Zhong Cheng was desperate to vent, and once asked, everything poured out.

He had loved reading online novels since his school days. Back then, web novels weren’t as popular as they are now, and he could only read them on a computer. After graduating from middle school with no diploma, he worked at construction sites. While others played cards or chased women during breaks, he would curl up in his bunk and read web novels.

The more he read, the more he felt that many of those novels were poorly written. If only he had the time—he could probably write better than those so-called top authors.

But deep down, he was always self-conscious about his lack of education.

At the age of thirty, he uploaded a novel he had written during breaks between carrying bricks to a well-known male-oriented web fiction platform. The clicks were pitifully low, and his application for a contract was rejected.

That first attempt ended in failure. Disheartened, he was ready to give up on his dream of becoming a writer and return to honest bricklaying, aiming to someday become a foreman. But then, he received an enthusiastic comment from a reader.

This reader analyzed every word of his posted chapters, praising him as an unpolished gem, saying that his wine was fragrant but the alley was too deep, and that the editor who rejected him was blind.

He had never been appreciated like this before, and instantly felt that this reader was his soul mate.

That person was Wei Xuyan.

Under Wei Xuyan’s “sincere” praise and seemingly well-meaning suggestions, Zhong Cheng not only reignited his passion for writing but also became bursting with confidence. He had never even heard of Wei Xuyan’s company, Fenghua Caomang, which mainly catered to female readers.

But Wei Xuyan persuaded him, saying the platform was now developing a top-tier male fiction section, launching a “God-making” project. If Zhong Cheng joined, he’d be the first big name, his book would sell millions daily, become a yearly sensation, and get audio and film rights sold.

Lured by these grand promises, Zhong Cheng signed a ten-year full-rights contract with the platform, quit his job, and locked himself at home to write. After half a year, he handed in a two-million-word manuscript to Wei Xuyan, dreaming of becoming a literary god. But a month after the book went online, his total earnings amounted to just seventeen yuan.

Zhong Cheng couldn’t believe his eyes. He confronted Wei Xuyan, who showed him the backend data. “Your book only got this much traffic. I didn’t take a single cent. I even paid the channel fees out of my own pocket.”

Zhong Cheng still believed him then. He was a writer, Wei Xuyan was a businessman—he couldn’t comprehend the mind of a copyright scammer.

He thought, Maybe I really didn’t write well. It’s okay, I still have stories. I’ll make a comeback with the next one.

But half a year turned into another half, a million words turned into more millions, and his earnings only shrank further. He finally realized that Wei Xuyan used the same lines to lure every author onto his shady platform—tricking them into signing first, then squeezing them dry.

Ashamed and furious, Zhong Cheng thought of the nearly ten million words he’d written for that scam site over three wasted years. He even worried himself sick and ended up in the hospital.

After recovering, he tried to terminate the contract. But Wei Xuyan refused. When Zhong Cheng signed back then, he’d barely read the harsh terms; even if he had, he wouldn’t have understood them. Now, Wei Xuyan pointed them out one by one: Zhong Cheng could only write for Fenghua Caomang, three million words a year, no exceptions—even if he earned no royalties. Otherwise, they’d take him to court.

Zhong Cheng was uneducated; his mother even more so. When they heard the word “lawsuit,” they panicked. Later, he tried writing for other platforms using his mother’s ID, but long-standing anxiety left him unable to produce anything decent—every site rejected him.

At thirty-five, he was broke and a failure. Recently, he heard that another author had successfully terminated their contract with Wei Xuyan after causing a scene at the company. Imitating them, he also began showing up at the company from time to time, but Wei Xuyan always refused to see him.

On the 21st, Zhong Cheng sent Wei Xuyan a threatening message. At last, Wei Xuyan agreed to meet him the next day at Shenggui Bridge. Zhong Cheng arrived early, even bought beer, hoping for a heart-to-heart talk to settle the contract issue.

They had agreed on 5:30 PM, but Zhong Cheng, strapped for cash, planned to treat Wei Xuyan to the bridge’s famous noodle shop for zhajiang noodles. Yet Wei Xuyan only showed up at 11 PM, refused food, wouldn’t enter any shop, and led him into the backstreets by the moat.

