Ji Chenjiao was hoping to find traces of the “Fuguang” entry point—or some other clue—at Ji Nocheng and Zhou Yun’s home or company. But the shadows hiding behind the scenes seemed extremely cautious; he found nothing at all.

Returning to the home he only ever visited during Spring Festival after work, memories belonging to this place surged back like the tide. Ji Nocheng and Zhou Yun’s bedroom showed signs of being hastily searched and abandoned—it was clear they had packed in a panic. But his own room remained neat and untouched. Even though he didn’t live there, they had never intruded on his personal space; they only sent a housekeeper regularly to clean.

The bookshelf that lined the wall still displayed the certificates and trophies he had won as a student, as well as photos from his college entrance examination year and the year he graduated from the police academy—all family portraits of the three of them, looking like the most ordinary parents in the world.

Ji Chenjiao opened the glass door of the cabinet, took a look at these things, then put them back, turning them face-down against the shelf so they would no longer be seen.

He spent the entire afternoon alone in this house that no one would ever live in again, then left in silence.

Meanwhile, in Xiarong City, on the very same shabby street where Ling Lie had been selling food, a murder took place.

That shabby street had a name: Shenggui Bridge Street—named after the nearby moat and the Shenggui Bridge that crossed it. The street was lined with vendors. With summer vacation underway, merchants had organized a night market, pushing their carts outside to sell food and clothes, even live-streaming to promote their goods.

In the early hours of Sunday, the street, noisy all day, was finally quiet. The cleaning workers hired by the merchants arrived around four in the morning, hoping to clear the piles of trash before the next wave of customers arrived during the day.

A dark shape drifted in the moat, swaying slowly until it came to rest under Shenggui Bridge. At first, the workers didn’t see what it was. But as dawn broke, someone shouted in panic, “Hey—look! Is that… a body?”

Police from the local station rushed to the scene and fished the body out. It was a man, badly decomposed, who had likely been dumped in the river days ago.

According to eyewitnesses, the dead man appeared to be young, about 180 centimeters tall. Someone posted a photo of the recovery online, sparking wild speculation from netizens:

[Another one dead in the water? Wasn’t that big boss also found dead in the river?]

[By the way, did they catch the murderer from the crayfish case?]

[Don’t you follow the police bulletins? They’re hunting Jaco—he killed Boss Kang!]

[What?! You mean that famous news anchor? Why’d he kill Boss Kang?!]

[No clue. But hey, could this corpse be Jaco? Looks kinda like him!]

[You nuts? The guy’s so rotten you can’t even tell! Think you’re better than the coroner?]

…

As the theories snowballed, tens of thousands of people joined in. Shenggui Bridge Night Market drew huge crowds, so the discovery gained wide attention. Since the unidentified corpse could plausibly be the missing Jaco, the South District police immediately informed the Major Crimes Unit.

That day, Ling Lie wasn’t selling marinated clams. He packed away his stove and spatula, riding his bike to Shenggui Bridge where the body had been found.

Ji Chenjiao wrapped up his investigation in Liyun City and went straight to police headquarters after returning to Xiarong City.

What they could confirm for now was that the victim was not Jaco, contrary to rumors. The South District police were working on identifying him.

The victim’s neck bore more than ten messy slash wounds, mostly to the back; two of these had severed the trachea and carotid artery—fatal injuries inflicted while he was still alive. A stab wound to the right lung was also found on his back, and his tailbone showed minor trauma, possibly from a struggle. Autopsy revealed his airway was full of water—An Xun judged the cause of death to be asphyxia by drowning, with the time of death more than four days prior.

That day was June 27th. Given foot traffic near Shenggui Bridge recently, the victim likely died late on the night of June 22nd or early morning June 23rd.

“But the wounds to the neck and back were so severe that, even without drowning, without immediate medical aid he’d have died quickly from blood loss on land,” An Xun added.

