Chapter 210: The Garden's First House Call

Han Qing's scar garden on his chest breathed slowly in the morning light.

There were eighty‑seven translucent little flowers, each opening and closing with a slightly different rhythm—some in sync with his heartbeat, some following the Bridge's spectral fluctuations, and the deep‑purple one at the very center was actually imitating the knocking sound of Old Zhao's repair machine far on the ground.

Su Yu carried a small pot of newly formulated "flower fertilizer" into the teachers' lounge. The mixture in the pot was odd: it contained salt crystals shed by singing civilization evolvers, fragments of a failed star from the Morning Star Collection Hall, and a thin strand of hair she had cut off last night.

"Try this." She lightly sprinkled the flower fertilizer onto Han Qing's chest; the little flowers instantly turned, and tiny roots emerged from the scar crystal, absorbing nutrients.

Han Qing looked down. As the flowers absorbed, their colors grew richer, and a few even developed a faint metallic sheen at the edges—resulting from the absorption of Selan data.

"They're learning," Su Yu whispered, "and they're learning quickly."

The scar garden was indeed evolving. It was no longer merely a scar left after a wound healed; now it resembled a living, miniature teaching network. Each flower bore a different civilization's "Wound Memory" and could convert those memories into frequencies that could be understood.

At that moment, the Bridge's conscious Light Sphere drifted in, its surface displaying an emergency sign:

"Flower Field Network requesting assistance.

Three injured persons have developed a "Memory Wound Infection".

Symptoms: unable to distinguish reality from scar memory playback.

Recommendation: garden master to make a house call."

Han Qing and Su Yu exchanged a glance.

"House call?" Han Qing asked.

The Light Sphere unfolded a holographic map, marking three locations—all in different zones of the Flower Field Network, each separated by several tens of kilometers.

"Your garden is now a living "Wound Translator".

It can help them fold chaotic memories,

into a comprehensible form."

Su Yu had already begun packing the medical kit. She placed several items into it: a small bottle of flower fertilizer, a few sheets of blank origami paper, and an "Error Star Specimen Box" borrowed from the Morning Star.

"Let's go," she said, "it's time for the garden's first lesson, a field teaching."

The Bridge generated a small light boat for them—like a glowing leaf—carrying the two as they glided between light pillars of the Flower Field Network. Below, the hopeful meadow rippled with silver‑green waves in the morning breeze, and in the distance a mine emitted a humming of machinery; everything seemed tranquil.

But Han Qing knew that beneath this calm, the wound was quietly inflaming.

The light boat flew steadily. Su Yu sat opposite him, her fingers unconsciously folding a piece of paper—not a star, but a simple little boat. The paper rustled at her fingertips, like a soothing rhythm.

"What are you thinking about?" Han Qing asked.

Su Yu didn't look up: "I was thinking of Chen Mo's last house call. It was also three people, also a memory infection. When he returned, he held three stars folded from patients' bandages and said, 'Some people need more than medicine; they need testimony.'"

After folding the little boat, she gently placed it on the bottom of the light boat. The boat was instantly activated by the light boat's energy field, and tiny ripples appeared on its surface.

"Are you afraid?" she finally looked at Han Qing, "Afraid that your own wound will become someone else's teaching material?"

Han Qing touched his chest. A little flower blossomed right under his fingertip, emitting a very faint frequency that blended pain with warmth.

"Chen Mo once said," he recalled, "the best doctors are those who have been sick themselves, because they know how bitter medicine is, how sharp needles are, and how long the night lasts."

The light boat began to descend.

The first patient's light pillar was right ahead.

The first patient was a young miner from the mine named Xiao Lu. Seven days earlier, he had suffered a minor collapse while working underground and was trapped for three hours. After being rescued, his body was fine, but ever since he could not close his eyes—whenever he did, countless glowing fissures appeared in the darkness, and from those fissures came the voice of his deceased father.

