Beneath the gauze on his left arm, the medicinal ointment was seeping into his skin. That slightly cool, faintly stinging sensation, like a fine needle, constantly reminded Lu Chenzhou of the ambush hours earlier. The lingering echo of Qin Wangshu's "Be careful" in the hospital corridor still clung to his eardrums. He hadn't gone home, instead sitting on a bench outside the emergency room until dawn. At daybreak, his phone screen lit up. Gu Zhixing's message was brief, worded as politely as a printed official document: "Mr. Lu, Mr. Shen Yan invites you to his study this afternoon at three for a discussion over new tea to deliberate on the progress of the investigation." No question, no room for negotiation. Even the punctuation exuded an indisputable, rigid correctness. At 2:50 p.m., Lu Chenzhou stood before Shen Yan's heavy, black-lacquered wooden door. The door knocker was brass, carved with intricate cloud patterns, icy and piercing to the touch. He rang the bell, and a very faint electronic unlocking sound came from within. The door automatically slid inward, opening a crack just wide enough for a single person to pass through. The wind in the courtyard had ceased. The bamboo leaves hung motionless from the branches, like solidified green blades. The air carried an overly clean scent, a mixture of soil and expensive fragrance, with not a whiff of the common world's smoke and fire. The bluestone path beneath his feet was polished smooth as a mirror, reflecting the gloomy, overcast sky. The sky was an eerie color, somewhere between gray and lead, pressing down low. He crossed the courtyard. Each step landed precisely in the center of the stone slab seams, neither to the left nor the right. The study door was slightly ajar. A more complex aroma seeped out from the crack—the faint acidity unique to aged antique paper, the sweet, cloying hidden fragrance of top-grade Hainan Huanghuali wood, and an extremely faint trace of sandalwood, almost masked by the former two. This was the scent of power, aged over time, elegant, weighty, carrying an air of unquestionable exclusivity. Lu Chenzhou pushed the door open and entered. Shen Yanqing stood with his back to the door, in front of a wide purple sandalwood desk, pouring water from a small purple clay teapot into two white porcelain cups. The water was boiling hot, emitting a subtle hiss as it hit the bottom of the cups, instantly absorbed by the soft porcelain walls, transforming into rising white steam. Amber-colored tea liquor poured from the spout, swirling at the bottom of the cups, its color shifting from light to dark, like the sky gradually darkening at dusk. "You're here." Shen Yanqing did not turn around, his voice calm, even carrying a touch of homely warmth. "Sit. This year's pre-Qingming Longjing tea, a friend just brought it from Hangzhou. Try it." Lu Chenzhou walked to the Huanghuali wood round-backed armchair opposite the desk but did not sit down immediately. His gaze swept quickly across the entire space. On the upper left corner of the desk, a Hotan jade paperweight the size of half a palm pressed down on a few pages of yellowed rice paper. The edges of the paper were slightly curled, the ink marks old. To the right of the desk, against the wall, stood a floor-to-ceiling display shelf, arranged with porcelain, bronze ware, and some scrolls individually enclosed in glass cases. On the third layer of the shelf, near the inner corner, sat a green jade-carved Pixiu. The Pixiu's eyes were fixed directly on the spot where he currently stood. There were recessed spotlights in the four corners of the ceiling. Only the one above the desk was on now, concentrating the light, illuminating Shen Yanqing's tea-pouring movements in minute detail, while plunging the rest of the room into deeper shadow. Lu Chenzhou's gaze lingered briefly on several possible locations for miniature microphones—the edges of the lampshade, the grooves of the decorative moldings on the bookshelves, the side edges of the mount of a landscape painting on the wall—finding no obvious anomalies. But not finding any didn't mean there weren't any. Shen Yanqing set down the purple clay teapot and turned around. Today he wore a dark gray traditional Chinese jacket with a Mandarin collar, the fabric a soft silk-linen blend, the collar and cuffs immaculate. The jade thumb ring on his left hand glowed with a warm, understated green light under the lamp. A perfectly measured smile graced his face, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes relaxed, like an ordinary elder entertaining a junior. "What happened to your The steam rising from the surface of the tea blurred the air between them. Lu Chenzhou did not touch the teacup. His fingertips unconsciously tapped once on the smooth armrest of the round-backed chair, then immediately stilled. His gaze fell on Shen Yanqing’s left thumb, which was rubbing the jade thumb ring. The