He placed the autopsy report before Ji Chenjiao. “We also tested his liver, kidneys, and blood. He’d consumed beer before death—probably drunk at the time of the attack, slow to react. As for the murder weapons—one was a spike. Guess the other?”

Ji Chenjiao glanced at the close-ups of the victim’s neck wounds. “Beer bottle?”

“Yep—a common beer bottle.” An Xun pulled up a photo of Xiaron Beer on his phone. Locally brewed, it came in both glass and can forms—the glass bottle holding 620 ml, with dark brown glass. When the bottom was smashed, the broken edges were sharp and jagged.

An Xun held up his phone like a beer bottle, miming stabbing movements in front of Ji Chenjiao. Ji Chenjiao glared coldly; An Xun flinched. “Not even allowed to demonstrate?”

Liang Wenxian chuckled, “Come here and demo for me, then.”

Short and dressed in a white forensics coat, An Xun scurried over like a rabbit.

“Sister Wan visited the scene. The moat’s edge isn’t a beach—it’s concrete. The victim was pushed in, sank along the bank, bloated, floated up, then drifted under Shenggui Bridge. Sister Wan found the crime scene about a hundred meters away. Luminol tests showed heavy bloodstains there.”

Ji Chenjiao looked at the crime scene photos. “Who cleaned the blood?”

“Janitors,” An Xun said. “There were two groups working that area—one city sanitation, the other privately hired by merchants. City staff arrive after 6 a.m., but because the night market generates so much waste, the merchants hired their own, starting at 3–4 a.m.”

“Those night janitors didn’t know there was a body in the river. The riverside lamps are dim when shops close for the night. They thought the blood was vomit and hosed it down until it vanished. In the process they erased footprints, too. After days of washing, the crime scene was mostly gone.”

Ji Chenjiao asked, “Have all the janitors been questioned? Which shop hired them? When did this start?”

Liang Wenxian said, “You suspect something odd about that?”

Ji Chenjiao nodded. “First, Shenggui Bridge during the night market isn’t a good place for murder—too crowded. The killer likely knew this place well—most likely one of the vendors. Second, the janitors themselves could be suspicious. If the killer was among them, they controlled cleanup.”

Liang Wenxian said, “I’ll arrange to check the vendors. As for the janitors—most have been questioned. No standout suspects. Night market started June 18; they began working on the 19th. Most also clean nightclubs, used to blood and vomit. One did say it looked like blood but thought it was just a fight—no body, so no 911 call. ‘Not my business,’ he said.”

Ji Chenjiao said, “So no one thought it could be a corpse.”

“Exactly—just people scraping by,” Liang Wenxian said. “They’re at society’s bottom.”

Ji Chenjiao accepted this. He turned to An Xun. “Any deductions from the scene?”

“Sister Wan and I think the killer was drinking with the victim by the river. Something happened—argument maybe—killer smashed the bottle and stabbed him. Victim was badly wounded but alive, bled heavily. Afraid of stains or being seen, killer shoved him into the river.”

“Victim, already losing blood fast, drowned quickly. Though shops lined the river, they all faced away; the riverside was dark, lamps broken, and music blaring—no one would’ve heard cries for help.”

Xi Wan added, “Judging by the messy method—it seems like a crime of passion among acquaintances. Once we confirm the victim’s ID, the investigation should progress.”

Ji Chenjiao said, “And the spike wound to the back? The neck wounds are heavier from the rear. A crime of passion usually means frontal attack, wild stabbing. But this was a rear assault.”

Xi hesitated. “Frontal attacks are easier to dodge?”

Ji said, “But you just said the killer was enraged—why think tactically?”

“Hmm…” Xi pondered. “Maybe the killer crept up, struck the neck from behind, the victim turned, and the attack continued—with the spike pulled out mid-fight? But why carry a spike in the first place?”

Ji said, “Who brings a spike to a casual drinking meet?”

“So… premeditated?” Xi frowned. “But if so, why the broken beer bottle too?”

