smile held over eighty years of weathering, and over eighty years of clarity:

"My old man has been dead for twenty years. But I can still feel him every day. You tell me, can this last?"

The reporter opened their mouth, wanting to say something, but couldn't get anything out.

Edna turned and walked into the house, leaving behind a sentence:

"When you close the door, remember to do it gently."

The door closed.

The reporter and the cameraman stood at the door, looking at each other.

The wind blew, feeling a bit cold. The cameraman put down the equipment and rubbed their shoulders.

"Still filming?"

The reporter was silent for three seconds, then said:

"No. It's useless."

That new town in Tennessee.

The young mother holding her baby received an anonymous letter.

The letter was taken from the dilapidated mailbox at the entrance of the town. There were no stamps, no postmarks, just her name.

She opened the envelope. Inside was only one line of text, printed, in a font so neat it looked machine-written:

[Lin Feng will leave in three months. What will you do?]

She stared at that line of text for a very, very long time.

The child moved in her arms, letting out a soft, babbling hum.

She looked down at the child. The child had their eyes open, looking at her, drooling at the corner of their mouth, and smiled.

Suddenly, she smiled too.

She folded the letter and put it away in a drawer.

That evening, she held her child and went to the town gathering.

People sat in a circle, lighting a bonfire. Some played guitar, some sang, some told stories. The firelight reflected on everyone's faces, flickering in the light and shadow, like the colors of life.

She sat in the crowd, looking at those faces.

What would happen in three months?

She didn't know.

But today, these people were still here. Today, this bonfire was still here. Today, this song was still here.

The old miner from Kentucky was belting out a song off-key. The people next to him laughed, joked, and joined in, singing off-key too.

The young man from Ohio was poking the fire with a stick, and sparks flew up like fireflies.

The old lady from Pennsylvania was leaning back in her chair, eyes closed, the corners of her mouth turned up.

She held her child a little tighter.

The child fell asleep in her arms, their little face buried in their mother's chest, a bit of drool still hanging from the corner of their mouth.

She lowered her head and kissed the child's forehead.

Very gently.

Very warmly.

Starry Sky Town.

The old lady named Jack also received a letter.

The letter was sent to the small Post Office at the entrance of the town. The mailman was an old man who rode a beat-up bicycle and came once a week. When he handed her the letter, he took an extra look—this place rarely received mail.

There was only her name on the envelope, no address.

She opened the envelope; inside was a photograph.

The photo showed her as a young woman, standing by the edge of a mine pit. She was in her early thirties then, her hair still black, her back still straight, her eyes still bright.

A man stood next to her, his arm around her shoulder.

Jack.

Her fingers began to tremble. She had crinkled the edges of the photo by gripping it so tightly.

On the back of the photo was a line of text, in that same neat, printed font:

[Do you still remember him?]

She stared at that line of text for a very, very long time.

Then she turned the photo over and looked at it for a long time.

Jack was smiling in the photo. She remembered that smile. It was taken on their wedding day; the miners had pooled their money to hire a photographer, saying it was the only camera in town.

She remembered that Jack was wearing a borrowed suit that day, which was too big, the sleeves covering half his hands. She laughed at him, and he scratched his head and smiled foolishly.

She remembered that the sunshine was beautiful that day, just as good as it was today.

Finally, she put the photo in her pocket, walked to the edge of the mine pit, and said to the depths below:

"Old man, someone wants me to forget you."

The wind blew across the pit opening, making a wailing sound. It was like a response.

She smiled:

"They don't know that you are here every day."

Xinfeng Town.

George met someone on the farm.

The person was wearing work clothes and looked like they had come to work. But George saw that something was wrong at a glance—the work clothes were too new, the creases were still there. The soles of the shoes were too clean, without a speck of mud.

"Are you new here?"

The person nodded, smiling naturally. "I want to learn how to grow mushrooms."

George stared at him for three seconds.

Then he said, "Fine. Come with me."

