Chongqing, Liberation Monument.

Wan Fenghuo walked through Chongqing’s most prosperous district, unhurried and composed, strolling past modern, brightly lit storefronts, brushing shoulders with countless beautiful Chongqing women.

In his right hand, he carried a birdcage. Initially, he held it casually, but after noticing more and more people looking at him, his fingers suddenly curled into the shape of an orchid finger.

This had nothing to do with sexual orientation or mental state—it was purely a whim. In his own words, this was his sense of humor.

People all around stopped to look at him. Some took out their phones to take pictures. He heard whispers from behind: “Is that cosplay? This middle-aged guy is committed despite his age.”

Wan Fenghuo snorted. Such shallow people—who said anything about cosplay?

The canary in the cage jumped up and down, seemingly indignant and sharing his disdain.

A moment later, passing by a world-famous high-end men’s clothing store, he saw the tall, charming male mannequin in the window lifting his chin at a 45-degree angle, pulling back an expensive suit collar to display what was supposedly a sexy and seductive plastic chest. Reflected comically in the glass was Wan Fenghuo’s attire.

He wore a round-collared, double-breasted jacket with large sleeves, a long robe with two slits, and cloth shoes. If he had added a small melon-rind hat and round dark glasses, he would have perfectly resembled a shrewd late-Qing accountant full of underhanded schemes. However, since these two items had been replaced with a birdcage, he easily brought to mind one of Lao She’s fallen Eight Banners nobles who, knowing the Qing Dynasty was beyond saving, indulged in raising hawks and fighting birds.

Of course, Wan Fenghuo himself would never think this way.

He believed his appearance represented an attitude, a state of mind, revealing a certain contemptuous, independent princely quality. Without such transcendent qualities, attitude, and behavior, how could he match his unique profession?

Among the three hundred and sixty traditional trades, each had its origins. Wan Fenghuo’s occupation had a long history. He often told people that his profession had its patriarch.

The patriarch was named Bai Xiaosheng, author of the personal work “The Weapons Compendium,” who had extensive connections, was well-informed, and was nicknamed “Information Broker.”

Information broker—what an ancient profession. Because people’s hearts are separated by their bellies, smiles can hide daggers, and the truth is often convoluted, all these factors have created an endless demand for this profession throughout history.

Wan Fenghuo was born for this line of work. He had a professional passion that others couldn’t understand. Just thinking about how intangible, flavorless information could be bought at a low price and sold at a high one, even auctioned off, could stir up calm waters and drastically change countless people’s fates—it made his blood rush and left him restless with excitement.

He even changed his name to “Fenghuo”—one of the earliest forms of message transmission in ancient China.

Of course, this was a huge market with an enormous pie, and any person or organization trying to monopolize it would quickly burst. So, Wan Fenghuo soberly and cautiously chose his niche market.

Government, military, diplomatic, capital, financial—anything related to these areas, he completely avoided.

He only dealt in one type of information.

Jianghu information.

Sometimes, young people would argue with him. In their minds, jianghu = period costume = martial arts films, existing only in movies or novels. In this information-exploding twenty-first century, jianghu seemed as outdated and absurd as the long gown and jacket he wore.

But Wan Fenghuo believed that wherever there are people, there is jianghu. It had always existed throughout history, just presenting itself differently.

For example, in ancient times, people rode horses across the land; now they drive cars. A shabby car is like an inferior horse, a luxury car like a prized Ferghana steed. Or in ancient times, people would flip tables when disagreeing; now they curse online when conversations don’t go well. The essence remains the same.

Perhaps the name “jianghu” sounded too antiquated. If replaced with a trendier name like “river-lake,” young people might find it easier to understand.

Wan Fenghuo, carrying his birdcage, climbed the dirty stairs to the second floor of Old Nine Hotpot restaurant. The clock at the entrance showed 10:30 in the morning, completely outside normal meal hours, but this didn’t affect the bustling, steaming atmosphere inside.

The people of Chongqing’s love for hotpot knew no seasons or hours—it remained deep and enduring.

Wan Fenghuo sat down in an inconspicuous corner spot. The wooden tabletop had cracks filled with congealed red oil. This oil paste couldn’t have formed in a single day; it must have built up layer by layer like fossils, each layer revealing its age.

He ordered a nine-grid hotpot, two portions of all-oil dip, nine meat dishes, and nine vegetable dishes—filling the entire table. The middle-aged waitress wrote rapidly on the order form, marking and circling, all while chatting with the customer: “Brother, your outfit is quite unusual.”

Wan Fenghuo placed his chopsticks in the gradually heating pot to season them: “I’m into vintage things. I like stuff from the past. Modern things are too noisy, too rushed.”

The waitress, showing great professional spirit: “Then you don’t like to pay by card either? Usually cash?”

She asked casually, not expecting an answer. Before Wan Fenghuo could respond, she had already hurried off with a vinegar bottle to another table.

The hotpot finally began to boil, releasing its aroma. The canary, perhaps wanting to eat too, jumped anxiously in its cage. Wan Fenghuo, eyes fixed forward, elegantly used his chopsticks to add ingredients.