piece of jadeite was being turned slowly, steadily, at a constant, unhurried pace. “Shen Yanqing called me here not just to sample tea, I presume.” Lu Chenzhou spoke. The sentence was short, polite in form, but the ending tone was clipped, leaving no ambiguous room for extension. Shen Yanqing took a sip of tea, his Adam's apple bobbing once before he set the cup down. “Naturally. It’s about the progress of Zhao Mingcheng’s case.” As he spoke, his gaze did not fully rest on Lu Chenzhou’s face, but drifted slightly aside, looking at the spread-out rice paper on the desk as if admiring the calligraphy upon it. “I heard you’ve been to quite a few places these past few days. The alley behind the archives… and near the old cotton mill in the west of the city?” The room seemed to shrink with each breath. The walls appeared to be closing in soundlessly, slowly. The corner of Lu Chenzhou’s left eye twitched, ever so slightly. Only he could feel that faint pull of muscle, like being pricked by an invisible needle tip. The pads of his right index and middle fingers, resting on the armrest, unconsciously rubbed against each other, mimicking the motion of disassembling a pen barrel. But he held nothing in his hands now. “Constructing a complete social relationship map of the victim requires investigating all potentially connected locations.” Lu Chenzhou said, his pace still even, each word seeming weighed. “The archives hold some old commercial records, possibly related to Zhao Mingcheng’s early business dealings. Near the site of the old cotton mill, there was a warehouse once rented by one of his now-bankrupt business partners. These are all necessary steps.” “Necessary steps…” Shen Yanqing repeated the four words, his tone drawn-out. The speed at which his left thumb rubbed the ring did not change. But Lu Chenzhou noticed the tip of the other man’s right index finger lightly tapped once on the rosewood chair armrest. Very lightly, almost inaudible, but it was a distinct rhythmic point. “I also heard you encountered some… ‘trouble’ in the alley behind the archives.” Not a question. A statement. Lu Chenzhou raised his eyes, truly meeting Shen Yanqing’s gaze for the first time. Those eyes, in the shadow of the lamplight, showed little emotion, only a deep-pool-like calm. “I was attacked.” He admitted, without any circumlocution. “The assailant was skilled, his purpose clear. It was a warning.” “A warning about what?” “A warning that once old files are burned, they’re gone.” Lu Chenzhou repeated the sentence verbatim. These words had rolled through his mind countless times; spoken now, his voice remained devoid of fluctuation, as if reciting a dry on-scene record. Shen Yanqing was silent for several seconds. In the study, there remained only the extremely faint sound of air flowing through nasal passages, and the distant, indistinct *tick-tock* of a pendulum clock from somewhere unknown. The sound was regular, one beat, then another, as if measuring the length of this silence. “Old files…” Shen Yanqing finally spoke, his thumb ceasing to rub the ring, merely resting lightly upon it. “Are you referring to Zhao Mingcheng’s old files, or…” He paused, his gaze like an invisible probe sweeping over Lu Chenzhou’s face, “…some other old files?” The pressure changed shape. It no longer permeated the air, but condensed into a needle, suspended between Lu Chenzhou’s eyebrows. Lu Chenzhou’s breathing did not falter. But deep in his chest, the stinging pain from the wound, temporarily suppressed by the ointment, suddenly became distinct again. It spread along his blood vessels, like black water, slowly rising. He knew the gentle maneuvering had reached its end. The warm tea before him held shards of ice beneath its surface. Shen Yanqing had already shed that layer of elder-like gentle smile. The lines of his face became clear, even somewhat cold and hard. He looked at Lu Chenzhou, the earlier pretense of warmth gone from his eyes, leaving only an inspecting, sharply interrogative keenness. “Lu Chenzhou,” Shen Yanqing called him by his full name, his voice not loud, but each word enunciated clearly, “I asked you here to investigate the cause of my son Shen Yan’s death. Zhao He met Shen Moqing's gaze without flinching. Deep within his pupils, beneath the ice that had been suppressed for too long, something finally cracked open a slow fissure. It was not anger, not fear, but a kind of nearly ruthless resolve—a river carving through stone needs not surging waves, but the constant, day-after-day force, precisely aimed at the same spot. If gentleness proved ineffective, then meet it head-on. His hand resting on the armrest slowly clenched into a fist. Nails dug into his palm, bringing a sharp, tangible pain that belonged to him. This pain suppressed the illusory burning of the wound, and also pressed down the chill welling up in his chest like black water. “Shen Yansheng,” Lu