He took the man down into the mine pit. The elevator creaked as it descended; the light grew dimmer, and the air grew cooler. The man was a bit nervous, his hand trembling as he gripped the railing.

George said nothing.

They walked between the mushroom racks. On those racks, white, pristine mushrooms grew in patches, glowing with a soft light in the dim surroundings.

When they reached the deepest part, George suddenly stopped.

"You want to learn to grow mushrooms, do you know what mushrooms need?"

The man was stunned for a moment, clearly not expecting this question. But he reacted quickly and answered immediately:

"They need... water? Soil? Sunlight?"

George shook his head. He squatted down, picked a mushroom from the rack, and placed it in his palm.

"They need faith."

The man didn't understand.

George continued, "If you believe it can grow, it will grow. If you don't believe, no matter how much water you pour, it's useless. It can feel it."

He placed the mushroom back on the rack, his movements very gentle, as if putting down a newborn child.

Then he turned to look at the man, his eyes shining like two stars in the dim light:

"You came to learn to grow mushrooms, but do you believe?"

The man's eyes darted away. Just for a second, but George saw it.

George smiled. There was no mockery in that smile, only the calmness of an old man who had seen through the ways of the world:

"Go back and tell your boss that this is not how mushrooms are grown."

He led the man out of the mine pit and to the entrance of the town.

The man got into his car and started the engine. Only after driving a long way did he realize his palms were covered in sweat and his shirt was soaked through at the back.

He didn't know what he was afraid of.

But he was just afraid.

A stranger came into Mike's bar.

The person sat at the bar and ordered a drink. Mike handed it over; the man took it, drank a sip, and frowned.

"Is the liquor here just like this?"

Mike wiped a glass and said nothing.

The man put down the glass and started making small talk:

"I heard you have a Chinese person here?"

Mike continued wiping the glass, still saying nothing.

The man took a check out of his pocket and placed it on the bar. The number on the check was more than an ordinary person could earn in ten years.

"Five times. Come with me, and I'll give you five times the money."

Mike stopped and looked at the check. He looked for three seconds.

Then he pushed the check back:

"Do you know how much this drink costs?"

The man was stunned.

Mike said, "Three dollars. I can sell fifty cups a day. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, you do the math."

The man couldn't calculate it. He didn't need to either.

Mike smiled. That smile held the slickness honed from over forty years of running a bar, and something else too:

"Five times? You're offering more than I earn. But there's one thing you can't give me."

The man asked, "What?"

Mike pointed to the group of people singing in the bar.

George's son, Tom, was taking pictures with a camera. The old miners from Kentucky were belting out songs off-key. Sam was playing guitar in the corner, messing around with them. Jenny was hugging those letters, laughing until she bent over.

"That," Mike said. "Can you give me that?"

The man was silent.

Mike continued wiping the glass. Very slowly, stroke by stroke, as if wiping away time.

The man finished his drink and left quietly. When he left, his footsteps were much slower than when he arrived.

Sam was playing guitar in front of the church.

The sunlight shone on him, warm and cozy. His fingers plucked the strings lightly, playing that "Dandelion Song," the tune light and soft, like the wind.

A fashionably dressed woman walked over and stood in front of him. Her high heels clicked crisply against the stone path.

"Are you Sam? I've heard your songs."

Sam stopped and looked up at her.

The woman handed him a business card. It was gold, printed with the name of a very prominent music company.

"I'm a music producer. I want to sign you."

Sam took the card, glanced at it, and then handed it back to her.

The woman was stunned. Her smile froze for a moment, but she quickly recovered:

"You don't want to be famous?"

Sam shook his head:

"I want to be famous, but I don't want to be famous alone."

The woman didn't understand. A flicker of confusion flashed in her eyes.

Sam pointed to the people in the church—George, Mike, Jenny, Alex, Rachel, Tony, and Yuki. They were busy with their own things inside; some were chatting, some were reading, and some were typing on computers.

"These songs, they helped me write them. If I go out alone, the songs will be gone."

