The tracker’s warmth had yet to dissipate before Lu Chenzhou crushed it beneath his boot. Ceramic shattered; the signal was sent. He crouched in the drainage ditch on the east side of the Shen Estate. The rainstorm lashed like a whip, pouring into his collar. The penetrating wound in his right arm spasmed in the cold water, the pain numbed by the low temperature. Third contingency plan—Shen Moqing’s words were a trap set for Gu Zhixing. The cleaners wouldn’t miss this window of blackout. The main building was completely dark. Not a tripped circuit, but a physical cut. The acrid smell of burning resin drifted from the direction of the power distribution room. He pulled the tube of cryogenic spray from his waist, shook it twice, and a thin frost formed on the palm of his hand. The nemesis of thermal imaging. The side hall. Shen Qinghuan was in the hidden side hall. Lu Chenzhou crept along the base of the wall. Thunder exploded overhead, and he used the roar to cross three meters of open ground. The smell of ozone invaded his nostrils, mixed with a rusty sweetness—someone had already made a move. The smell of blood. Fresh. The blast door to the hidden side hall was half open, nothing but dead iron after the power was cut. A faint red light leaked from the crack—the positioning lights on the hounds’ collars. Two Dobermans lunged silently, muscles bulging beneath their fur. Instead of retreating, Lu Chenzhou advanced, sidestepping, spraying the cryogenic fluid into the first dog’s snout. The extreme cold froze its respiratory tract; it grunted, collapsing in convulsions. The second bit into his right arm, tearing the old wound open on the spot, blood blooming in the rain. He countered, gripping the dog’s throat, his thumb pressing hard into the depression of its carotid artery. The Doberman’s jaw strength slackened abruptly, its throat bone dislocated. Inside the side hall, Shen Qinghuan huddled under the desk, hands clamped over her mouth, her long hair scattered among porcelain shards. In the darkness, her pupils had contracted to pinpoints. "Get down." Lu Chenzhou’s voice was pressed extremely low, a cold imperative, like a blade scraping glass. Shen Qinghuan didn’t move. Her hands trembled, but not with ordinary fear—she was assessing. Three seconds later, she lowered herself, pulling the sandalwood box from under the desk into her arms. A suppressed gunshot. The bullet embedded itself in the doorframe behind them, wood splinters flying, grazing his earlobe. Thermal imaging. The enemy was in the dark, scanning the entire room with infrared. Lu Chenzhou flung the remaining cryogenic fluid into the air. A dense mist of fine ice crystals spread, the infrared view reduced to white noise. He grabbed Shen Qinghuan by the collar and rolled toward the corner. Another dull thud; the desk was overturned, the lamp exploding. Thunder rumbled again. Within that peal of thunder, he drew his gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. One fluid motion. A shadowy figure at the end of the corridor grunted, collapsing against the railing. The thermal imager slipped, tumbling down the stairs with a crack of plastic. Position exposed. "Side hall is sealed. Initiate Plan B." A cold command came over the walkie-talkie, a woman’s voice, utterly emotionless. A clicking sound came from the ventilation duct, like a bone dislocating. Then a hiss of airflow, carrying the bitter smell of chlorine, seeped down from the iron grate overhead. Shen Qinghuan jerked her head up, nostrils flaring, face deathly pale. "Poison gas." Lu Chenzhou’s left eyelid twitched. The side hall. The load-bearing wall of the side hall was a full pane of tempered glass, leading to an underground passage. He had seen the Shen family’s architectural blueprints ten years ago, back when he didn’t need to enter this house in such a way. The cryogenic fluid was gone. Four rounds left in the gun. His right arm had lost sensation. Chlorine gas swirled overhead like invisible snakes, slowly descending. A yellow-green fog crept along the floor, licking the pile of the Persian rug. Shen Qinghuan crouched in the corner, hands clamped over her mouth and nose, rapid breaths escaping between her fingers. Her eyes were bloodshot, tears flowing uncontrollably—not from crying, but from chemical burns. "The vent—can it be sealed?" Lu Chenzhou glanced at the iron grate overhead. "Tried." Shen Qinghuan’s voice squeezed out from behind her fingers, hoarse The cast-iron table leg, thirty kilograms. His right arm useless, only the left. He lifted the table leg one-handed and walked toward the lower left corner of the glass wall. The chlorine gas rose to his chest; every breath felt like swallowing broken glass. Bitterness seeped between his teeth, clinging to the back of his tongue. The first strike. Cast iron crashed against glass, the shockwave traveling from his left palm through his entire body. The glass didn’t budge. The recoil numbed the web of his thumb. The second strike. The old wound on his right shoulder tore open, warm liquid sliding down the inside of his arm. The smell of blood, thick enough to overwhelm the chlorine. The third strike. A white mark appeared on the glass surface, fine as a hair, spreading outwards like forked lightning. "Step back." Shen Qinghuan retreated two steps, her back against the wall, the box held tight to her chest. He took a final deep breath of the remaining air—all bitterness. Putting all his weight behind his left arm, he aimed at the crack and smashed down with full force. The glass shattered, like an ice lake collapsing. Shards flew. Instinctively, he blocked with his right arm—that arm with no sensation—catching