Hypnosis Guidance

Though it wasn’t summer, I somehow felt unbearably hot.

The afternoon streets were shimmering with heat waves.

The air carried the mingled scents of aged electrical wires and soldering flux, while the first cicadas of the season clung to the trees, their shrill cries unusually fervent, draping the old street in a layer of sweltering haze.

Lin Mo arrived late to Tao Street, strolling leisurely down the road as usual.

There it was—the familiar audio shop, the same sprawling old banyan tree.

With the weather turning hotter now, resting under the tree’s shade felt even more comfortable.

Except the old man who should have been reclining on the lounge chair, lazily fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan, had been replaced.

Before Lin Mo could approach, he noticed the person sitting there wasn’t the shop owner.

A stranger—an elderly man—lay on the chair, eyes closed, humming softly along to the Cantonese opera crackling from the radio.

The shop was open, but the owner was nowhere in sight.

Lin Mo walked over, and the old man on the chair sat up.

“Hey, young man, what can I get you?”

“Is Old Yang not here? He told me just the other day he got a new batch of vacuum tubes.”

The old man’s expression cleared in realization. “Oh, so it’s you. I heard Old Yang’s son came back. These past few days, he’s been doting on him. But he asked me to watch the shop, said you’d come by for something.”

With that, he got up from the chair and went inside, returning with a bag of vacuum tubes.

“Here, take a look. These are leftovers from the old Soviet stock. Don’t expect brand-new ones—pick whatever you can get working, if you’re lucky.”

Lin Mo didn’t stand on ceremony, casually sifting through the tubes. Vacuum tubes, at a glance, resembled little light bulbs.

Inside the glass, the cathode, grid, and anode were clearly structured. From the clarity of the glass and the oxidation on the pins, he could roughly gauge their condition and remaining lifespan.

This batch had traveled a long way from the former Soviet Union.

Before its collapse, the USSR had been unparalleled in military-grade vacuum tube technology. Later, these innovations trickled into the civilian market, becoming what audiophiles revered as the soul of tube amplifiers.

The old man stood with his arms crossed, watching Lin Mo’s movements with interest.

Lin Mo occasionally flicked a tube with his fingernail, listening carefully to the faint resonance. Within minutes, he’d picked out seven or eight high-quality ones from the pile of junk.

“Old Yang wasn’t wrong—you really know your stuff,” the old man remarked, surprised.

“Not really. Just learned from my dad,” Lin Mo replied with a smile, gathering his selections. “Uncle, how much?”

The old man glanced at them, seemingly indifferent, and waved a hand.

“Just pay whatever. Old Yang didn’t set a price. Fifty bucks will do.”

Vacuum tubes weren’t terribly expensive individually—since you wouldn’t know their true quality until testing them at home.

Lin Mo pulled out cash without hesitation, about to pack the tubes away when his peripheral vision caught a conspicuously empty spot in the shop.

“Huh? Where’s Old Yang’s tube amp?”

The old man sighed.

“He took it back. Said he was giving it to his son. That was a fine piece, tuned just right.”

“No idea why he’d move it. It’s not like keeping it here made a difference. Kids these days don’t appreciate tube amps anyway.”

Then, as if remembering Lin Mo was also young, he quickly added, “No offense—you’re a rare exception.”

Lin Mo shrugged, unfazed.

With the tubes secured, he was ready to head home.

Just then, Old Yang appeared, trailed by several burly men in matching work uniforms.

None of them looked like his son.

“Hey, Old Yang, what’s going on?” the old shopkeeper asked, puzzled.

But Old Yang’s expression was blank, his eyes hollow as he stood there like a wooden post.

He pointed inside the shop and said tonelessly, “Everything’s in there. Take what you need, just give me the paperwork afterward.”

Lin Mo’s brow furrowed. Something felt off.

He stepped forward, placing a hand on Old Yang’s shoulder. “Old Yang, what’s wrong? Did your son get into trouble?”

Old Yang turned slowly, his empty gaze meeting Lin Mo’s, and repeated, “My son needs money. I have to give it to him.”

The shopkeeper grew frantic, grabbing Old Yang’s arm and shaking him.

“Old Yang, have you lost your mind? That German tube amp was your pride and joy! And those vintage Tannoy speakers—how long did it take you to hunt those down? You’re just letting them go?”

Lin Mo’s spiritual sense swept over the men—they weren’t thugs or movers, but pawnshop workers.

They meticulously tagged each item they carried out.

Yet Old Yang acted as if he hadn’t heard, mechanically brushing off Uncle Wang’s grip, his voice flat.

“My son needs money. I have to give it to him.”

Lin Mo’s frown deepened. This wasn’t right.

He pressed further, “Old Yang, what happened? What kind of mess did your son land in?”

Old Yang turned again, his hollow eyes meeting Lin Mo’s, and repeated the same phrase.

“My son needs money. I have to give it to him.”

Uncle Wang exclaimed, “Old Yang, are you sick? Those are your treasures in there! Selling them just like that? How much does your son owe? You could’ve borrowed from us!”

But Old Yang only shook his head. “I’m in my seventies. Borrowed money would never be repaid. Better to sell this scrap metal.”

The words held logic—but barely.

After all, Old Yang would never normally call those items “scrap metal.”

He was retired, with a pension and a shop he owned outright—no rent, just a hobby to pass the time.

Lin Mo’s spiritual sense unfurled silently, enveloping Old Yang.

The first sweep revealed nothing unusual—just the typical ailments of aging: weakened bodily functions, common age-related conditions.

But on a second, closer inspection, something foreign lurked in Old Yang’s mind.

Delving deeper, Lin Mo found it—a wisp of discordant energy coiled in the depths of Old Yang’s consciousness, like a slender parasite. It pulsed faintly, distorting his thoughts.

“So that’s it.”

Lin Mo understood now. No wonder Old Yang moved like a puppet on strings.

Without hesitation, he sharpened his spiritual sense into an invisible needle and drove it straight into the parasitic energy.

Pfft.

A sound too quiet to hear.

The energy shattered instantly, dissolving into nothing.

Old Yang shuddered violently—as if struck by a sudden chill—his legs nearly giving way. The dullness in his eyes flickered, then cleared rapidly.

Blinking in confusion, he murmured, “I... what’s happening to me?”