The woman wanted to say something else. She opened her mouth, but Sam had already continued playing his guitar.

It was still that song, "Dandelion Song."

The woman stood there listening for a while. As she listened, her expression changed. It became less sharp, less professional.

Then she turned and left.

When she left, her footsteps were much slower than when she arrived.

Jenny was organizing the letters. They were spread all over the table—some thick, some thin, some with neat handwriting, some crooked. She read them one by one, touched them one by one, as if she were caressing the people who had written them.

Someone knocked on the door.

Opening it, she saw a middle-aged man in a suit. He wore glasses, his hair was meticulously combed, and he held a briefcase.

"Ms. Jenny? I'm from the Psychology Association. We've noticed the 'Soul Massage' work you're doing and would like to invite you to New York to give an academic presentation."

Jenny paused: "An academic presentation?"

The man nodded, pulled a document from his briefcase, and handed it over: "Your method is very unique; we want to study it. This is the invitation. Expenses are fully covered, and there's an expert stipend."

Jenny took the invitation, glanced at it, and then handed it back to him.

"And after you're done studying it?"

The man said: "Publish a paper, promote it nationwide. Your method can influence more people."

Jenny looked at him and said seriously: "My method is just one sentence—listen to them speak."

The man waited for her to continue. Jenny didn't say anything more. The man waited for three seconds, realizing she was truly finished.

"Just... just this one sentence?"

Jenny nodded: "Just this one sentence."

The man was stunned. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but nothing came out.

Jenny smiled: "When you do research, you have to write papers. Papers need conclusions and must be useful. But here, there's no use. It's just listening. Listening is enough."

She closed the door. The moment the door closed, she heard the man standing outside for a long time. Then the footsteps slowly faded away.

Alex and Rachel were debugging the website. On the screen, the code for the happiness map scrolled line by line. Alex's eyes were fixed on the screen, his fingers typing rapidly on the keyboard. Rachel was beside him, handing him coffee.

Suddenly, Alex's hands stopped.

"Someone has hacked in!"

Rachel leaned over to look, and her expression changed too.

In the backend administrator list, there was a new, unfamiliar account. The account name was a string of garbled characters, and the permissions were at the highest level.

Alex's hands were shaking: "What are they trying to do? Delete data? Or—"

Yuki had walked over at some point. She stood behind them, glanced at the screen, and then handed over a note:

[Don't move. Let them look.]

Alex was stunned: "Let them look?"

Yuki nodded and typed another line:

[The more they look, the less they'll understand.]

Alex stared at those two lines for three seconds. Then he laughed. Rachel laughed too.

Alex picked up his coffee and took a sip. He leaned back in his chair, looked at that mysterious account on the screen, and said:

"Then let them look."

Tony was still reading. He had been reading that book for three months and hadn't finished it yet. But he wasn't in a hurry.

Someone came to find him. It was the old miner from Kentucky who had asked him last time, "What is the point of living?"

"Tony, I want to ask you a question."

Tony put down his book: "Ask."

The old miner sat down beside him. He was silent for a while, then said:

"Someone came to find me today and said that Xinfeng Town is bound to fall apart sooner or later. They asked me what I would do when that happens."

Tony thought for a moment, not answering directly. He asked: "How did you answer?"

The old miner said: "I said I didn't know."

Tony nodded: "That is the answer."

The old miner was stunned. He waited for Tony to explain.

Tony said: "If you don't know, then wait. Keep waiting, and you will know."

The old miner was silent. He was thinking about this sentence. After a while, he suddenly smiled.

"I understand."

He stood up, patted Tony on the shoulder, and left.

Tony picked up the book and continued reading. It was still the same page.

Lin Feng squatted under the old locust tree, watching the sun set bit by bit. The clouds on the horizon were dyed orange-red, piece by piece, like someone's painting.

Margaret walked over and handed him a plate of mushrooms. Fresh out of the pot, still steaming.

"How many people came today?"

Lin Feng took the plate, chewed on a mushroom, and said vaguely: "Eleven."

