The muzzle pressed against his brow felt cold. Gu Zhixing's finger rested on the trigger, the pad turning pale—he was waiting. Waiting for Shen Yanqing to give the final order, or for Lu Chenzhou to reveal a flaw. Lu Chenzhou did not wait. He tilted his head—not quickly, but just enough for the muzzle to slide past his temple. The searing pain of metal scraping his scalp was like a lightning bolt splitting his skull. At the same moment, his right hand seized Gu Zhixing's wrist and twisted it outward, while his left elbow slammed into the other man's Adam's apple. A dull thud of bone striking cartilage. Gu Zhixing staggered back half a step, the muzzle veered, and the bullet grazed the outside of Lu Chenzhou's left arm before tearing through, splattering blood onto the gray-white wall. But Lu Chenzhou was already bursting out of the safe house. The corridor was empty. The backup Gu Zhixing had brought had already withdrawn—they never intended to kill him here, only to delay him. To delay him. This realization drenched his entire body like ice water. Lu Chenzhou rushed into the stairwell, his left hand clutching his bleeding upper arm, but his steps grew faster and faster. The message Fang Mu had transmitted ten minutes earlier exploded repeatedly in his mind: The assailants' vehicle had entered a three-kilometer radius of Shen Yan's residence. He dialed a number. It rang four times before Shen Yan answered. "There's a bomb." Lu Chenzhou's voice was pressed extremely low, each word seeming squeezed from between his teeth. "The assailants are already en route, the target is your father's study. Have all security personnel withdraw to the inner courtyard—" "Lu Chenzhou." Shen Yan's voice cut him off, carrying a weary elegance. "Why would you think I'd listen to a 'warning' from a murderer just released from prison?" "I'm not asking you." "Then it's even less interesting." The call disconnected. Lu Chenzhou clenched his back teeth. When he burst out of the stairwell, the outline of Shen Yan's residence was already visible in the night—a three-story gray brick Western-style house, ablaze with light. But the outer security perimeter was tighter than he had anticipated: four black SUVs blocked the main gate, and at least six armed bodyguards sealed the gaps in the wall. Shift change. He saw two bodyguards by the eastern wall handing over duties, their gaze briefly shifting away. Three seconds. Lu Chenzhou charged. He used a compost bin outside the wall to vault onto the top of the wall, broken tiles slicing hot gashes into his palm. Gunfire sounded from the left—not warning shots, but live rounds. Bullets shattered the tiles by his feet, fragments embedding into his calf. He didn't stop, leaping down from the two-meter-high wall into the corridor outside the conference room. Bulletproof glass doors. Two bodyguards closed in from either side, muzzles aimed at his chest. Lei Hu's voice crackled from a walkie-talkie: "Take him alive." Lu Chenzhou didn't hesitate. He grabbed an iron flower stand from the corridor and slammed it with his full weight against the bulletproof glass. First impact, cracks appeared. Second impact, the cracks spread into a spiderweb. Third impact— The shriek of shattering bulletproof glass tore through the night sky, like a thousand violin strings snapping at once. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the scent of blood flooded his nostrils. Lu Chenzhou tumbled into the conference room, shattered glass covering his shoulders and arms, blood soaking half his shirt. "Bomb—!" His roar echoed through the empty conference room. Then he saw it. Under the conference table, a black briefcase lay quietly. The lid was slightly ajar, red LED numbers flickering. 14:57. 14:56. 14:55— And seated at the head of the table, Shen Yanqing was holding a teacup, his gaze looking past Lu Chenzhou's shoulder toward someone who shouldn't have been there, standing outside the door. Lu Chenzhou followed his line of sight and turned his head. The assailant, dressed in Shen Yan's security uniform, stood by the shattered doorframe, holding a remote detonator in his hand. The assailant's thumb pressed down on the remote's button, knuckles white. Lu Chenzhou didn't look at him. His gaze remained locked on the briefcase under the conference table—the red numbers jumped to 14:48. C4 plastic explosive, two blocks. Not enough to demolish the building, but enough to kill. "Step back." The assailant's voice trembled. Lu Chenzhou didn't stop. He crawled toward the underside of the table, crushed glass crunching "You're touching things you shouldn't." Shen Yan grabbed his wrist. "Let my people handle it." "Your people?" The voice was suppressed. "Your people just let a bomber in." Shen Yan's fingers tightened, his nails digging into the skin of the wrist, pressing directly over the pulse. "You—" "Fourteen seconds." Lu Chenzhou looked down. 14:32. 