Three minutes later.
The enormous shears in Ge Qingming's hand fell to the ground.
He was seized by a group of puppet children, who then lifted him and placed him on the iron bed.
Feng Yuhuai stood in front of him, curled her index finger, and a scalpel was pressed against Ge Qingming's chest.
"You can't do this to me, I'm the gardener, I'm the gardener..."
Ge Qingming's voice was like a jammed tape recorder, playing the same sentence over and over:
"Feng Yuhuai, I gave you new life, it was me ah ah ah ah—"
Feng Yuhuai's lips curled into a sweet arc, and the scalpel elegantly sliced through the aged skin, like cutting open an old sheepskin scroll.
Dozens of pale hands immediately pried open the wound, frantically pulling at the subcutaneous tissue, revealing the writhing organs inside.
"Shh..."
Feng Yuhuai leaned down close, her hair falling on Ge Qingming's contorted face,