“We’re not sitting down to talk?” Zhong Cheng asked.

“Too noisy. It’s quieter here,” said Wei Xuyan, glancing at the bag in Zhong Cheng’s hand. “You brought beer?”

Zhong Cheng replied honestly, “A little drink to help the mood.”

The bustle behind them was blocked by rows of buildings—as if separating them from the world. Wei Xuyan glanced nervously over his shoulder several times, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

“I want to cancel the contract,” Zhong Cheng said. “I hired a lawyer online to look over it. He said our contract’s full of abusive terms. I can expose you.”

Wei Xuyan sneered. “Threatening me again?”

Zhong Cheng didn’t want to threaten anyone, but he was a rough, unsophisticated man who didn’t know how to negotiate. When he got anxious, his words turned harsh. “You have to cancel this contract today. Old Wei, you’ve ruined my life already—can’t you have some decency?”

“I ruined you? You’ve got it backwards.” Wei Xuyan mocked him. “Who read your book before I found you? I discovered you. I gave you this platform, these resources. And what did you give me in return? And now you have the nerve to ask for termination?”

Zhong Cheng flushed red in anger. “So you won’t let me go?”

“Sure I will,” said Wei Xuyan. “Pay me back everything I invested in you these years. You’re a veteran author—you know what front-page banners and top slots cost, right?”

“How much?” Zhong Cheng asked.

“Not much. Three million.”

Zhong Cheng’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Three million? He didn’t even have thirty thousand!

“You’re insane!” Zhong Cheng shouted. “You spent that much on promotion?”

Wei Xuyan shrugged. “I’m a businessman. Every expense is accounted for. Zhong Cheng, if you can’t pay it back, just keep writing. When you can afford it, then we’ll talk about canceling the contract.”

Even Zhong Cheng, slow as he was, finally understood that Wei Xuyan was blackmailing him. Enraged, he swung the beer bottle at Wei Xuyan.

Wei Xuyan dodged, but Zhong Cheng lost his balance and nearly fell into the river.

Wei Xuyan suddenly said something strange:
“Had I known you’d bring a bottle, I wouldn’t have needed to bring an awl.”

Zhong Cheng could no longer think clearly. He swung the bottle at Wei Xuyan again, but Wei Xuyan suddenly twisted his arms behind his back, pressing the sharp, broken edge of the beer bottle against the nape of Zhong Cheng’s neck.
“You attacked me first—this is self-defense. Go to hell, Zhong Cheng.”

Just as he was about to be pushed into the river, Zhong Cheng exploded with strength he’d never felt before. He shoved Wei Xuyan hard, knocking him down. After glancing back and seeing that Wei Xuyan hadn’t gotten up, he fled in panic.

Ji Chenjiao asked, “Wei Xuyan mentioned an awl?”

So the sharp object that caused the wound in Wei Xuyan’s back—was it the very awl he had brought himself?

After Zhong Cheng finished speaking, it was as if he’d relived that life-and-death moment. He slumped in the interrogation chair, gesturing with his hands in front of his chest.
“Yes, he had an awl this long. He wanted to kill me with it!”

“His tone was strange when he spoke to me. We’d argued before, but he’d always been smooth-talking—he never deliberately provoked me. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized he wanted to enrage me into striking first, so he could kill me and claim self-defense. He said so himself—‘self-defense!’”

Ji Chenjiao carefully pieced the clues together.
If Zhong Cheng was telling the truth, then Wei Xuyan had gone to the meeting intending to kill him. That would explain why they avoided the crowded areas and surveillance cameras, heading for the secluded riverbank. It would also explain the conflicting weapon evidence.

But Wei Xuyan’s plan had failed. Zhong Cheng’s will to survive saved his life, while Wei Xuyan injured his lower back and couldn’t stand.

If a third person had appeared then, killing Wei Xuyan would have been easy—there were broken beer bottles, the awl—everything ready at hand. And Wei Xuyan, unable to protect himself.