14:31. "Let go." Shen Yan didn't let go. Lu Chenzhou used his other hand to fish a Swiss Army knife from his pocket—the one Fang Mu had given him, the blade only three centimeters long. He bit the handle to unfold the main blade, then violently twisted his wrist to break the hold. Shen Yan was pulled forward, his shoulder colliding with the table edge. He used the momentum to lean in, his fingers sweeping over the inside of the briefcase— Lu Chenzhou saw what he touched. A thin black ledger, tucked between the C4 and the circuit board. "Don't move—!" Too late. The moment Shen Yan pulled the ledger free, the anti-tamper contact sprang up. Cold sweat dripped from Lu Chenzhou's temple, landing on the scorching circuit board with a faint sizzle. His left hand pressed desperately on the contact point, while his right hand drove the knife tip into the gap between the detonation wire and the backup power source. The moment the blade touched the copper wire, his fingers spasmed—a sign of severe blood loss. "Which one to cut?" Shen Yan's voice had changed; the arrogance was gone. "The red one." "You're not sure." "The red one," he repeated. "The red wire." The blade severed the red wire. The numbers froze at 07:03, ceasing to count down. Lu Chenzhou released the contact and slumped against the table leg, gasping for breath. He looked down into the case—only two blocks of C4, not the six needed to level the whole building. The detonator wasn't connected to the main explosive, but to a metal compartment at the bottom of the case. He pried open the compartment. Ash. Half-burned remnants of documents, edges still smoking. Heat had consumed most of the contents, but the bottommost page was still legible— A case file number from ten years ago. His own case. His pupils contracted violently. The bomb wasn't meant to kill. It was meant to destroy evidence. He jerked his head around. Shen Yan stood three paces away, clutching the black ledger, his knuckles white. "That's mine." Shen Yan took a step back. The corner of his mouth pulled into a weary curve, like a bitter smile, or mockery. "Mr. Lu," he said, "your hand was shaking when you said 'the red one' just now." "That ledger—" "I know what it is." Shen Yan tucked the ledger into the inner pocket of his suit. "Knew it before you did." He turned and walked toward Shen Moqing, his steps steady, as if nothing had happened. Lu Chenzhou wanted to give chase, but his legs felt weak. He looked down at his bloodstained hands—shards of glass embedded in his palms, like tiny, sharp teeth. He had glimpsed the dates in that ledger. They matched exactly the time his old case file had vanished from the evidence room. The fluorescent light tube in the abandoned clinic buzzed with an electrical hum, casting a stark, swaying light on the mold-spotted ceiling. Lu Chenzhou leaned against the rusted operating table, blood seeping from the penetrating wound on the outer side of his left arm. The dark fluid snaked down his forearm, dripping onto the cracked concrete floor. Qin Wangshu rummaged through the first aid kit, pulling out a bottle of medical alcohol and unscrewing the cap. The pungent smell instantly filled the air, mingling with the clinic's old antiseptic odor and the damp, moldy scent from the corners. "Bear with it." The alcohol splashed directly onto the wound. Lu Chenzhou's back arched violently, his teeth clenched, a muffled groan forced from his throat. Cold sweat beaded at his hairline, sliding down his jaw. His right hand unconsciously gripped the edge of the operating table, knuckles white—he was holding a ballpoint pen he didn't know he had taken. The cap was off, the ink cartridge pulled out, the spring being wound and unwound repeatedly between his fingers. Qin Wangshu snatched the parts away and threw them into a metal tray with a clatter. After the sound faded, she used a warm, damp towel to wipe the blood from his face, her movements unusually gentle for her. "Shen Yan," she began, her voice very low. "He obstructed your entry into the meeting room, allowing the bomb to be planted successfully—why didn't you expose him just A faint twitch tugged at the corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye. He lowered his gaze, his voice flat, as if reciting an old case file. "Ten years ago, in the winter, I ran a high fever in the detention center. Forty-one degrees. No one cared. The prison doctor had taken a bribe and refused to come." He paused. "Shen Yan managed to send in two boxes of fever reducers. Just two boxes. Hidden between the pages of some law books." Outside the clinic, the sound of a stray cat stepping on a corrugated iron awning came, sharp and fragmented. Qin Wangshu was silent for a long time. She passed the needle and thread over the alcohol lamp flame, then leaned in close to his arm. Her palm covered the unbroken skin on the inner side of his forearm, the warmth of her touch transmitted through a thin layer of perspiration. "So you couldn't do it." It wasn't a question. The moment the needle tip pierced his flesh, Lu Chenzhou's shoulder tensed and then relaxed, like a plucked string finally finding the note where it was meant to rest. "Couldn't do it," he repeated, his voice hoarse, "and shouldn't do it are two different things." Qin Wangshu bit off the suture thread, wrapped the wound with gauze, circled it twice, and tied a knot. As she finished, her fingers lingered on his wrist bone for a second longer — where a pulse beat, steady and stubborn, like something refusing to be extinguished. "The ledger is in his hands," she said. "I know." "That's the key to overturning your case." "I know." Qin Wangshu stood up, stuffing the remaining gauze back into the first aid kit. She had her back to him, her voice carrying over her shoulder with a restrained softness. "Then go get it. No matter what he sent you before — what you owe isn't his life." Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes, watching the faint seeping of blood beneath the gauze. Slowly, he reassembled the parts of the ballpoint pen, screwed the cap on, and put it back in his pocket. Outside the window, the horizon was tinged with a layer of gray-white light. "Let's go," he said. The door to Shen Yanqing's study was slightly ajar. The subtle fragrance of agarwood seeped through the crack, mingled with a bitter smell of burnt circuitry. When Lu Chenzhou pushed the door open and entered, Shen Yanqing was sitting behind the red sandalwood desk, his left thumb slowly rubbing a jade thumb ring. Shen Yan stood by the window, arms crossed, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips. "Mr. Lu," Shen Yanqing's voice was very soft, as if discussing the weather, "walking into my study covered in blood — is this your understanding of cooperation?" "The bomb's chip." Lu Chenzhou slapped the charred storage chip onto the agarwood desktop. The impact of metal on wood produced a dull thud. "The attackers weren't there to kill — they were there to burn the old case files in your study." Shen Yanqing didn't touch the chip. His gaze fell upon it, his pupils contracting almost imperceptibly. Shen Yan let out a derisive snort. "Old case files? Mr. Lu, you broke into the Shen Yan Group, injured my men, just to tell a ghost story?" "You know better than anyone that's not a ghost story." Lu Chenzhou's voice flattened, like a blade sliding into its sheath. "Shen Yan, the order to lock down the meeting room was yours. The security shift change window — forty-seven minutes. The attackers entered precisely during that window." "That was to protect my father—" "Forty-seven minutes," Lu Chenzhou repeated, the corner of his left eye twitching slightly, "and the time, ten years ago, when my case file disappeared from the evidence room — the same day, the exact same hour. Coincidence?" The air in the study seemed to have been sucked out. Shen Yanqing's thumb, rubbing the ring, stopped. One second. Two. Then it started again, the rhythm twice as fast as before. "What are you implying?" Shen Yanqing's tone remained gentle, but each word seemed wrapped in glass shards. Lu Chenzhou didn't answer directly. He tapped the chip with his fingertip. "This contains call logs. Four minutes before the attackers entered, a call was made from Shen Yan's private number — duration, nine seconds." Shen Yan's face finally changed. He took a step forward. "You forged—" "Fang Mu has already run a hash verification," Lu Chenzhou interrupted him. "Timestamps, cell tower triangulation, the entire chain is traceable. Shen Yan, do you want me to read it Shen Yanqing slowly leaned back in his chair, turning the thumb ring around his thumb once. "Do you know what you're asking for?" "I do." "An outsider, a—former prisoner, wants to take control of Shen Yan's defenses." Shen Yanqing's tone was like he was evaluating a pot of day-old cold tea. "Mr. Lu, you've put me in a difficult position." "Difficult?" "If I refuse, who will you give the chip to? The police? The media?" Shen Yanqing smiled faintly. "The bargaining chip in your hand isn't as solid as you think." Lu Chenzhou did not retreat. "You won't refuse," his voice dropped very low. "Because the bomb didn't go off, which means the attackers will come again. Next time, they won't just send one person—and your son's performance just now has already proven he can't hold this line." Shen Yan turned abruptly. "You—" "Enough." Shen Yanqing raised his hand, and Shen Yan fell silent as if his throat had been gripped. The old man stood up, took a blackwood box from a drawer. When the lid was opened, inside lay a scepter carved from mutton-fat jade, about the length of a palm, its shaft engraved with the Shen family's hidden patterns. "The Shen Yan Security Token." Shen Yanqing pushed the box to the edge of the desk. "The holder of this token can mobilize all of Shen Yan's security forces. Since our ancestors, it has never fallen into the hands of an outsider." Lu Chenzhou reached to take it. The moment his fingertips touched the jade scepter, he felt it—at the base of the scepter, there was a tiny protrusion. It didn't seem like part of the carved pattern, more like... He did not pause, taking both the scepter and the box into his embrace. "Thank you for your trust, Mr. Shen." "Trust?" Shen Yanqing sat back down, the faint smile at the corner of his mouth as light as smoke. "Mr. Lu, what you've taken is not just the security token—you've taken a responsibility. If you fail to hold it, you'll end up worse than going back to prison." Lu Chenzhou turned and walked toward the door. From behind came Shen Yanqing's calm voice, as if speaking to the air: "Zhixing, the situation has changed. Activate the third contingency plan." There was no response. But Lu Chenzhou's footsteps paused for an instant—in the study, there were only him and the Shen father and son. Who was Shen Yanqing speaking to? He glanced down at the blackwood box in his embrace. That tiny protrusion at the base of the scepter felt slightly warm under his fingertip. It wasn't a carving. It was a tracker.