Chapter 121: The Supreme Hacker

The clinic didn’t have many patients and was quite leisurely. After all, people with supernatural abilities don’t just fall ill easily; apart from some accidental injuries, they rarely sought medical help.

The Fenglan Clinic was spacious, mainly because it occupied a large area. The front housed the outpatient consultation rooms, while the back contained five or six small rooms serving as temporary wards. Upstairs had a similar layout but was generally reserved for the few members of the Bingyan group themselves. Moreover, Fenglan Clinic had yet to admit any patient for overnight stays.

With no pressing matters downstairs, Leng Bingyan went upstairs to one of the small rooms. The room was warmly decorated in soft blue tones, unmistakably feminine. Inside was a bed, and by the window stood a desk with a computer atop it. The room was well-lit, bright and inviting.

“Why did Mingxi decorate my room like this?” Leng Bingyan murmured to herself. She approached the desk, moved the chair, and sat down, then powered on the computer.

Out of habit, she logged into her QQ account. Immediately, a blinking avatar caught her eye. She clicked on the girl’s profile named Shui Wuyue, and a chat window popped up.

Shui: “Haven’t seen you in a while. What have you been busy with lately?”

Bingfeng: “Nothing much, school’s started, so I’ve had less time to log on.”

Leng Bingyan had always used the screen name “Frozen Tears” online. What meaning lay behind it, even she hadn’t fully figured out.

She recalled how, a year ago, she registered “Frozen Tears” on a computer technology enthusiast forum called “Mad Daylight.” The forum was filled with highly specialized posts. Fascinated by computers and the elusive world of hackers, she paused to explore.

In the following days, Leng Bingyan would log in whenever she had time, though she remained a silent observer. Immersed in the discussions, she gradually taught herself computer skills, gaining unprecedented understanding.

The forum hosted many true experts alongside a few novice hackers boasting about their exploits—who they had hacked today and whom they planned to target next. Leng Bingyan shook her head. Not only were their skills inferior to hers, but real hackers never flaunted their identities. Beyond technical prowess, a hacker’s most vital asset was maintaining secrecy. A hacker exposed to the light was no longer truly in the shadows.

After more than six months lurking on “Mad Daylight,” Leng Bingyan decided to stop being a silent observer. One pitch-black night, when the forum was nearly empty and dozens of help requests remained unanswered, she began replying one by one, addressing their doubts and questions.

Thus, the “Frozen Tears” ID emerged into the forum’s spotlight.

Shui Wuyue was the subforum moderator and assistant administrator of “Mad Daylight.” That night, unable to sleep, she wandered through her section intending to help some rookies. But when she logged in as moderator, she suddenly realized someone had taken over her job. Using her assistant admin privileges, she checked “Frozen Tears”’ activity logs and found that every reply was posted within a minute.

A cold smile curled on her lips. Answering a thread in under a minute, especially when dealing with novice questions, was unheard of. She used to do this job herself, knowing it took at least five minutes per reply. At that moment, Shui Wuyue suspected “Frozen Tears” was a troublemaker.

Returning to the main page, she scrutinized the replies more carefully. The deeper she read, the more astonished she became. Who was this “Frozen Tears” who answered so quickly and with such depth? Some solutions even surprised Shui Wuyue, revealing perspectives she hadn’t considered.

Shui Wuyue herself had been a prodigy in computer technology since childhood and was selected for specialized training. Few in the world could surpass her skills. Yet now, she regarded “Frozen Tears” with newfound respect.

She checked the registration details and found that, apart from the nickname, no gender or age was provided—a true enigma. While evaluating, she appointed “Frozen Tears” as an honorary moderator of her subforum. Such talent was not to be overlooked.

The next day, Leng Bingyan logged in, found herself an honorary moderator, and chuckled softly. She had merely answered a few questions. Then she continued browsing the threads.

Unbeknownst to her, Shui Wuyue was patiently waiting. When “Frozen Tears” appeared online, Shui Wuyue’s eyes lit up, and using her formidable hacking skills, she set about tracing Leng Bingyan’s IP address.

It was unclear what Leng Bingyan’s intentions were—why use so many proxies to log into a forum frequented mostly by hackers and advanced programmers? Shui Wuyue began decrypting the chain of proxy servers.

Step by step, she broke through each layer. Two hours passed as she peeled away twelve proxies. Wiping sweat from her brow, she wondered who “Frozen Tears” was to go to such lengths just to surf the web. This was no attack on the Pentagon, after all.

Suddenly, her eyes brightened. She had cracked the last proxy. Once breached, the true IP would be revealed.

The IP appeared: 218.249.123.22.

Wait—that address seemed familiar.

Excited, Shui Wuyue suddenly felt a chill wash over her. Her entire body trembled. After spending two hours bypassing proxy after proxy, the final IP resolved back to her own computer.

Could she be the hacker herself? Or was her computer compromised and being used without her knowledge? She refused to believe either. The only conclusion was that “Frozen Tears” was a master—a peerless hacker.