The killer struck from behind, stabbing Wei Xuyan in the back of the neck. He didn’t die immediately; in such a state, he probably didn’t even feel pain at first. He spun around abruptly and was stabbed again in the throat.

He saw his killer’s face but couldn’t speak. The gushing blood drained his life rapidly.

The killer forced him to the riverbank and drove the awl Wei Xuyan himself had brought into his back. He fell into the river; his struggles drowned out by the nearby bustle, and finally, the cold river water swallowed him.

But… Ji Chenjiao looked again at Zhong Cheng.
This entire deduction rested on one premise: that Zhong Cheng wasn’t lying.

If Zhong Cheng was lying and there had been no third person at all—then he was undoubtedly the killer. Everything attributed to this mysterious third party could be laid at his feet.

Zhong Cheng was in custody while the investigation continued. Wei Xuyan had angered countless authors over copyright disputes, but so far, only Zhong Cheng had both motive and opportunity.

No new important leads had surfaced. Within the Major Crimes Unit, opinions were divided.
Some believed Zhong Cheng was the killer and had fabricated the “third person” to escape guilt—after all, web authors were imaginative by nature and skilled at inventing things out of nothing.
Others thought there really had been a third party, because before being led away by Wei Xuyan, Zhong Cheng had stayed in the central area of Shenggui Bridge, not once trying to avoid surveillance.

Ji Chenjiao himself had personally interrogated Zhong Cheng. His shock and anger upon hearing of Wei Xuyan’s death and learning he was a suspect were all consistent with normal reactions. Combined with the fact that he hadn’t avoided cameras, the existence of a third party remained possible.

But who could this third person be?
The copyright lead had been exhausted—perhaps this person wasn’t connected to that line at all.

While investigating Wei Xuyan’s case, Ji Chenjiao also had to keep an eye on Xu Jiajia. But no matter how much noise the online discussions made, the Major Crimes Unit still hadn’t found any trace of Xu Jiajia.

The opinions of many netizens were interesting—they weren’t bound by evidence as the police were, and their wild theories sometimes offered a fresh angle.

For example, the most liked theory was this:
Jaco was actually a good man. He only killed Kang Wanbin in self-defense. And why did he need to defend himself? Because Kang Wanbin had wanted to kill him.

A wealthy businessman killing a socially-conscious streamer naturally led people to speculate that Jaco had discovered some scandal within Kang Wanbin’s company and threatened to expose it.

Jaco had done many investigative reports on corrupt businesses, slowly building his reputation this way. Just last year, he’d exposed a meat processing factory in Beicheng District for using rotten meat.

Rongxin Road in the northern suburbs was Xiarong City’s biggest food processing hub. Many internet-famous and traditional restaurants bought their supplies there. Pork and pickled fish were the main products.

A fan tip-off told Jaco that a factory called Rong Youfu was using expired pork. Rong Youfu was one of the busiest factories on Rongxin Road, and its owner bragged about having influence on every street. In truth, Jaco wasn’t the only streamer who’d received this tip, but he was the only one who, after careful prep, dared to “investigate” Rong Youfu.

He not only filmed evidence of expired, spoiled meat being processed, but also the whole industrial chain that handled such meat:

Spoiled meat came in two kinds—Type A, which could be chemically treated to appear normal; and Type B, utterly unsalvageable and normally discarded. Rong Youfu shockingly sold Type B meat to feed manufacturers, where it was ground up into animal feed.

Rong Youfu supplied many large restaurants; even ordinary citizens bought from its official site. You could say Rong Youfu was an “old friend” of the public.

Jaco’s video caused a huge stir as soon as it dropped. Other streamers who’d hesitated now rushed to Rongxin Street. The food safety and business authorities launched urgent inspections. Rong Youfu was shut down for rectification, and many other local businesses using expired meat were implicated.

The owner of Rong Youfu later admitted dejectedly that he wasn’t some street king; his tough talk was only to scare off anyone threatening his profits.