When Han Qing entered the light pillar, he saw Xiao Lu staring at the sky with his eyes wide open, blood vessels covering his eyeballs, his hands gripping the ground tightly.

"His father died in a mining accident seven years ago," the accompanying old miner whispered, "the child never cried. This time being trapped seemed to force out all the tears from back then…"

Su Yu had already opened the medical kit. She didn't walk straight to Xiao Lu; instead, she crouched, took the bottle of flower fertilizer from the kit, and poured a small circle on the ground three meters away from Xiao Lu.

Han Qing understood. He stepped into the circle and unbuttoned his shirt.

The scar garden on his chest was fully exposed in the morning light. All eighty‑seven little flowers simultaneously turned toward Xiao Lu, beginning to emit a mixed frequency—not language, but a "Wound Resonance" that acted directly on the consciousness layer.

Xiao Lu's body suddenly stiffened.

The glowing fissures in his eyes began to overlap with the scar pattern on Han Qing's chest. The father's voice within the fissures was slowly "translated" by the garden's frequency: no longer a chaotic echo, but clear Memory Fragments—

His father taught him how to tie a safety rope.

His father waved at the mine entrance, saying "Come up earlier."

The song his father hummed the last time he left work.

Those sounds were no longer frightening.

They turned into… flower fertilizer.

Tears suddenly welled up in Xiao Lu's eyes. It wasn't uncontrolled sobbing, but emotions blocked for seven years finally finding an outlet.

One of the little flowers on Han Qing's chest—the one with a metallic sheen at its edge—detached automatically and drifted toward Xiao Lu. The flower hovered before him, its petals slowly unfolding to reveal a tiny holographic image inside: the very scene of his father's last wave as remembered.

But the image contained something extra: at the edge of his father's palm, a faint iridescent halo—a "Healing Mark" bestowed by the garden.

Xiao Lu reached out to touch the little flower.

The flower merged into his palm, forming a small, glowing imprint beneath his skin.

He closed his eyes.

This time, there was no darkness, no fissures.

Only the waving scene with the iridescent halo floated quietly in his consciousness.

"You can cry now," Han Qing said softly, "tears are also a kind of flower fertilizer."

Xiao Lu crouched, burying his face into his knees, his shoulders shaking violently. But this time it was release, not fear.

The accompanying old miner wiped his eyes, took a small piece of coal crystal from his pocket, and gently placed it at Han Qing's feet: "A miner's token of thanks. Not valuable, but… heat‑resistant."

The second patient was in a temporary dwelling at the edge of the hopeful meadow.

It was a middle‑aged woman whom everyone called Xiu Yi. Her hands were deft; before the disaster she was an embroidery master, now she mends children's clothes with plant fibers. Three days ago she suddenly couldn't pick up a needle—whenever she did, her fingertips would "see" the unfinished final piece from seven years ago: a mandarin‑duck quilt prepared for her daughter's wedding.

That work forever remained stuck on the "duck"'s eye.

When Han Qing entered the hut, Xiu Yi was sitting by the window, both hands resting on her lap, her gaze empty as she stared outside. Her fingers trembled slightly, and tiny needle‑like scars dotted her fingertips—self‑inflicted when she tried to forcefully pick up a needle.

Su Yu said nothing, simply taking a blank sheet of origami paper from the medical kit and gently placing it beside Xiu Yi's hand.

Han Qing squatted, letting the scar garden on his chest face Xiuyi's hands.

The garden sensed the frequency of the needle‑prick scars; several small flowers automatically adjusted their angles, releasing targeted resonance waves. Xiuyi's fingers suddenly stopped trembling.

She "saw".

It wasn't the mandarin ducks on the face, but the petal patterns of those small flowers on Han Qing's chest—those patterns, in minute detail, astonishingly resembled her memory of the embroidery stitch: both mending the broken into whole, transforming pain into beauty.

"Let me see that unfinished work." Han Qing said softly.

Xiuyi closed her eyes. The image of the embroidered face in her memory was captured and transformed by the garden's frequency, projected into the air between them.

