After My Paper Was Stolen, I Took Twelve Bloodstained Uniforms to File a Complaint

My adviser, the son of an academic powerbroker, stole my research results and published my paper under someone else's name.

I went to my supervisor for help, but he withdrew my thesis, which had already been submitted for review, and threatened to delay my graduation indefinitely.

I went to complain to the dean. He said that if I didn't know what was good for me, he'd make sure I could never work in this field again.

"You're just a lab tool. Who do you think you are?"

My senior students spread sexual rumors about me, deleted all the experimental data I'd collected over the years, smashed my phone and computer, and mocked me.

"You're a country girl from a backwater village in Dian City. There are barely any people left in your whole village. Who do you think will stand up for you?"

On International Anti-Drug Day, I posted a video holding up a piece of paper with twelve strings of numbers written on it.

"I'm Su Ling. I swear by the police identification numbers of everyone in my village, now sealed away. I am publicly reporting my supervisor and dean for academic misconduct!"

There are fewer than a hundred living people in my entire village. The ancestral hall's walls are covered in bloodstained police uniforms.

No one is standing up for me.

But I want to know: can the world my ancestors protected with their blood give me justice?