Ji Xing spent his days in constant unease. Ever since the car accident, he hadn’t gone back to work. His family visited him daily, bringing nutritious meals and a few words of comfort. But being out of work, trapped in a cramped space, and physically limited made his mental state even worse.

When Ji Chenjiao knocked on his door, Ji Xing was curled up on the sofa, crying.

Seeing police officers through the peephole made Ji Xing flinch and shrink back. But Ji Chenjiao’s calm and steady gaze seemed to give him the courage to break free from this cage. He couldn’t endure this kind of life anymore.

Opening the door, Ji Xing stood weakly by the doorway, as if he had finally given up. His voice was hoarse: “What… what do you want?”

Ling Lie hadn’t come upstairs and was wandering aimlessly below. Ji Chenjiao hadn’t brought a body camera or turned on any recording device. He got straight to the point, explaining that he wasn’t here as a police officer, and whether to let him in or not was entirely Ji Xing’s choice.

A look of surprise flickered in Ji Xing’s eyes. His hand gripped the doorframe tightly, head lowered, shoulders trembling slightly as if struggling fiercely inside.

“Come in,” Ji Xing finally said, “you don’t need to change shoes.”

Still, Ji Chenjiao put on shoe covers. Ling Lie had given them to him downstairs—he oddly carried shoe covers around. The last time they’d visited Liu Yuchun’s home, Ling Lie had also pulled out a pair, insisting on squeezing inside.

It was a small apartment—one bedroom, one living room—laid out much like Ji Chenjiao’s own place. Ji Xing no longer resisted as he had in past meetings. He nervously poured a glass of water. “Have a seat.”

Ji Chenjiao asked, “Your father said you had a minor car accident. How’s your health?”

Ji Xing stared at the floor. “It’s okay. I just can’t work for now.”

Ji Chenjiao: “Do you know why I’m here?”

Ji Xing was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Mm.”

“Your grandfather Ji Ke participated in multiple murder cases. He recorded in his diary the criminals he ‘saved’,” Ji Chenjiao said patiently. “Starting from the 4-2 case, these people were either killed, targeted, or became killers themselves.”

Ji Xing’s body stiffened. His hands, resting on his knees, slowly clenched into fists.

Ji Chenjiao noted every reaction. “The last two cases are solved, but the first—the 4-2 case—”

“It wasn’t me!” Ji Xing finally broke, hugging his head tightly. “I know my grandfather was insane. I inherited his blood—I must be crazy too! But I didn’t kill anyone. I don’t know who killed Liu Yixiang!”

“Everything you say now is off the record. I promise you,” Ji Chenjiao said, placing his phone—with the recording function clearly off—on the table. “You need to confess, but you can’t speak to your family. Let me be your listener.”

Ji Xing looked up, eyes red and swollen. “You really… really won’t arrest me?”

“Arrests need evidence. Evidence requires proper procedure,” Ji Chenjiao said. “As you can see, I’m just here today as an ordinary citizen to talk.”

Ji Xing forced himself to calm down. “I’ve known something was wrong with my grandfather for a long time. He seemed kind on the surface, but whenever I looked into his eyes… there was nothing there. He passed away three years ago. My dad stored his belongings in the storage room at home. I couldn’t resist—I wanted to know what kind of person he really was…”

At that time, Ji Xing hadn’t moved out. He had plenty of chances to sneak into the storage room when no one else was home, staying for hours.

He was most fascinated by a dozen notebooks, filled with details from Ji Ke’s business trips—but also strange sentences he couldn’t understand.

He copied those lines down and studied them whenever he had time. Gradually, he realized each letter corresponded to a person. The first he “decoded” was L (Liu Yixiang), then G (Gan Pengfei). But there wasn’t enough content to see the whole picture, so his imagination ran wild—and his behavior grew odd.

He couldn’t bear to be around his family anymore, and they couldn’t bear him either. He moved out, but kept dreaming that these lettered people were all murderers, and his grandfather was raising “gu”—a poisonous parasite from folk legend—where only one could survive.

After Liu Yixiang died, Ji Xing became hyperactive, going to Xieyang Road almost daily to check on the investigation. And in the end, he did something.

“I confessed on Mountain—I met Gan Pengfei. He knew I was Ji Ke’s grandson and didn’t guard against me. I told him… I told him that his ‘partners’ wanted to kill him.”

Ji Chenjiao narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing him.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Ji Xing burst into tears. “Since last year I’ve wanted to atone for my grandfather!”