"The 'yuan' eye is indeed empty. But in the eye of the 'yang' beside it, Xiuyi had secretly added three stitches years ago—that was her personal habit; her daughter knows, saying, 'Mom's embroidered birds all have three pupils.'"

The garden's small flowers began to work.

They were not "completing" that work, but transforming the state of "unfinished" itself into a new aesthetic. Several small flowers detached, weaving in the air a three‑dimensional, glowing "embroidery"—exactly at the vacant eye position, but now the vacancy itself became part of the pattern, its edge traced with iridescent light.

Xiuyi watched this thread of light embroidery, her breath suddenly quickening.

Then she reached out her hand—not to take a needle, but to lightly touch that light with her fingertip.

The light embroidery merged into her fingertip.

Her fingers stopped trembling.

She looked at the paper Su Yu had placed aside, not folding stars but beginning to fold a tiny three‑dimensional bird. The paper fluttered at her fingertips; although she hadn't done fine handwork in seven years and her movements were a little rusty, the bird gradually took shape.

When she reached the final step, she stopped.

At the bird's eye position, she deliberately left a tiny opening—not folding it completely shut.

"This is good enough." Xiuyi said softly, her voice calm for the first time in seven years, "Let the eye… still be able to see light in."

She handed the paper bird to Han Qing.

As Han Qing took it, a small flower from his chest scar garden drifted out, slipped into the bird's opening, and glowed softly inside.

Now the paper bird has a glowing, unfinished eye.

Xiuyi smiled. It was a faint smile, but the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes relaxed, like a flower blooming.

Just then, on the way to the third patient, the bridge suddenly received an urgent communication.

It wasn't coming from the flower field, but from the direction of the Mother Star.

A projection of the Light Sphere appeared inside the Light Vessel, its surface showing an unsettling image: among the five hundred ships that had become observation windows, twenty‑seven suddenly shut their transparent state, reverting to silvery‑white combat form. They were slowly adjusting their angles—not aiming at the bridge, but at the Mother Star itself.

"The Supreme Council is split internally.

"The conservative elders believe the evolution is too fast,

"it could lead to civilization collapse.

"they demand temporary isolation of all 'infected individuals',

"including the three former patients who have completed evolution."

The view switched to the Mother Star Non-logic Research Department. The three evolved individuals were isolated in separate chambers by a translucent energy field, with a row of armed guards standing outside.

But the evolved individuals did not resist.

The first one (the half‑mechanical, half‑organic) was, through the energy field, teaching the guards how to "see light through cracks". It pressed its palm‑glowing crack against the field; the crack's light penetrated the barrier, casting rainbow‑like spots on the guards' faceplates.

The second one (the gel‑like) was "singing" inside the energy field—using vibrations of internal salt crystals to mimic the melody of an Earth lullaby. The melody was clumsy, but several young guards noticeably adjusted their stances to let their receivers pick up the sound better.

The third one (the one with tear marks on its faceplate) was the quietest. It simply sat cross‑legged, etching a mathematical formula on the floor before it—not Se Lan's higher mathematics, but its own invented "emotional formula". The formula is ugly, the symbols twisted, yet anyone passing by can't help but glance at it.

Calibrator-7's voice cut into the communication, its frequency obviously urgent:

"I am trying to mediate.

"but the elders do not believe evolution is an irreversible process.

"they think that if the formatting is thorough enough…"

Before the words finished, an elder walked toward the isolation chamber's control console.

It reached out, hovering over the "mandatory format" button.

Just then, the scar garden on Han Qing's chest collectively turned toward the Mother Star.

All the small flowers simultaneously released strong resonance waves—not an attack, but a trans‑distance "wound resonance".

The three evolved beings simultaneously lifted their heads.

They, across the energy field, across space, across light‑years, "heard" the garden's resonance.

Then they did the same thing:

Simultaneously sending their deepest "wound memory" backward, through their new post‑evolution ability, to the elder who was about to press the button.