Chenzhou spoke, his voice lower and steadier than before, “you invited me here to investigate a case. And investigating a case has its own logic.” The rhythm with which Shen Moqing rubbed his jadeite thumb ring changed. That aged finger, which had been tracing slow, almost contemplative circles on the jade’s surface, stopped its movement when Lu Chenzhou uttered the words “social network diagram.” Then, the knuckle began to tap lightly, once, twice. The tapping sound was very faint, muffled within the thick rosewood armrest, like the ticking of some ancient timepiece. But Lu Chenzhou heard it. The muscle at the corner of his left eye twitched involuntarily. “Social network diagram.” Shen Moqing repeated the phrase, his voice still mild, even carrying a hint of appreciation. “A very professional term. I remember back then… when you were with the bureau, you were adept at drawing such things.” He picked up his teacup and took a sip. The amber-colored tea swirled in his throat with a soft, swallowing sound. “However,” he set the cup down, its base making a crisp *tap* against the red sandalwood tabletop, “as I recall, I invited you here to investigate the cause of my son Zhao Mingcheng’s death. Not to have you draw any… diagrams.” The scent of sandalwood in the air seemed to grow stronger. Or perhaps it was some other odor pressing forward—a mustier smell, a blend of old paper and mildew, seeping from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the study walls. Those ancient texts, those exquisitely bound ledgers, those silent files. They had witnessed too many transactions, too many secrets, too many bones buried by time. Now, they were witnessing this too. Lu Chenzhou’s teacup had gone completely cold. The temperature transmitted through the porcelain was similar to that of the fresh wound on his arm—both held a skin-clinging, lingering chill. He set the cup down slowly, careful to ensure its base made no sound. “The cause of Zhao Mingcheng’s death,” he began, his voice as steady as if delivering an autopsy report, “is not an isolated incident.” Shen Moqing did not respond. He merely watched him, his finger still tapping. Once. Twice. “But,” Shen Moqing’s voice dropped even lower, almost brushing against the eardrum, “starting tomorrow, Gu Zhixing will accompany you. He’s been to the scene, is familiar with the situation, and can provide you with ‘necessary assistance.’” Lu Chenzhou’s knuckles tightened. Assistance. Surveillance. Shen Moqing's rhythmic finger-tapping on the armrest stopped. "At the same time," Shen Yanqing straightened up, took a brown paper file from the drawer, and did not hand it over immediately, but pressed it onto the desk with his fingertips, "here is part of the information on the 'marginal figures' you wanted." He picked up his own long-cold cup of tea, took a sip, and then slowly spoke, his voice devoid of emotion. "Mr. Lu, I asked you here to investigate the cause of my grandson Zhao Mingcheng's death. Not to have you reopen old accounts, and certainly not to give you a blank check to dig up the Shen family's ancestral graves." "Only by clarifying the old accounts can we find the real killer," Lu Chenzhou's voice was steady, but each word felt like a wedge driven into the narrowing gap between them. "Zhao Mingcheng's death is not an isolated incident. It is a result, not a cause. The killer stands at the center of a web; cutting any single thread will not harm him. We must find the place where the knot was first tied." "The beginning?" Shen Moqing set down the teacup. The porcelain made a light, crisp sound as it touched the redwood desktop. "Are you referring to the fire ten years ago, or to something even earlier... the accident involving my son, Shen Yan?" The air tightened abruptly. Lu Chenzhou felt the edge of the file folder under his arm pressing against his ribs, a clear sensation of something hard. He maintained his upright posture, not even changing the rhythm of his breath. "I am referring to all background events connected to Zhao Mingcheng that could constitute a motive for murder. In criminal investigation logic, this is called foundational investigation. Skipping this step renders any conclusion a castle in the air." "Foundational investigation." Shen Moqing repeated the four words as if chewing on something hard. "So you insist on investigating Wu Guodong—a worthless gambler who was beaten half to death over debts. On investigating Li Weidong—a former security guard who died in a car accident three years ago. And on reviewing all personnel changes and financial transactions at Mingcheng International over the past five years." He raised his eyes, his gaze like a scalpel. "Mr. Lu, isn't the scope of your 'foundation' drawn a bit too wide?" "Not wide at all," Lu Chenzhou met his gaze. "Wu Guodong was Zhao Mingcheng's high school classmate. Three years ago, through Zhao Mingcheng's connections, he entered