Ji Chenjiao: “Atone?”

“Those people are murderers! They shouldn’t pretend nothing happened—it was my grandfather who protected them! What about the people they hurt? Did they die for nothing? I… I wanted revenge! I wanted them all to pay!”

“They deserved to destroy each other—not to live peacefully like this!”

Ji Xing panted, slumping back on the sofa. But after half a minute, he covered his face and cried again. “But Gan Pengfei really killed someone… and then he was killed. I regret it so much! I must have been insane. Why did I do that? My grandfather was sick… does that mean I am too?”

“I was in so much pain, but I couldn’t tell anyone. And the police were watching me. So I went to Feiyun County—I heard that mountain could cleanse the soul. But it didn’t work! I came back and I was still like this!”

Ji Chenjiao thought for a moment. “Liu Yixiang’s death…”

“It wasn’t me! I don’t know who killed him!” Ji Xing nearly broke down. “My biggest mistake was provoking Gan Pengfei. I was wrong, I was wrong…”

Ji Chenjiao pondered. So Gan Pengfei’s sudden crime spree—murdering Tang Xiaofei, trying to kill Xin Yiping—wasn’t just triggered by Liu Yixiang’s death, but also Ji Xing’s provocation. If Ji Xing wasn’t lying, then the truth was ironic indeed. The grandfather spent his life trying to reform villains; the grandson wanted these villains to pay for their past crimes by killing each other.

Wiping his tears, Ji Xing actually seemed better—like a burden finally lifted.

“Officer Ji… what punishment will I face?”

Ji Chenjiao said, “As I said, I’m here today as a private citizen.”

After a moment’s silence, Ji Chenjiao added, “But if you’re willing to take responsibility, you can come to the Major Crimes Unit anytime and make a formal statement.”

Ji Xing nodded. “I understand.”

Ji Chenjiao opened his car door—only to see a pair of feet in front of him. “…”

Ling Lie was stretching and napping in the car, his foot landing right in Ji Chenjiao’s hands. Like a cat disturbed from a nap, he wrinkled his nose and face, trying to pull his foot back—only to fail.

“Huh?”

Ji Chenjiao didn’t know why he was holding that foot either. He quickly let go and sprayed alcohol everywhere.

Ling Lie was indignant. “I just changed these socks today!”

Ji Chenjiao ignored him, pulling the seat back up.

“So? Can you clear my name now?” Ling Lie sat up obediently.

Ji Chenjiao: “No.”

Ling Lie didn’t give up. “Either my innocence or a new phone—you owe me one of the two.”

Ji Chenjiao stepped on the gas. “I’ll buy your phone now.”

Ji Chenjiao’s phones were either bought online or issued by the department. Their electronic devices were tightly regulated—even personal ones had to be inspected by tech forensics and loaded with police software. He knew little about phones or tablets and never browsed stores.

Following Ling Lie’s directions, he drove to the city’s largest electronics mall—only to find it was right by his own apartment.

The mall was filled with phones, computers, and streaming gear. Ling Lie didn’t even look at phones—he went straight for the game consoles.

Ji Chenjiao thought of the cat from his old schoolbook—always distracted.

“What are you actually buying?” Ji Chenjiao finally asked.

Ling Lie tugged his sleeve. “Do you have a Switch at home?”

Ji Chenjiao had bought a PS4 years ago, but modern single-player games were too elaborate and time-consuming—beating one was like having a full-time job. He only wanted to relax, not get exhausted. Both the games and console were now gathering dust.

“No.”

Ling Lie said, “Then you should try owning one.”

Ji Chenjiao: “…”

Ling Lie started praising the Switch to the skies—even the salesperson stared, wide-eyed. Who was the real salesman here?

Ling Lie concluded, “Great for helping you relax after solving cases.”

Ji Chenjiao mercilessly exposed him. “You just want to play, right?”

Ling Lie: “Not at all, not at all. Where are the phones? Let’s look at the phones.”

Buying the phone was quick. Ling Lie’s old phone was cheap and low-end—barely over a thousand yuan. He’d bought it just after returning to China; though he took care of it and rarely powered it on, it was already laggy after a year.

As a modern man, Ji Chenjiao felt that a smooth, high-speed phone was indispensable. Since he had to compensate Ling Lie, he might as well get him a better one. But to his surprise, Ling Lie pointed at a phone priced at just over a thousand yuan and said, “I’ll take this one.”

Ji Chenjiao asked, “Not trying to scam me anymore?”