It wasn’t rare for two weapons to appear, but here the bottle suggested sudden passion—while the spike implied premeditation. A contradiction.

Resolving it would take more digging.

Later, Chen Jing sent the victim’s identity: Wei Xuyan, 32, project manager at Fenghua Caomang Cultural Media. Reported missing three days ago. DNA matched.

Liang Wenxian and Xi Wan each led teams to investigate Wei’s relationships and canvassed Shenggui Bridge with South District police. Shen Qi began combing his digital records.

Ji Chenjiao went to Shenggui Bridge—the event planned through August was now canceled; the riverside was cordoned off with tape.

The river surface was over a meter below street level—a heavily wounded, drunk man couldn’t have climbed out.

Ji Chenjiao crouched, imagining the scene. Broken bottle and spike—messy killing—alcohol involved. Seemed impulsive.

But certain details—like the rear-first attack and erased footprints—hinted at planning.

His phone buzzed. Clues surfaced as checks progressed.

Wei Xuyan’s company—Fenghua Caomang—was across from Shenggui Bridge. He often held business talks in the cafés there.

The firm had only twenty staff and ran an online novel platform—mostly ancient-style romance stories.

Such platforms were common, quality varied, but Fenghua Caomang’s was clearly failing—editors quit quickly, the site was full of pirated content, and online complaints said they withheld payments.

Wei Xuyan was listed not only as project manager but shareholder and executive.

The chief editor nervously admitted: “Brother Wei was actually the boss. He handled all manuscript purchases and licensing. The rest of us were just workers.”

Liang Wenxian said, “Doesn’t seem like your site made money. Barely any visitors.”

“Yeah,” the editor mumbled. “Most of those novels are filler or ones our editors stole from other sites—just to bulk up the listings.”

“Yes, just to fill up the numbers. Brother Wei said we didn’t need to cultivate authors ourselves—as long as we could get the rights to their work, that was enough. The more copyrights, the better. If we sold even one, we’d make a fortune.”

The chief editor carefully described how the company operated—in plain terms, Wei Xuyan was nothing but a copyright scammer, trying to make money without investment. First, they’d pirate works from elsewhere and post them on their platform to make it look thriving. Then, using glib talk, he’d deceive inexperienced authors into signing over full rights for free—collecting as many copyrights as possible without spending a cent. Most of these wouldn’t sell—but as long as one did, it would be pure profit.

Liang Wenxian immediately realized that Wei Xuyan must have made many enemies. “Have there been any disputes at your company lately?”

The editor gave up all pretense and spoke bluntly. “Plenty. Most common are the original authors catching us for piracy, demanding compensation or apologies. And then there are those he conned into handing over their rights—but the company never sold anything for them. So Wei Xuyan came up with another way to make money: he sues them for breach of contract.”

Liang asked, “How does he make money from that?”

“It’s simple—he accuses them of breaching their exclusive contract. Once authors realize they’ve been scammed, they go to another publisher. But we’ve got a clause in the contract that says we get the right of first refusal for all new books. It’s right there in black and white. Most authors don’t have the legal awareness to spot that trap when they sign. Once they switch to a new publisher—we sue. He bragged last month that he made extra company income this way.”

Liang Wenxian frowned—this was a new and utterly despicable tactic to him.

“This can’t last long. Authors have been fighting back for months. I’ve had enough—I’m only sticking around until I get my year-end bonus, then I’m out.” The editor scratched his head. “Didn’t expect something like this to happen to Old Wei, though.”

Liang gathered a list of authors who’d had serious disputes with Wei Xuyan. Surveillance footage showed that a writer named Zhong Cheng had come to the company three times in the past month to block Wei Xuyan’s path, but Wei always avoided him.

Xi Wan’s side discovered that Wei Xuyan had long been separated from his wife, who lived with their five-year-old son. Wei Xuyan used to pay child support, but since the start of the year, he’d used “company financial trouble” as an excuse to delay payment whenever possible. His wife loathed him. She had enough resources to raise their child without him and hadn’t seen Wei Xuyan in eight months.