the project department at Mingcheng International. Three months ago, he was fired for embezzling project reserve funds. The person who fired him was Zhao Mingcheng himself. Li Weidong was among the first batch of security guards when Mingcheng International was built. He was on duty the night of the fire, left his job less than half a year later, and died three years ago in a hit-and-run car accident—a case that remains unsolved." He paused, letting the information settle. "Two seemingly unrelated marginal figures, both have points of intersection with Zhao Mingcheng, and both suffered 'accidents' after a certain point in time. This is not coincidence; it is a pattern. And patterns are the killer's fingerprints." Shen Moqing fell silent. He leaned back into his chair, his whole body sinking into shadow, only his eyes still reflecting the faint light of the desk lamp. His index finger began tapping the armrest again, this time slower, heavier, each tap like the ticking of a second hand. "Even so," he finally spoke after a long while, his voice lowered, "how much time will investigating these things require? How many people will it disturb? The Shen family is not an ordinary family, Mr. Lu. Pulling on any one thread might bring up mud. Some mud, once touched, cannot be washed off." "So you would prefer I only look at the surface?" Lu Chenzhou countered, his tone carrying, for the first time, an extremely faint, almost imperceptible sharpness. "Only look at the knife wound on Zhao Mingcheng's carotid artery, only chase a murder weapon that may never be found, and then give you a clean, tidy closing report that meets everyone's expectations?" He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, a posture carrying a hint of pressure. "Mr. Shen, did you ask me here to learn the truth, or merely to obtain an answer... that would keep all parties comfortable?" Another stretch of silence fell. The sky outside the window had sunk completely into an ink-blue hue. The only light source in the study was the desk lamp, which elongated and distorted the shadows of the two men, casting them onto the spines of the books lining the wall, like two opposing silhouettes. The scent of incense ash after the sandalwood had burned out, mixed with the heavy staleness of old paper and aged wood, pressed down on the lungs. Shen Moqing suddenly laughed. The laughter was very light, very brief, containing no element of pleasure, more like a form of confirmation. "You're cornering me, Mr. Lu." "I am stating a professional judgment," Lu Chenzhou corrected, but did not yield. "Criminal investigation work is like mine clearance. You can choose to only disarm the visible one, but if the connecting wires buried underground aren't dug out, they will explode sooner or later. The only difference is whether it kills the person clearing the mines, or the person standing and watching nearby." "You are quite eloquent," Shen Moqing said, his eyes turning completely cold. "And you also know very well how to package your personal motives." Here it came at last. Lu Chenzhou felt a chill in his heart, but his expression remained utterly unmoved. "Personal motives?" "Reopening the case." Shen Moqing uttered these two words as if spitting out two shards of ice. "That fire ten years ago burned three people to death. One of them was your father, Lu Wenyuan. The case was closed that same year—an accident, no one held responsible. But you never believed that, did you?" He stared at Lu Chenzhou, his gaze seeming to peel back flesh and see straight to the bone. "So you accepted my commission. On the surface, it's to investigate Zhao Mingcheng, but in reality, you want to borrow the Shen family's influence to pry open that sealed door again." The air in the study solidified. Lu Chenzhou could hear the sound of his own blood flowing, buzzing in his eardrums. The file folder under his arm grew scalding hot, as if it would burn through the fabric the next second. He maintained that forward-leaning posture, not even a flicker of his eyelashes. A full five seconds. Then, he slowly leaned back, settling into the chair. The movement was slow, deliberate, carrying an almost provocative composure. "Yes," he admitted, his voice as calm as if discussing the weather. "I want to reopen the case. That is one of my motives for accepting your commission." He raised his eyes, meeting Shen Moqing's gaze directly. "But motives do not affect professionalism. On the contrary, precisely because I want to reopen the case, I will investigate Zhao Mingcheng's death more desperately than anyone else—because the roots of these two matters are likely intertwined. Clarifying Zhao Mingcheng's death might lead to the truth of the fire. And finding the truth of the fire is also the only way to explain why someone absolutely had to have Zhao Mingcheng dead." He paused, allowing the chain of logic to fully unfold. "So, Mr. Shen, we