three fingernail-sized pieces of glass. One embedded itself in the outer side of his forearm, the other two pierced old scars at the crook of his elbow, like nails driven into rotten wood. A dull ache arrived half a beat late, and once it came, it never left. Years ago in prison, he’d used this same method of self-harm to get to the infirmary. He hadn’t cried out then. His left hand grabbed the edge of the glass frame, tearing open a gap. Broken glass sliced his palm, blood dripping from his fingers. "Come here." Shen Qinghuan turned sideways and squeezed through the gap. Shards tore her sleeve, leaving a long, thin bloody line on her arm. She didn’t pause, didn’t scream—the survival instinct of a family outsider was more effective than any training. Lu Chenzhou followed her through. His right arm dragged behind him, plowing a bloody trail through the broken glass. The air in the secret passage was cold and damp, carrying the sour smell of rotten wood. The chlorine hadn’t penetrated here yet. He slumped against the wall, gasping for breath. His lungs felt stuffed with sandpaper, every inhalation scraping his bronchi. Shen Qinghuan crouched beside him, looking down at his right arm. A dim yellow light seeped in from the far end of the passage. Enough for her to see clearly— From wrist to shoulder, a dense patchwork of scars layered upon scars. Some were neat surgical incisions, some were burn marks, and others… were man-made, repeated, systematic trauma. Like a medical record of abuse, carved into the skin. Her hand, which had been clutching her long hair, loosened. The strands fell over her shoulder. "Who are you, really?" Her voice was soft, as faint as the last echo in the passage. Lu Chenzhou glanced down at his arm. The corner of his left eye twitched slightly. "You don’t want to know." He pushed himself up, leaning against the wall. Heavy footsteps sounded from above—pursuers had entered the side hall. Shen Qinghuan stood up too. The look in her eyes had changed—no longer fear or wariness, but something deeper. Like seeing her own reflection in a shattered mirror. She switched the sandalwood box to her left hand. Her right hand slipped into a hidden pocket in her skirt and pulled something out. An old voice recorder, its casing worn, the paint around the buttons completely faded. "This," she held the recorder up to the dim light, her voice unnervingly calm for someone who had just escaped poison gas, "is what you want, isn’t it?" The sour smell of rotten wood drilled into his nostrils. A dull vibration came through the bricks overhead; the pursuers' military boots were grinding across the floor above the passage. Dust drifted down, settling on Lu Chenzhou's shoulders. He leaned against the cold wall and struck a match. A flicker of light briefly illuminated Shen Qinghuan's silhouette holding the recorder—her other hand held a small pistol. The muzzle wasn't aimed at him, but it wasn't lowered either. "Shen Moqing's hound? Gu Zhixing's man?" Her voice was stretched to its limit, the tail end trembling. "Or—" "Ten years ago." Lu Chenzhou cut her off, his tone even, his words precise. "A criminal investigator signed a confession. The charge: political assassination." Shen Qinghuan's breath hitched for a moment. The match burned down to his fingertips. He didn't let go. Using the faint “After my brother Shen Yan died,” her voice suddenly became extremely soft, as if afraid of disturbing the people above, “I found this voice recorder in his study. The date on the label—was the very day you were arrested.” Thunder rolled overhead, dust sifting down from the cracks between the bricks of the secret passage. Footsteps stopped directly above them. Both held their breath simultaneously. Ten seconds later, the footsteps receded. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. Ten years. He could recite every single word on that confession letter from memory. “My sister needed surgery back then,” he began, his tone as if stating someone else’s case file, “They traded her life for my signature. For the Shen family, a very fair transaction.” Shen Qinghuan’s head snapped up. “My father—” “Your father was one of the signatories.” He opened his eyes; in the darkness, only two overlapping heavy breaths remained. “But the one who pressed the record button on that voice recorder wasn’t him.” Silence. Then he heard the crisp sound of fabric tearing. Shen Qinghuan ripped a strip from her skirt, groping closer. Rough cloth wrapped around his still-bleeding forearm, her hands trembling, but the binding was tight. “The year I turned six, after my mother died, my father moved me from the main residence to the side hall.” Her voice was muffled in the sour, foul air. “Said it was for protection. Actually, it was to keep me out of sight. I’ve lived in this mansion for twenty years, never belonging to it.” Lu Chenzhou didn’t speak. The pressure of the bandage tightened the wound but also stopped the bleeding. He suddenly remembered Lu Chenxing had also bandaged him like this before—her touch gentler, but just as firm. “The person on that voice recorder,” he spoke, his voice half a tone lower than before, “have you heard his voice?” Shen Qinghuan shook her head. “It’s password-protected. I couldn’t open it.” “But you know who it points to.” In the darkness, her gaze was like a faint, weak phosphorescent light. “Gu Zhixing.” When that name fell, Lu Chenzhou felt the searing pain in his right arm suddenly become bearable. Not lessened—but something clearer than pain had emerged. “What do you plan to do with this voice recorder?” he asked. Shen Qinghuan was silent for three seconds. “I originally wanted to use it to