Jaco had exposed many such cases.
Netizens believed that shady merchants surely hated him. Now that he was missing, they thought it likely he’d been taken out by someone he’d once exposed.

Some even compiled lists of companies Jaco had reported on—and others he was rumored to be investigating. Nearly every major business in Xiarong City appeared on those lists.

To Ji Chenjiao, the first list was of some value; the second was nonsense.
Meanwhile, Shen Qi had finished checking Xu Jiajia’s internet history outside of “Floating Light.” Since the “Queen of Hat” case, Xu Jiajia’s focus had shifted to taking revenge on Ji Nuo City and his wife—he had stopped looking for evidence against corrupt businesses.

It was getting late. Ji Chenjiao planned to grab a bite from the cafeteria. He suddenly remembered seeing Ling Lie’s post while in Liyun City, joking that since the Major Crimes Unit didn’t pay him and his “sugar daddy” wasn’t home, he was broke and selling marinated clams at a street stall to get by.

Ji Chenjiao had felt speechless at the time and sent him an angry emoji. Ling Lie had probably been busy and only replied at midnight:
“Honest Xia, wanna try some?”

He’d replied insincerely:
“No thanks.”

“Liar. Teasing me for nothing? You sea king?”

This guy was annoying enough in person—worse online. Ji Chenjiao hadn’t been in the mood to chat and ended the conversation after a few lines. But now that it was dinnertime, he was actually thinking of checking out Ling Lie’s street stall. Who knew what Ling Lie had really been up to lately? The more unreadable he acted, the more Ji Chenjiao wanted to peel off his layers.

Just then, Ling Lie called:
“Honest Xia, dinner?”

“…Talk properly.”

“Captain Ji, want to grab a meal?”

Ji Chenjiao thought it was a normal dinner invite—until he left the precinct, reached the intersection, and saw Ling Lie with a giant basket strapped to his back, overflowing with roses, clutching another large bouquet in his arms.

Ji Chenjiao: “…”

Weren’t you selling marinated clams? When did you switch to selling flowers?

But he had to admit—Ling Lie carrying roses was quite the sight.

They sat down at a nearby hotpot place. Before Ji Chenjiao could ask about the flowers, Ling Lie clasped his hands above his head.
“Feeding the hungry masses, gratitude, love you all.”

The waitress, menu in hand: “…”

Ji Chenjiao froze for a moment, wanting to get up and leave.

Being seen with this guy—what an embarrassment.

Ling Lie’s basket was stuffed with roses wrapped in shiny paper. Another pocket held balloon skins, sticks, and a bunch of palm-sized plush keychains.

All of this was now spread out on the bench beside Ji Chenjiao—cheap, festive trinkets totally clashing with his cold, dangerous aura.

Ling Lie buried his head in the menu, studying it intently without a hint of polite restraint, scribbling away with the pen in his right hand as if he hadn’t eaten for days and needed to make this meal count. But somehow, this greedy, penny-pinching behavior didn’t annoy Ji Chenjiao at all.

Tsk—Ji Chenjiao rubbed his chin, annoyed with himself.
Why do I seem like I actually want to let him take advantage of me?

After ordering everything he wanted, Ling Lie finally remembered the “sugar daddy” sitting across from him. Grinning, he slid the menu over and asked, half-heartedly, “Honest Xia, want to add anything?”

Honest Xia again? This nickname was getting endless!

Ji Chenjiao glanced at the menu—his eyebrow twitched.
Did you order enough for four people?

“No worries, add whatever you want,” Ling Lie said as if he were treating, “If we can’t finish, I’ll pack it up and take it home. Wasting food would be my loss.”

“…” Ji Chenjiao was both speechless and amused. He added his usual favorite—fresh tribute vegetables—and signaled the waiter to take the menu.

The place was packed—summer hotpot and beer were irresistible. The owner and waiters were running ragged, so the food came out a bit slow.

Ji Chenjiao glanced at the pile of stuff beside him. “Clam business not working out?”

“How could it flop? I just got too lazy to sell,” Ling Lie replied. “Most of the other food stall vendors are old uncles and aunties. They couldn’t outsell me, so they started picking fights. I can’t win against them.”