are not in opposition. At least in this matter, our goals are aligned: to find the real culprit. The only difference is that you may only want to find the person who killed Zhao Mingcheng, while I want to find... the source of all the culprits." His tone slowed, but each word carried more weight. "But there is only one source. Grasp it, and all the knots can be untied." Shen Moqing did not respond immediately. He rotated the thumb ring on his finger; the warm, smooth luster of the jade flowed between his fingers. The halo of the desk lamp illuminated half his face clearly, the wrinkles as deep as if carved by a knife; the other half of his face was hidden in shadow, its expression unclear. Time ticked by, second by second. The teacup in Lu Chenzhou's palm had already turned cold. The chill transmitted from the porcelain seeped into his skin, but he did not put it down. He simply held it steadily, as if it were the only anchor. Finally, Shen Moqing stopped rotating the thumb ring. "Your proposal," he began, his voice regaining that gentle, courteous tone, but the layer of ice beneath it was thick and piercing, "I can accept. But there are two conditions." Lu Chenzhou waited quietly for what came next. "First, all investigative actions must be reported in advance to Gu Zhixing. Not for approval, but for notification. Where you go, whom you see, what you investigate—you must provide him with a list every morning." "That's the bottom line, non-negotiable." "Second," Shen Moqing leaned forward, the desk lamp finally illuminating his entire face—an expressionless face, bearing only an absolute, indisputable sense of control, "if during your investigation, you touch upon any leads related to Shen Yan, or to the core interests of the Shen family, you must stop immediately and report to me alone. I will decide whether and how to proceed." He paused, then added, "The interpretation of 'core interests' here rests with me." The conditions were as harsh as shackles. But Lu Chenzhou knew this was Shen Moqing's greatest concession—trading limited expansion of investigative space for transparent surveillance and ultimate veto power. He was silent for two seconds, then nodded. "Acceptable." "Good." Shen Moqing straightened up, took the manila file folder from the drawer. This time, he didn't throw it, but gently pushed it to the center of the table. "Wu Guodong and Li Weidong's information is all in there. Including some details not found in the police reports." He lifted his eyes. "This is my sincerity, Mr. Lu. Also your ruler—measure clearly what you can touch and what you cannot." Lu Chenzhou reached out and picked up the file folder. The rough texture of the manila paper rubbed against his fingertips, the edges slightly worn, the seal tied with red cotton thread in a simple knot. The bag was heavier than he expected; it clearly contained more than just a few sheets of paper. He squeezed it, feeling the thickness of the paper and something hard inside—like a USB drive or a key. "You can take the materials," Shen Moqing said, his tone returning to its initial flatness. "Gu Zhixing is waiting for you in the courtyard. He'll take you to the Mingcheng International site—though it's been cleared many times, you might still find something." He picked up the cold tea, raised it slightly toward Lu Chenzhou, like a ritualistic farewell. "Remember my words, Mr. Lu. Every inch of progress must be known to me. This is a transaction, not a gift." "Understood." Lu Chenzhou tucked the file folder under his arm, stood up, and gave a slight nod. He turned and walked toward the study door. When his hand grasped the brass doorknob, the cold, hard sensation from his palm sobered him. "Mr. Lu." Shen Moqing's voice came from behind. Lu Chenzhou stopped but didn't turn around. "You are a smart man," Shen Moqing said, his tone even, as if stating an objective fact. "Smart men should know that pulling some threads may draw blood." Lu Chenzhou tightened his grip on the doorknob. "I'm investigating a murder case, Mr. Shen," he said, his voice not loud but each word clear. "Murder cases inherently involve blood." He turned the knob and walked out. The corridor light was brighter than in the study, but the air was equally stagnant. Lu Chenzhou didn't go downstairs immediately. Instead, he stood at the door and took a deep breath. His lungs filled with the old mansion's distinctive smell—a mix of dust and wood polish. The file folder under his arm was heavy, like a block of ice pressed against his ribs. He had won. Won investigative space. Won limited freedom. But the cost was complete exposure within Shen Moqing's sight, every step monitored, every discovery shared. Moreover, Shen Moqing had clearly revealed his true intent—overturning the case. From now on, he could no longer harbor any illusions. Every move he made would be scrutinized under a magnifying glass, interpreted with dual