Later, Shui Wuyue, as subforum moderator, gradually befriended Leng Bingyan and obtained her QQ number. She also revealed her real name, reassuring Leng Bingyan that, though a hacker, she had nothing to fear because she was military personnel.

QQ was notorious for its numerous vulnerabilities, so hackers generally avoided it. Yet Leng Bingyan used it. This alone surprised Shui Wuyue, but what astonished her even more was that despite “Frozen Tears” using QQ, she still could not uncover Leng Bingyan’s real IP.

After countless attempts, Shui Wuyue gave up, realizing she was no match for “Frozen Tears.” She decided it was wiser to be friends than foes.

Back in the present, Shui Wuyue responded to Leng Bingyan’s explanation of being busy with school by sending a smiling emoji and a reminder: “Don’t forget to study hard!”

Bingfeng replied, “Naturally! Who do you think I am? A genius~ Wahahaha~~~”

Shui Wuyue sent a big disapproving emoji but thought to herself: From that message, “Frozen Tears” was male, a student, somewhat narcissistic—but with enough talent to back it up.

Shui: “By the way, come to the forum chatroom quickly. Something big has happened.”

Bingfeng: “???”

Shui: “You’ll see as soon as you get here. Hurry!”

Entering the chatroom, Leng Bingyan found it in chaos. The virtual crowd bustled, and though it was online, the tension was palpable.

Bingfeng: “What happened? Everyone seems really angry.”

She typed and waited for replies. Minutes later, Leng Bingyan furiously learned the cause. Checking a major domestic news website, the headline blared: “Anti-Chinese Incident Strikes Indonesia Again!”

Indonesia was a multiethnic nation, with a substantial Chinese minority. The native peoples of Indonesia were known worldwide for their mild temperament and love of peace. Yet even such a gentle populace had inflicted grievous harm on their Chinese residents.

In April 1966, the Xinhua News Agency’s Jakarta branch was forced to close, ending the honeymoon between China and Indonesia. From diplomatic establishment to severance, from anti-Chinese to anti-China, relations underwent complex stages. On April 1, 1966, as all personnel evacuated, the Xinhua branch was battered by Molotov cocktails and stones, nearly destroyed. This marked the end of the brief diplomatic honeymoon and the beginning of over twenty years of severance.

Earlier anti-Chinese and anti-China incidents were merely preludes. The true dark era arrived in 1998, with May dubbed the “Dark May.” Between May 13 and 16, riots targeting Chinese Indonesians erupted in several cities, including Jambi, Palembang, Lampung, Jakarta, Solo, and Surabaya. Official Indonesian statistics reported 1,250 deaths, 24 injuries, and 85 women subjected to rape and sexual violence. International human rights organizations doubted these figures, believing the real numbers could be several or even dozens of times higher.

The brutality and scale of the massacre rivaled that of the Nanjing Massacre, yet it occurred in 1998—a relatively modern era. The global media regarded the riots as organized and premeditated, implicating Indonesian military involvement. At the time, President Suharto, seeking to divert financial crisis pressures and ease domestic tensions, reportedly orchestrated the events through military intelligence.

No troops patrolled the streets that day. Chinese Indonesians became primary targets while the military turned a blind eye to looting and assaults, especially against Chinese women. One official estimated damage to include 2,479 commercial buildings, 1,026 residences, 1,604 shops, 384 private offices, 65 banks, 45 factories, 40 large shopping centers, 13 markets, and 12 villas. More than 5,000 cases of rape and gang rape occurred that May, with over 100 incidents daily in Jakarta alone.

The world was shocked. At the time, mainland China was on the brink of war with Taiwan. The Chinese government’s full attention was focused there, leaving Indonesia’s tragedy neglected. Consequently, China adopted a policy of appeasement. It’s worth noting that many Chinese Indonesians held Indonesian citizenship, preventing Chinese military intervention, and that a significant portion sympathized with Taiwan independence. Although unsatisfactory, China’s response was constrained by the looming Taiwan conflict.

Nevertheless, news of the massacre enraged the Chinese people, especially those skilled in technology. A wave of hackers emerged. China’s internet was just opening then; hackers were fewer than today but sufficiently capable.

In 1993, the Institute of High Energy Physics of the Chinese Academy of Sciences established an experimental network. Soon after, a European hacker discovered the unknown address and infiltrated it, marking China’s first hacking incident.

In 1994, the Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications opened internet access to general users.

By 1996, a few Chinese began establishing BBS forums. That year, 17-year-old British student Liane Luster wrote the bestselling novel “The Hacker Matrix,” introducing the term “hacker” to China, translated as “black hat” or “hacker.” The following year, China’s oldest hacker group, the Green Corps, was founded, establishing a community for Chinese hackers.

In May 1998, following the Indonesian anti-Chinese incident, related images and reports gradually reached China via the internet by August. An angry group of hackers launched attacks on Indonesian websites. This attracted global attention and praise, serving as a preliminary skirmish that laid the foundation for later cyber-conflicts between China and the United States.

If any readers find this account unpleasant, they are kindly invited to quietly exit without posting targeted negative reviews—it only brings me distress as well...