Not an attack, but a sharing.

Sharing the tearing sensation when breaking the cocoon.

Sharing the burning of the first tear.

Sharing the shock of realizing that beauty can come from pain.

The elder's hand froze in midair.

Data streams flickered wildly on its faceplate—it was processing an overload of emotional information it had never encountered before.

Three seconds later, its hand dropped.

It did not press the button.

Instead, it turned around and said to all the guards:

"……increase the energy supply to the isolation field.

"make sure their evolution process……

"is not disturbed."

It neither said support nor opposition.

It chose to observe.

The light vessel landed at the third marker point.

This is neither a residential area nor a work zone. It is a small, carefully tended cemetery——all the departed in the Flower Field Network rest here, each tombstone a special plant: some are hope grass, some are listening flowers, some are ancient tree species rescued from the ruins.

When Han Qing and Su Yu stepped off the light vessel, they saw a person standing among the tombstones.

It was Old Zhao.

He had his back to them, wiping one of the tombstones with a soft cloth. The tombstone was not a stone slab but a twisted metal beam—unearthed from the ruins of the Chemical Industrial Park seven years ago, with names and dates etched onto it by a welding torch.

Han Qing's chest garden suddenly fell silent.

All the little flowers turned toward Old Zhao, but they no longer released resonance waves, merely gazing silently.

Su Yu lightly touched Han Qing's arm, indicating with her gaze: This patient is different.

Old Zhao heard the footsteps but did not turn. He continued wiping the metal beam, his motions slow and careful, as if washing the face of a sleeping child.

"This is my wife." He finally spoke, his voice flat, "the mother of my son."

Han Qing stepped forward. The little flowers in his garden began to emit an extremely faint frequency, similar to an evening breeze.

"She wasn't a casualty." Old Zhao continued, his fingers tracing the engraving, "She passed swiftly, without suffering. It is I… I who have never healed."

He turned his face. On the hard man's visage were two clear tear tracks—not fresh, but the marks left by many cycles of drying and wetting again.

"I hear the garden calling me." Old Zhao looked at Han Qing's chest, his gaze direct, unflinching, "I want it… to teach me. To teach me how to fold seven years of 'not ready yet' into something I can hold in my hand."

Han Qing said nothing.

He opened his upper garment, letting the garden be fully revealed.

Then he did something he had never done before—

He gently plucked from the scar the small, deep‑purple flower at the very center.

The flower trembled slightly in his palm; as its roots detached from the scar crystal, a sharp but fleeting pain shot through.

Han Qing handed the flower to Old Zhao.

"This flower grew from a seed buried by Chen Mo." He said, "It remembers all the words left unsaid, all the deeds left undone, all the 'what if back then…'"

Old Zhao stared at the flower. In his palm it continued to bloom, and on its petals emerged extremely faint images—not complete memories, but sensory fragments: the humidity of morning mist in the Chemical Industrial Park, the scent of soap on his wife's hair, the milky tone in his son's voice when he first called 'dad'…

"The garden won't heal you." Han Qing said softly, "But it will teach you how to walk on with your wound. How to let the wound… bloom."

Old Zhao clenched his fist, yet took care not to crush the flower.

The flower in his palm sent out roots that extended on their own, lightly piercing his skin—not parasitic, but symbiotic.

Now, this flower that bloomed from Han Qing's scar has also taken root in Old Zhao's hand.

Old Zhao lowered his head to gaze at the flower in his palm, staring for a long time.

Then he said:

"My son just sent a message."

"He said that on the other side of the Consciousness Bridge, he saw Mother."

"Mother said… the flower is very beautiful."

He lifted his head; his eye sockets were still red, but the corners of his mouth held a faint, genuine curve.

"It seems this outreach trip," Su Yu said softly, "will require us to go to one more place."

Han Qing nodded.

On his chest, where the flower had been plucked, a new bud had already sprouted.

It was small, but resolute.