meanings. He raised his left hand and looked at his palm. The crescent-shaped nail marks were already turning red, slightly swollen. The pain was sharp. That was good. Pain kept a person alert. He walked along the corridor toward the stairs. His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, one after another, like a countdown. Gu Zhixing stood at the end of the corridor, leaning against the wall, hands in his suit pants pockets. Seeing Lu Chenzhou come out, he straightened up and pushed the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Finished talking?" he asked, his voice steady, betraying no emotion. Lu Chenzhou nodded, his steps not pausing as he headed straight for the stairs. "Mr. Shen Yan asked me to convey," Gu Zhixing followed, walking half a step behind him, maintaining a subtle distance, "starting at eight tomorrow morning, I will accompany you throughout your investigation. The car is ready. Wherever you want to go, just say the word." Lu Chenzhou didn't speak. He just walked down the stairs, crossed the empty first-floor hall, and pushed open the heavy oak door. Night wind rushed in, carrying the rustle of bamboo leaves Lu Chenzhou looked at it for several seconds before reaching out to take it. The paper bag was light, but holding it in his hand gave it a weighty texture. Like a piece of red-hot iron, scalding to the touch, yet impossible to discard. "Shen Yansheng said you might need it," Gu Zhixing added, his tone devoid of any unnecessary explanation or emotion. "Inside is Wu Guodong's detailed information, including places he frequents recently and people he contacts. Also... some background information that might be useful to you." Lu Chenzhou squeezed the file folder. The rough texture of the paper rubbed against his fingertips. It seemed there was more than just a few sheets inside—something hard, like photographs, or documents. He did not open it. Instead, he tucked the file folder under his arm and continued walking forward. Crossing the courtyard, the gravel path made faint scraping sounds beneath his feet. Stone lanterns on either side emitted a dim yellow light, casting swaying bamboo shadows on the ground, flickering like countless prying eyes. When they reached the main gate, Gu Zhixing spoke again: "Mr. Lu." Lu Chenzhou stopped but did not turn around. "Shen Yansheng also asked me to relay a message to you." Gu Zhixing's voice was exceptionally clear in the night wind. "He said... 'The string can be let out long, but the kite's string is ultimately held by the one flying it.'" After speaking, he gave a slight bow and gestured with an "after you" motion. "Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, I will wait downstairs at your residence." Lu Chenzhou did not respond. He merely pushed open the heavy iron gate and walked out. The gate slowly closed behind him, its metal hinges emitting a long, piercing creak, like the lament of some ancient torture instrument. The street was empty. Streetlights cast a ghastly white light over the asphalt road. In the distance, a car returning late at night passed by, the sound of tires against the pavement growing from far to near, then from near to far, before finally disappearing into the depths of the night. Lu Chenzhou stood by the roadside for a long time. The night wind blew, sweeping up a few fallen leaves from the ground, swirling them away into the distance. He lowered his head and looked at the kraft paper file folder under his arm. Under the dim yellow streetlight, the worn edges of the paper bag were especially distinct. Like a scar. He raised his hand and touched the newly bandaged wound on his left arm. The pain beneath the gauze remained, throbbing, reminding him of the ambush just hours ago, reminding him of those unseen eyes behind him, reminding him of what this "sincerity" he now held in his hand truly meant. The string can be let out long. But the kite's string is ultimately held by the one flying it. He tugged at the corner of his mouth, forming an arc devoid of any smile. Then he turned and walked toward the other end of the street. His steps were steady. Step by step. As if measuring the invisible boundary that had just been drawn. Lu Chenzhou walked through the corridor outside the study, the soles of his shoes making hollow taps on the bluestone slabs. The wound on his left arm throbbed faintly beneath his sleeve, like a string buried in flesh, trembling lightly with each pulse. He walked not quickly, each step precisely landing on the seams between the floor tiles, as if measuring the distance between himself and that study. The dusk had sunk into impenetrable darkness. The stone lanterns in the courtyard had not yet been lit; the outlines of the rockery and bamboo clusters merged into a thick, undulating mass of shadow. The air carried the damp scent of plants brought by the evening breeze, along with a faint, elusive aroma of scorched oil