Ji Chenjiao: “…”

Ling Lie added, “Selling flowers and little toys is better—my competitors are all young folks, at least they won’t chase me down to beat me. Shenggui Bridge has a night market with lots of young people—this stuff sells well there. From what I’ve seen, the market there’s way different from other shopping districts.”

Ji Chenjiao grew interested. “Oh? What’s the difference?”

“Different demographics, different spending power,” Ling Lie explained, the hotpot broth steaming his face until it shone. “Shenggui Bridge has another name—‘Little Broken Street.’ It used to be the heart of South City but now it’s an old, worn-down area. Lowest spending level—only students and low-tier white-collars go there. They don’t have money for fancy gifts, but they still want to treat themselves on holidays. Night markets aren’t official holidays, but they’re a reason to spend.”

He jerked his chin toward the basket. “These little joys that cost ten or twenty yuan—perfect for them. In a fancy district, no one would even look at this junk.”

Ji Chenjiao glanced at the nearly unsold roses. He knew perfectly well Ling Lie’s real goal wasn’t selling these toys. Selling marinated clams meant dragging a whole setup—he’d have to stay in one place. But selling flowers was different—flexible, mobile.

Ling Lie was using the flower stand as cover to scout out Shenggui Bridge’s ecosystem.

The food arrived. Ji Chenjiao watched this walking cheat gleefully dipping vegetables into the broth and sighed inwardly.
My cheat skill, and a useful one at that. No matter how much he eats, I still have to keep him fed.

“Ugh…” Ling Lie sighed exaggeratedly, annoyed. “Man plans, heaven laughs. I haven’t even set up my stall and Shenggui Bridge is already bad for business.”

Ji Chenjiao picked up a bear keychain. Its backside was torn open—poor quality, bought cheap. He absentmindedly poked the stuffing out of the seam. “Can’t you save them to sell later?”

“Balloons and keychains maybe, but roses will wilt in a few days… Hey, Boss Ji, what are you doing with your hands?”

“I…”

Ling Lie smirked wickedly. “Ohhh, tsk tsk tsk!”

Ji Chenjiao tossed the keychain aside. “What the hell’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Says the guilty party first! Did I dig stuffing out of a bear’s butt?”

“!” Calm down. Don’t get mad at a feral cat!

Ling Lie kept chirping away. Ji Chenjiao mentally tuned him out, translating everything he said to:
Meow meow meow meow—

Peace at last.

Suddenly, Ling Lie’s bright eyes locked onto him. Ji Chenjiao felt a bad premonition.

Sure enough, Ling Lie grinned. “Boss, these roses won’t sell out. Why don’t you buy them all?”

Boss Ji, firm as iron: “Not buying.”

Ling Lie shrank back pitifully. “Oh.”

Just then, the waiter brought over the most expensive fresh ox tripe. Ling Lie perked up immediately and happily swished it in the broth.

“Boss Ji, you’re kind of cold, you know.” After finishing half the tripe and a plate of goose intestines, Ling Lie tossed this random comment out.

Ji Chenjiao was gracefully picking vegetables. He glanced up. “Cold? I’m treating you to hotpot, aren’t I?”

“Two separate things.”

“…” How are they separate?

Ling Lie rattled on, “You heard I can’t run my stall anymore, but you didn’t even ask why.”

Ji Chenjiao slowly set down his chopsticks. “Do I even need to ask?”

Ling Lie made a noise of realization. “Ohh, I forgot—you’re the captain of Major Crimes!”

“…You didn’t forget—you just ran your mouth more after a few days apart!”

The best way to handle a mouthy guy was silence. Ji Chenjiao ignored him and tossed the rest of the tripe into the pot.

“You can’t just dump tripe in like that—you’ve got to swish it,” Ling Lie said while fishing it up. “If you toss it in, you either can’t find it or…”

Ji Chenjiao: “Or what?”

Ling Lie lifted a piece triumphantly and dropped it into his own dipping bowl. “Or it becomes someone else’s!”

Ji Chenjiao: “………………”