Margaret squatted down beside him: "All here to poach people?"

Lin Feng nodded.

Margaret was silent for a while. She looked at those people in the distance—George was still on the farm, Mike was still wiping the bar counter, Sam was still playing the guitar, Jenny was still organizing letters, Chris was still watering plants, Alex and Rachel were still typing on computers, Tony was still reading, and Yuki was still typing on her keyboard.

Then she asked: "Aren't you worried?"

Lin Feng swallowed the mushroom and looked at her: "Worried about what?"

Margaret said: "Worried that they will really leave."

Lin Feng pointed to those people: "They can't leave."

Margaret asked: "Why?"

Lin Feng said: "Because they know that if they leave, it'll be gone."

That night, the church was full of people again.

George stood in front of the altar and recounted what he had encountered today. The fake apprentice, the probes, those words.

Edna, leaning on her cane, talked about the anonymous letter. That photo, that sentence.

Mike, Sam, Jenny, Chris, Alex, Rachel, Tony, and Yuki, one by one, told everyone about the people they had met, the things they had heard, and the offers they had received today.

Finally, everyone looked at Lin Feng.

Lin Feng was squatting in the corner, chewing on a straw, saying nothing.

There was a long silence.

Then George spoke up: "Lin Feng, don't you want to say something?"

Lin Feng thought for a moment and said: "Just one sentence."

Everyone waited.

Lin Feng stood up and looked at them: "They are anxious."

The church was quiet for a second. Then someone laughed. Then a second person, a third, everyone.

George laughed so hard he slapped his thigh, his voice echoing in the church: "Anxious! They're anxious!"

Edna laughed until tears streamed down her face, and she couldn't wipe them away with her sleeve: "I'm over eighty years old, and this is the first time I've seen capitalists this anxious!"

Mike leaned against the bar, laughing so hard he couldn't straighten up. His apron was crumpled in his hands.

Sam hugged his guitar and played a cheerful chord; the melody jumped, as if it were dancing.

Jenny wiped away her tears of laughter and hugged the letters tighter. The letter paper rustled as she crumpled it.

Chris squatted on the ground, shaking with laughter. His toolbox was beside him, and the tools inside shook along with him.

Alex and Rachel hugged each other, laughing and stomping their feet, making the floor thump.

Tony's lips curled up, and he said softly: "It's good that they're anxious."

Yuki hung her head, her shoulders heaving—she was laughing. That face, which usually had no expression, now had a hint of a smile.

Lin Feng looked at them, and his own lips curled up too.

He turned and walked out of the church, squatting under the old locust tree. Margaret followed him out and squatted beside him.

"Lin Feng."

Lin Feng turned his head to look at her.

Margaret said: "Are you really not afraid?"

Lin Feng looked at the starry sky in the distance. The stars were lighting up one by one, like someone had scattered a handful of crushed diamonds.

He said slowly: "Afraid of what?"

Margaret said: "Afraid that they will really take action."

Lin Feng shook his head: "They are already taking action. But look—"

He pointed to the people in the church who were still laughing. The laughter drifted out of the windows and carried far away in the night wind.

"Is it useful?"

Margaret was silent for three seconds. Then she laughed too.

Late that night, a message popped up on Yuki's computer. It was from the happiness map server logs.

That mysterious administrator account had finally moved.

It left a line of text:

[Don't understand.]

Yuki stared at that line of text for a long, long time.

Those three words shone on the screen, like a pair of confused eyes.

Then she replied with a line of text:

[Take your time and look.]

The other party did not reply again.

Yuki turned off the computer, walked out of the church, and went to the old locust tree.

Lin Feng was still squatting there. The moonlight shone on him, illuminating the straw he was chewing on.

Yuki squatted down beside him and handed him a note.

Lin Feng looked down. There was only one line on the note:

[They don't understand.]

Lin Feng smiled. He folded the note and tucked it into his pocket. There were already several notes in there, folded neatly.

"Then let them keep looking."

[Chapter 62 End]