wafting from the distant kitchen. This was the daily atmosphere of Shen Yan, so mundane it was almost ironic. Gu Zhixing stood under the moon gate. He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit, the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting a cold white sheen under the faint twilight, like two thin shards of ice. In his hand, he held a kraft paper file folder, pinching the opening between his index and middle fingers, his posture relaxed as if holding ordinary meeting minutes. "Mr. Lu." Gu Zhixing's voice was steady, betraying no emotion. "Shen Yansheng instructed me to wait for you here." Lu Chenzhou stopped walking. The distance between them was about three paces—just enough to see each other's expressions clearly without appearing overly familiar. He noticed Gu Zhixing was wearing a dark red striped tie today—the standard for senior executives of the Shen Group on important occasions. "Lawyer Gu." Lu Chenzhou nodded, his tone as plain as the other's. "Is there something?" "Two matters." Gu Lu Chenzhou's face showed no expression. He simply stood there, right hand in his trouser pocket, left hand hanging naturally at his side—that was his injured arm, yet he made no protective gesture, as if that arm didn't belong to him. "Assistant?" Lu Chenzhou repeated the word, his tone flat and uninflected. "Yes. An experienced investigator who will report to your residence at nine o'clock tomorrow morning." Gu Zhixing smiled, his smile devoid of any warmth. "He will fully cooperate with your work, including but not limited to site investigations, information gathering, and necessary security measures. After all—" He slightly drew out the last syllable. "—you seem to have encountered some 'accidents' recently. Shen Yansheng is very concerned about your safety." The evening wind blew through the moon gate, swirling a few withered yellow bamboo leaves on the ground. The sound of leaves scraping against the bluestone was faint yet continuous, like some kind of whispering. Lu Chenzhou's gaze fell on the file folder in Gu Zhixing's hand. The opening was sealed with a paper fastener wrapped in cotton thread, and on the side, a line of small, illegibly scrawled characters was written in black pen. "What's the second matter?" he asked. Gu Zhixing handed the file folder over. "This is the preliminary background information on the person you just mentioned, 'Ma San,'" he said. "Shen Yansheng asked me to pass it to you. He said, 'Since Mr. Lu believes this Fang Mu has value, then go investigate.' But—" The file folder paused in mid-air. Lu Chenzhou didn't immediately take it. He looked at the folder, its kraft paper appearing aged and almost brownish-yellow in the twilight. The body of the folder was thin, probably only a dozen or so pages thick, but the edges were slightly bulging. "But what?" Lu Chenzhou said. Gu Zhixing's hand didn't withdraw. He maintained the offering posture, his eyes behind the lenses fixed directly on Lu Chenzhou. "But Shen Yansheng also asked me to remind you," his voice lowered slightly, each word enunciated clearly. "Investigating a case is investigating a case. Reopening a case is reopening a case. These two things may appear similar, but their core is entirely different. He hopes you... don't confuse them." The courtyard was now completely dark. Lights in the main residence in the distance flickered on one by one, casting fragmented spots of orange-yellow light through the carved window lattices onto the stone-paved path. But this corner by the moon gate remained immersed in a gray-blue shadow, Gu Zhixing's face half-lit, half-dark, the glare on his lenses obscuring his eyes. Lu Chenzhou finally reached out and took the file folder. The kraft paper felt rough, with the dry, papery texture unique to paper. He weighed it in his hand—it was very light, so light he could barely feel the contents. But this lightweight folder felt like a piece of red-hot iron, burning against his palm. "What's the assistant's name?" he asked. "You'll know tomorrow." Gu Zhixing withdrew his hand, adjusting his suit cuff. "He'll bring Shen Yansheng's handwritten letter and the formal appointment letter. Starting tomorrow, he'll be on call twenty-four hours a day to ensure the 'smooth progress' of your investigation." "Surveillance," Lu Chenzhou said. Not a question, a statement. Gu Zhixing smiled. This time, his smile held something else—not mockery, nor triumph, but more like a professional relief that "the trouble has finally been spoken aloud." "Mr. Lu, there's no need to put it so bluntly," he said gently. "We're all working toward the same goal: uncovering the truth. It's just that in terms of methods, some... coordination may be needed." Lu Chenzhou said nothing more. He tucked the file folder under his arm and turned to walk toward the courtyard exit. His steps remained unhurried, the sound of his soles scraping against the bluestone