The Old Man was right. Fu Qian really was talking nonsense.
Though the former was shouting himself hoarse over there, it could still be understood with all supernatural elements excluded—as the self-refutation of a mentally ill man—
His beloved son had committed suicide years ago, causing his mind to break down and leading to the birth of this sanatorium.
And that long career as a recorder was merely a little game of self-deception and self-torment, born from his inability to accept that his son had truly left for good.
Through one record after another, the Old Man had tried to search for traces of his son.
As for why he had actually found him?
Simple. It could be explained by the same reason the Old Man could not search the things he himself had recorded.
The part of himself that possessed the ability to search had gradually been separated out, little by little, eventually becoming an independent entity.
That was the true meaning of what had been mentioned earlier—living within his willpower.
So no matter how sternly he spoke or how ruthlessly he applied pressure, the Old Man was still talking to himself.
And this so-called loss was merely a narrow definition he had imposed upon himself under those circumstances.
Everything was still inside the Old Man's head. He simply believed he had forgotten it.
Theoretically, solving such a problem would be like crawling into someone else's brain to connect neurons. It was far too difficult to execute.
So why had Fu Qian still said he would search for it himself?
Simple. To collect a paycheck without doing the work.
The Old Man's excessively volatile mental state needed an outlet.
If Fu Qian did not take the job, the man would likely drive himself to death standing right here, determined