Ling Lie widened his eyes innocently. “What do you take me for, some kind of bitter fool?”

Ji Chenjiao muttered inwardly, Aren’t you exactly that?

But in the end, Ji Chenjiao didn’t buy him the cheap phone. Instead, he got a domestic model priced over four thousand yuan. He wasn’t deliberately trying to waste money; it was because Ling Lie was still closely tied to the case, and Ji Chenjiao needed to keep track of his whereabouts at all times. If Ling Lie used a lousy phone that kept breaking down and became unreachable in a critical moment, it would be a huge headache.

Ling Lie seemed to cherish the new phone. As soon as they bought it, he had the clerk apply a screen protector and even picked out a flashy case.

He kept flipping the phone over, examining it like a kid who just got a beloved toy. Ji Chenjiao suddenly felt a little soft-hearted. When Ling Lie mentioned that the Switch games were really fun, Ji Chenjiao had a momentary lapse in judgment and actually went back to the shop to buy the console and four games in one go.

Ling Lie couldn’t wait to play. Ji Chenjiao, not wanting to bother going all the way back to the family housing compound, took him straight to his small apartment instead, reminding him along the way, “I spent an extra three thousand yuan—not without conditions.”

Ling Lie beamed. “Go ahead, tell me.”

Ji Chenjiao said, “Don’t let the phone die all the time.”

Ling Lie nodded earnestly. “OK, OK. I’m a suspect, after all. I get it.”

Ji Chenjiao: Like hell you get it.

Back home, Ji Chenjiao boiled water and cut fruit while Ling Lie fiddled with the TV and the game console. The living room of the small apartment was cramped, with a coffee table right in the middle, stacked high with books and in the way. As Ling Lie moved the books aside, the top one slipped off, and something fluttered out from between the pages.

“Hmm?” Ling Lie murmured.

Ji Chenjiao came out of the kitchen carrying a fruit platter and saw Ling Lie sitting on the floor with a book on his lap, holding two pressed specimens—a foxtail and a round-headed dandelion—studying them closely.

“Captain Ji, did I make these?” Ling Lie said as if discovering a treasure. “This dandelion—I gave it to Shen Qi, didn’t I?”

Ji Chenjiao’s face darkened. He snatched the two specimens away and shoved them back into the book. “Aren’t all dandelions like that? You can tell them apart?”

Ling Lie lost all interest in gaming, grinning as he teased Ji Chenjiao. “Captain Ji, you sure are interested in me.”

Ji Chenjiao gave a short snort. “What detective isn’t interested in a suspect?”

---

Beyond Vision – The Dead

The summer in Cangshui Town was unbearably hot. The fan spun noisily, but only blew out warm air. Chen Bian’an sat in the office, staring at renovation blueprints and constantly wiping sweat from his face with a handkerchief.

“Old Chen, I understand you want to give the kids a beautiful campus, but don’t we just not have that kind of money?” The old principal, though still holding the title, had long since stepped back from daily duties, leaving Chen Bian’an and several other directors to run the school.

The dilapidated teaching building had become a safety hazard, the drainage system had problems, and many classroom fans were broken. Every summer the students complained about the heat, unable to concentrate in class. Now that summer break had arrived and the students were gone, the teachers were left worrying about the renovations. There was too much to fix, and the school’s spare funds, along with a small grant from the town, just weren’t enough.

The school had always looked dull and gray, lacking any color. Chen Bian’an had suggested brightening it up with colorful tiles like the schools in the city, hoping it would subtly influence the students to become more spirited and full of life.

The idea was good, but carrying it out required money.

Chen Bian’an and the other teachers had asked every tile seller in town, but even the cheapest estimates were beyond their budget.

“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something,” Chen Bian’an said cheerfully to reassure the old principal. The old man sighed and left, saying Chen cared too much and that he needed to learn to compromise.

But Chen Bian’an knew he had already compromised. He’d reduced the scope of the tile project to just a third of the original plan, focusing only on the school gate, the flowerbeds, and the corridor connecting the two teaching buildings—places the students passed by every day.

As long as he could find a supplier with prices just a little lower, there was hope.

After gulping down a pot of cool water, he hopped on his bicycle to visit the construction teams and renovation suppliers. After a long round of bargaining, he finally secured a cement contract. Just as he was about to leave, someone suddenly called his name. He turned to see a man who looked familiar.

“Ji Ke? Is that you, Ji Ke?”