regular and dull. He didn't look back, didn't say goodbye, didn't even glance at Gu Zhixing again. "Mr. Lu." Gu Zhixing's voice came from behind, especially clear in the twilight. "Please read the information in the file folder carefully. Especially the additional information on the last page—Shen Yansheng specifically instructed me to remind you to pay attention to that." Lu Chenzhou's footsteps didn't pause. He passed through the moon gate, walking along the pebble-paved path toward Shen Yan's side gate. The podocarpus trees on either side swayed gently in the night breeze, the rustling of their needles like waves, surging and receding in intervals. The side gate was a traditional pair of wooden doors, painted deep red. The door knockers were The clamor of the street instantly flooded his eardrums—the distant honking of cars, the shouts of roadside vendors, the jingle of bicycle bells, and the tinny pop song blaring from some shop. These sounds mixed together, forming a coarse yet vibrant cacophony, a stark contrast to the refined, oppressive silence inside Shen Yan. Lu Chenzhou stood on the sidewalk and took a deep breath. The air carried the pungent sting of car exhaust, the greasy smoke wafting from street food stalls, and the faint grassy scent released by the roadside trees at night. These odors mingled, not pleasant, but real. Real as a slap to the face. He looked down at the document folder tucked under his arm. The kraft paper, under the dim yellow streetlight, gleamed with a cheap, textureless sheen. That line of hastily scribbled small characters was now legible—"Ma San · Preliminary Background Check · Attached Itinerary." The handwriting was in ordinary black ballpoint pen, pressed down too hard, the tip leaving sunken grooves in the paper. Itinerary. Lu Chenzhou's left-hand fingers curled unconsciously. The wound on his left arm began to throb again, this time more distinctly, as if tiny sawteeth were cutting back and forth through the muscle fibers. He walked along the street. He didn't hail a cab, didn't head for a bus stop, just walked. His pace was a little faster than it had been in Shen Yan, but still maintained a restrained rhythm. The streetlights stretched his shadow long, shortened it, then stretched it long again. The shadow twisted and deformed on the ground, sometimes walking beside him, sometimes dragging far behind, like a silent, inescapable companion. After walking for about twenty minutes, he stopped at a street corner. It was a noodle shop. The storefront was narrow, a few strokes missing from the neon sign on the marquee, turning "Old Liu Noodle Shop" into "Old Liu Noodle." The glass door was smeared with a layer of grease. Through the blurry glass, he could see three or four simple tables inside. At the moment, there was only one customer—a middle-aged man in work clothes, head down, slurping loudly from a bowl of noodles. Lu Chenzhou pushed the door open. A harsh "ding-dong" sounded from the doorbell. The owner behind the counter looked up—a gaunt man in his fifties, his apron stained with flour and grease. He saw Lu Chenzhou, didn't speak, just gave a nod, then turned and lifted the lid of the large pot. Steam billowed up instantly. White mist, carrying the savory aroma of noodle broth, the richness of lard, and a hint of spicy scallion, rushed toward him. This warmth hit his face—damp, warm, carrying a simple, almost savage vitality. Lu Chenzhou sat down at a table against the wall. The table was cheap plywood, its surface covered in scratches and scorched black circles from hot pots. He pulled out two paper napkins, wiped the table, then placed the document folder beside his hand. The kraft paper looked even more worn under the dim fluorescent light, its edges already fraying and fuzzy. The owner came over with a bowl of noodles. A coarse porcelain bowl, clear broth, topped with a small mound of shredded pork with pickled mustard greens, a few bits of scallion, and a spoonful of lard cracklings, rendered translucent and shiny. Steam rose in wisps, forming a thin veil of mist before Lu Chenzhou's eyes. "Late today," the owner said, setting down the bowl, his voice raspy. "Mm," Lu Chenzhou replied. The owner didn't say anything more, turning back behind the counter to continue washing the stacked bowls and chopsticks. The sound of rushing water, the crisp clatter of dishes, occasionally mixed with the owner's low, tuneless humming of opera fragments. Lu Chenzhou picked up his chopsticks. He first drank a mouthful of soup. The scalding broth slid down his throat, burning a path all the way to his stomach. The warmth was like a thawing stream, slowly seeping into his limbs. The pain in the wound on his left arm seemed to lessen, or perhaps was merely masked by a stronger sensory stimulus. He ate the noodles, one mouthful at a time. His movements were slow, each bite chewed carefully, as if performing a ritual. The