The nine-grid hotpot was ideal—everything separated, ingredients added earlier or later, all kept apart. No need to eat raw and cooked together in one bite. The tofu skin, paper-thin, is cooked immediately after a quick dip in the red soup. His chopsticks retrieved it, swirled it in the oil dip, coating it with another layer of sesame oil, then, glistening, brought it to his mouth.

Just as he was enjoying his meal, someone sat down across from him.

Despite the rising steam, Wan Fenghuo could see clearly that it was an emaciated middle-aged woman in black clothes, with long straight hair and a long face. Her eyebrows were as sparse as a half-cleared forest, with bare patches visible at first glance.

Wan Fenghuo instinctively sat up straighter.

They say in ancient warfare, if a woman or child led the army, they weren’t to be underestimated. Similarly, if a client were a woman or child, Wan Fenghuo would regard them more highly.

“Ms. Cen Chunjiao? Are you buying or selling?”

“Are you in charge, or just running errands?”

They asked almost simultaneously, followed by one or two seconds of awkward silence, with only the bubbling hotpot sounding cheerful.

Wan Fenghuo chuckled: “In modern society, everyone’s equal. Whether in charge or running errands, it’s all the same—reliability is what matters.”

Cen Chunjiao stared at him for a while: “Selling.”

Then, lowering her voice: “An unsolved case from over twenty years ago.”

Wan Fenghuo explained the procedures as routine: “The investigative capabilities twenty years ago were limited by objective technical constraints, likely leaving many unsolved cases. In your situation, it depends on whether your information has value. You probably know we don’t give advances. Our local colleagues will first check if there are interested buyers. If there are, it depends on what price they’re willing to pay. Information, you know, is one person’s treasure but another’s poison. Finding the right person gets you the right price.”

Finished speaking, he felt thirsty and waved the waitress over to order a bottle of cold herbal tea in a red can.

When the woman had asked if he was running errands or in charge, she had underestimated him. If this were set in a martial arts novel, he might not be the sect leader, but at least a branch or hall master.

Normally, these meet-ups weren’t his job, but these days, wasn’t getting close to the masses the trend? Even President Xi went to shops to eat steamed buns. Wan Fenghuo figured that occasionally meeting consumers himself was like billionaire Jack Ma suddenly deciding to hop on a bicycle and deliver packages—same principle.

Cen Chunjiao picked up some chopped cilantro and green onions, stirring them in the oil dip—three clockwise circles, then three counterclockwise. She just stirred without once dipping into the pot.

Wan Fenghuo urged her: “Don’t be shy, eat.”

“Where I’m from, we use sauce dip. I’m not used to oil dip.”

She was just stirring for fun. But in his line of work, he’d seen all kinds of eccentrics and didn’t mind. He casually asked: “From the north?”

Cen Chunjiao answered indirectly: “There’s a Luoma Lake in the north. Have you heard of it?”

China is vast—how could he know about every small lake, marsh, or creek? Wan Fenghuo was about to shake his head when Cen Chunjiao continued.

“Over twenty years ago, by the lake, a family of three—a professor couple and their daughter in her early twenties—were all murdered. It was horrific, blood all over the house. When the police arrived, they couldn’t even step inside.”

Wan Fenghuo made a sound of acknowledgment. Murder scenes were mostly like that. He fished out the overcooked crown daisy greens from the pot while wondering about the name “Luoma Lake,” which seemed vaguely familiar.

“That’s not even the strange part. What’s strange is that the three people in the house—their limbs, torsos, and heads—were all threaded with fishing line. Not an ordinary thread, but a fishing line. Luoma Lake, you know, many people make their living by fishing there.”

Wan Fenghuo was about to put a piece of beef tripe in his mouth, but he slowly lowered it.

Cen Chunjiao, as if not noticing, stared absently at the boiling hotpot, as if it were showing her images.

“Nails were hammered into all four walls. Those lines connected the bodies at one end and were wrapped around the wall nails at the other, arranging the three dead people into a vivid scene. In the scene, one person covered their face as if hiding, another held a knife with a vicious grin as if about to strike, and the third had both hands pushing outward as if mediating.”

Wan Fenghuo suddenly felt his lips go dry and swallowed several times.

Cen Chunjiao narrowed her eyes, as if completely immersed in her narrative: “They say the scene had over a hundred lines criss-crossing, looking like a spider web at first glance. Each person’s expression was perfect—for instance, the angry person had bulging eyes, with two lines specifically pulling up their eyelids, and the sneering one had coordinated eye and mouth corner movements. When the police removed the hands of person covering their face, they saw the covered area had been slashed with a large wound…”

She stopped there.

Wan Fenghuo snapped out of his daze and, as if realizing something, reached into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Two million yuan as an advance payment first, we can negotiate the rest… Where are you staying, Ms. Cen? Why not stay at our partner hotel? It would make it easier to keep in touch…”

As he spoke, he pulled out an iPhone 6: “Shall we scan? Direct… Alipay transfer?”