“I was the one who gave him the money to start that damn company. He’s selfish, sly, greedy—even calculated against his own family, let alone outsiders. I’ve got nothing good to say about him. Frankly, he deserved to die. Just look how many young people he screwed over with that company.”

Shen Qi dug into Wei Xuyan’s recent communication and internet history. Zhong Cheng was by far the most frequent caller and message sender. But Wei Xuyan only picked up once—on June 21st, the day before his death.

“Bro, check out the messages Zhong Cheng sent—his mental state seems unstable,” Shen Qi said, handing Ji Chenjiao a tablet.

Every day, Zhong Cheng bombarded Wei with angry texts, asking why he’d been cheated, why his hard work was ruined. Each message filled an entire screen, sometimes more than ten in a row—many containing the word “death.”

[Answer me, or I’ll kill myself in your office tomorrow. I’ve lost everything—you think I won’t do it?!]

After this one, Wei Xuyan replied:

[What exactly do you want?]

Zhong Cheng then called him—the call lasted 7 minutes 35 seconds.

“Brother —on the afternoon of the 22nd, Shenggui Bridge’s camera caught Zhong Cheng. If they agreed to meet there—he’s a prime suspect!” Shen Qi said.

Zhong Cheng, 35, was two years older than Wei Xuya, living with his mother in an old, soon-to-be-demolished apartment building in South City—just two bus stops from Shenggui Bridge. When Ji Chenjiao knocked, Zhong’s mother opened the door, puzzled. “Who are you looking for?”

The place was a small two-bedroom apartment. The living room was like that of many elderly households—stacked with bargain daily goods. It was late at night; the TV was on but nearly muted.

Given Zhong Cheng’s writer background, Ji figured this was their normal life—Zhong Cheng locked in his room writing, his mother watching TV on low volume so as not to disturb him.

Ji Chenjiao showed his badge. The mother panicked. “Police? What’s going on? We’ve done nothing wrong!”

“What’s the noise?!” Zhong Cheng burst from the bedroom, disheveled, reeking of smoke and alcohol. When he saw the police, his eyes—hidden behind greasy bangs—flashed with fear. He shrank back, trembling. “It was self-defense! He attacked me first!”

Ji Chenjiao said calmly, “Do you know why we’re here?”

“Did that bastard Wei Xuyan call the cops on me?!” Zhong glanced around nervously, grabbing his pajamas.

He was very thin—his bony back bruised and ridged beneath the thin cloth.

His mother rushed to hold him. “What are you doing?!”

“He shoved me first! I only threw a bottle because he pushed me down!” Zhong shouted. “I was the one who got hurt first!”

Ji was a little surprised at this quick confession. “You don’t know he’s dead?”

Zhong froze. “I… I killed him?”

When told that Wei Xuyan was dead, Zhong’s lips began to tremble uncontrollably. He shook his head furiously, denying it, then suddenly burst into manic laughter, muttering that evil gets its due punishment. His mother sobbed, trying to hold him as he ran wildly around the room, eyes gleaming, completely unhinged.

Ji and his team dragged him into the police car. He calmed slightly only after sitting in the interrogation room.

He lay half-sprawled on the table, neck craning, staring fixedly at Ji Chenjiao. “Wei Xuyan’s dead? How did he die?”

Ji Chenjiao said, “Isn’t that what you should tell us?”

Zhong was silent for several seconds, then suddenly sat upright. “He died from that bottle? Impossible!”

Ji’s tone remained even. “What exactly was your grudge with him?”

That lit Zhong Cheng’s fury like gasoline. “He stole my manuscript! Stole my money! Stole my talent! Ruined my life! A bastard like him didn’t deserve to live!”

“Oh?” Ji Chenjiao leaned forward, as if sincerely interested. “How did he trick you?”