buy a way out.” A trace of bitterness tinged her voice. “Out of this mansion, away from this person—away from everyone who treats me as a pawn.” “And now?” She didn’t answer immediately. In the dark came the rustling sound of her adjusting her posture—she had moved closer, her back against the same wall. Two inches of damp brick separated their shoulders, yet it felt like some silent pact. “Now, I want to know the truth.” Lu Chenzhou took the remaining fragment of the memory chip from his pocket and placed it on the ground between them. Only one match remained in the box—he didn’t strike it, just let it exist there in the dark. “Then let’s find it together.” Not a request, not charity. An alliance forged in the sour air of the basement by two people crushed by the same mansion, traded with wounds. Shen Qinghuan’s fingers touched the edge of the chip. Her fingertips were cold, but steady. “Alright.” At the end of the secret passage was a rusted iron door. Just as Lu Chenzhou’s fingertips touched the lock, the communicator suddenly erupted—the electric current piercingly sharp, like metal scraping against eardrums. “Mr. Lu.” The communicator crackled with static, Gu Zhixing’s voice emerging from the noise, steady, precise, even carrying a hint of procedural regret: “Legally speaking, you are currently trespassing on private Shen family property. I suggest you stop.” Lu Chenzhou didn’t let go. Blood from the wound on his right arm dripped down his wrist, splattering onto the iron door. Drip. Drip. “Lawyer Gu,” his tone as flat as the other’s, “your team failed to complete the silencing. The third contingency plan also failed.” “Based on existing evidence, I hold a card you do not.” The static suddenly weakened, Gu Zhixing’s voice becoming exceptionally clear. “Deputy Captain Qin Wangshu was intercepted by my security personnel at the estate’s north gate fifteen minutes ago.” Behind him, Shen Qinghuan drew a sharp breath, her spine stiffening. Lu Chenzhou’s left eyelid twitched. His fingers paused on the lock for three seconds. Qin Wangshu. Qin Wangshu. “Ten seconds,” Gu Zh "Cayman Islands, registration number C-7741. Bermuda, B-2203." He recited a string of numbers, each syllable like a nail. "These two capital chains, one is linked to the trust fund under your name, Lawyer Gu, and the other is connected to Shen Moqing's private offshore assets. If I send the account codes and transfer records to Provincial Discipline Inspection Commission's Chen Jianguo right now—" "You're bluffing." Gu Zhixing interrupted him, but for the first time, a crack appeared in his tone. "I'm bluffing," Lu Chenzhou repeated, the corner of his mouth pulling into a curve devoid of warmth. "Do you dare to bet? Bet that I don't have this data in my hands. Bet that Shen Moqing would let the entire Shen family's money laundering network be taken down in one sweep for your sake. Money laundering network." The static noise grew louder again, crackling. Gu Zhixing was adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses—Lu Chenzhou could almost see the motion. "Qin Wangshu's life, in exchange for your silence." "Release her, open the door," Lu Chenzhou's voice showed not a trace of fluctuation. "Otherwise, Chen Jianguo will receive a complete capital flow map tonight. The Shen family will be destroyed, and you won't escape either—you know better than anyone that Shen Moqing hates nothing more than being implicated." A long silence. Only the hiss of static. Footsteps sounded outside the iron door, growing distant. "The door will open," Gu Zhixing finally said, his voice already restored to that precise calm. "But Mr. Lu, you forgot that the voice recorder was procured by the Shen family legal department—the remote wipe command, I issued it three seconds ago." Shen Qinghuan hurriedly pulled out that voice recorder. The screen went dark. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. One second. Two seconds. He opened his eyes, looking down at the chip fragment he had pried from the voice recorder in his hand—the remote wipe had destroyed the main storage, this backup core was already burned out, leaving only a scorch mark in his palm. "Gu Zhixing." The other party did not hang up. "The recording is gone," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice suddenly becoming extremely soft, as if speaking to himself. "But I heard it. I heard it very clearly." He raised his head, staring at the flashing emergency light above the iron door. "The person who pressed the record button in the interrogation room back then—it wasn't Shen Moqing." The static noise abruptly vanished. The communicator cut off. The iron door clicked and sprang open. The heavy rain poured in, carrying the smell of earth and ozone. Lu Chenzhou dragged Shen Qinghuan into the rain curtain. The wound on his right arm, hit by the cold water, spasmed violently as if electrocuted. He clenched his teeth, not letting go. Behind him, the communicator in his pocket lit up again—Fang Mu's intercepted signal, just one line of text: [Gu Zhixing sent an encrypted communication to Shen Moqing: Lu Chenzhou already knows there was another person who died in his place back then.] The rain beat against his face, colder than blood. He clenched the burned fragment, his nails digging into his flesh. The one who died in his place. There was another person who died in his place. Who exactly was the person sitting across the interrogation table back then, forcing him to sign the confession? How was Zhao Mingcheng's death connected to this substitute? Every step of his investigation on the Zhao family's knife edge could be strangled again at any moment by this black hand.