Back in their days at Xiayong Normal School, they had parted ways and Ji Ke had vanished without a trace. Some classmates said Ji Ke had become a factory worker. Chen Bian’an had even written to Ji Ke’s family, but never received a reply.

Chen Bian’an had felt powerless when Ji Ke was forced to withdraw from school. He had spoken up passionately in Ji Ke’s defense back then, but it hadn’t changed the school’s decision. He’d been indignant and angry, but as the years passed and he became a teacher—and later moved into administration—he began to understand. Maybe the school had made the right choice. Ji Ke was a brilliant individual, but that didn’t necessarily make him a good teacher.

“Long time no see.” Ji Ke was dressed in a white shirt and simple cloth trousers, holding a brown bag. “Brother Chen, I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

When old friends reunite, reminiscing is inevitable. Chen Bian’an invited Ji Ke to his home, bought half a watermelon and a bag of marinated snacks, and served up the mung bean porridge he had prepared and cooled that morning. “My place is small—hope you don’t mind.”

Ji Ke went downstairs and came back with some beer. “Let’s have a drink.”

As the setting sun painted the sky red, the two of them ate and drank their fill, chatting about their years as students. Both of them tacitly avoided mentioning the expulsion. Chen Bian’an learned that Ji Ke had worked as a factory laborer, then shifted to sales, was married, and had a child—but sadly, his wife had passed away a few years ago.

After some sighing over fate, Chen Bian’an casually brought up the renovation troubles he was facing, just to complain to an old classmate. But to his surprise, Ji Ke said he might be able to help.

“I can get you the tiles at cost price. That’ll save you a big chunk of money. I won’t put it through the company’s books—you don’t need to pay me right away. Take your time.”

Chen Bian’an, long immersed in the school world and unfamiliar with how things worked outside, worried this would cause trouble for Ji Ke and hesitated to accept. Ji Ke laughed. “Don’t worry—this happens all the time. It’ll ease your burden, and I’m happy to help.”

And just like that, the tile problem was solved.

Through July and August, under the blazing summer sun, the renovation progressed in full swing. Ji Ke didn’t leave immediately—he had business to attend to in the area. Remembering Ji Ke’s help, Chen Bian’an let him stay at his home rather than waste money on a cheap inn.

One day, while Ji Ke was out at a business dinner, the head of the local orphanage stopped Chen Bian’an and said that the especially clever child in the orphanage had finished all the exercises he’d been given and had questions he wanted to ask in person.

Chen Bian’an agreed, but he was truly too busy. The orphanage director came to remind him a few more times. Finally, he mentioned this to Ji Ke. Ji Ke grinned and said, “No problem—I’ll go in your place.”

Chen Bian’an was startled. “Is that okay?”

“Why not? I used to compete with you for top of the class. What, you think I can’t handle a grade-schooler?”

“Of course not!”

Chen Bian’an sensed that Ji Ke wanted to live out a bit of his old dream of being a teacher—that the wound from being expelled was still buried in his heart. After some thought, he agreed.

Ji Ke went to the orphanage. The director wasn’t there, so a young boy named Chen He greeted him. The boy eyed this kind-faced man with curiosity.

Ji Ke squatted down and shook his hand. “I’m Teacher Chen.”

Under the shade of the orphanage’s trees, Ji Ke taught Chen He to solve problems using all sorts of tricky methods. Whenever Chen He said, “That’s not what the book says,” Ji Ke would chuckle and reply, “And who says the book’s way is always the best? Isn’t my method faster?”

Chen He nodded, half-understanding.

Many years later, when Chen He solved problems with strange and unorthodox methods and his teachers and classmates called him a genius, he would sometimes think back—it was Principal Chen who planted the seed of that way of thinking when he was just a child.

Ji Ke visited the orphanage several more times. Every time he came back, he would chat with Chen Bian’an about Chen He, never hiding the fact that he had pretended to be “Teacher Chen.”

“Let me enjoy the feeling of being a teacher for once,” Ji Ke said.

Chen Bian’an felt uneasy but had no grounds to object—after all, he’d asked Ji Ke to help him.

Summer quickly passed. The school renovations were complete. The colorful tiles gave the once-dull campus a brand-new, vibrant look.

Ji Ke was about to leave. Before he left, Chen Bian’an scraped together every penny he could and repaid Ji Ke in full for the tiles.

Ji Ke smiled. “You really can’t stand to owe anyone even a cent, can you?”

Chen Bian’an said solemnly, “A debt must be repaid. Otherwise, I won’t feel right teaching my students.”

Back then, communication was inconvenient. People easily lost touch. Ji Ke knew Chen Bian’an was in Cangshui Town; Chen Bian’an knew Ji Ke was in Xiarong City—but each was too busy chasing life and ideals. This summer friendship, rekindled so briefly, soon faded into the dust of passing years.

The year Chen He entered middle school, Chen Bian’an fell seriously ill from overwork. Misuse of medication left his face disfigured. When Chen He saw his principal again, the man was ugly—even frightening—but when Principal Chen gently called his name, he knew this was still the person he admired most.

Yet sometimes he felt this Principal Chen was a little different: stricter, yet somehow warmer. Was it because back then Principal Chen still taught, and now he no longer did? He couldn’t figure it out and didn’t think too hard. Being Principal Chen’s student was the greatest joy of his childhood memory.

One day, Principal Chen sat with him under the orphanage’s trees, playing military chess. He mentioned that Principal Chen had once taught him problem-solving here. Principal Chen’s eyes flashed with a hint of guilt. When Chen He asked about it, he only smiled and kept playing.

That chess set became Chen He’s most cherished toy. Even when he was admitted to the best high school in Xiarong City, then a prestigious university in another province, then studied abroad, then returned home, becoming a partner, becoming wealthy.

Until… Principal Chen passed away in sorrow.

In the detention center, Chen He stared at the tiny window and spent an entire day, finally using that brilliant mind of his to “calculate” a truth.

The one who’d taught him strange methods, the disfigured Principal Chen, the man who played chess with him—the Principal Chen who drowned.

The person he’d revered all his life—their first meeting had been a mistake.

It wasn’t truly Principal Chen who taught him problem-solving, but the man in the photo handed to him by that sharp-witted detective: Ji Ke. He’d only spent a few short days with Ji Ke, under the trees, amid the cicada song. But because he longed so deeply for “Principal Chen,” he’d come to Cangshui Middle School and met the real, better Principal Chen.

He no longer knew which of the two Principals Chen had influenced him more. So perhaps they were both Principal Chen—whether Ji Ke or Chen Bian’an.

There was something he never told the police and never would: when he’d learned Principal Chen had died, his grief far outweighed his anger. When had the thought of revenge begun to sprout? Probably when he received that letter.

Just a few lines: “You are his student. Without him, you would not be who you are now. Are you truly content with the life you have?”

He’d tried to trace the sender. But though he could find anyone hidden online, he could never find who had physically left that letter at the company front desk.

He thought of Principal Chen’s earnest teachings beneath the trees—his vision slowly clouding with hatred.

Who was that person? He no longer wanted to know.

Chen He covered his eyes in exhaustion and whispered, after a long while, “It was you, wasn’t it… Ji Ke?”

After leaving Cangshui Town, Ji Ke deliberately cut ties with Chen Bian’an. Everyone who knew him saw him as a monster—parents, teachers, wife, child—all had drifted away. Only Chen Bian’an had once stood up for him against the odds, had let him stay in his home, had even let him meet a little boy in his place.

He wasn’t entirely without feelings. What little gratitude he still had, he gave to Chen Bian’an.

But he knew full well—they belonged to different worlds. Chen Bian’an was upright, kind, dedicated to education—a man beyond his reach.

In Cangshui Town, he’d lived out his fantasy of being a teacher. That was enough. If there was anyone in this false world he didn’t want to sully with his filth, it was Chen Bian’an.

Because of business trips, he’d traveled far and wide, gathering “sin” in those places, becoming a teacher to “observe targets.”

Liu Yixiang, Xin Yiping, Gan Pengfei… they all called him “Teacher Ji.” The dream that ended abruptly at Xiarong Normal College at age twenty found new life in these criminals. He would make them “turn over a new leaf” and live as ordinary people.

The tile factory collapsed the year Chen Bian’an died. Ji Ke only learned of his friend’s death two years later, piecing together a vague truth from news reports—if Tang Hongting hadn’t been murdered, Chen Bian’an wouldn’t have died such a tragic death.

But he was old now, near the end. What could he still do for his only true friend in this life?

That child. He thought of the boy under the tree.

A genius. His photo was still on the honor wall at Cangshui Middle School.

He did one final thing for Chen Bian’an—
He left a letter at the front desk of Chen He’s company.

As for what would happen after that, he left it to fate.

After all, every life was but a mechanical symbol on the axis of coordinates,
and each symbol carried its predetermined purpose.

Case One: The Two Teachers — End