Before sleeping that night, Wei Lai went to see Cen Jin.

There were guards at the door, working in shifts. The room itself was nothing special—plain and ordinary. When he first laid eyes on it, Wei Lai felt it was oddly similar to where he had stayed in He’er Xinji: only the bare essentials of daily life.

The one thing that was different—different enough to make the chest tighten—was a wall covered from edge to edge in dense writing.

The scripts varied, the sizes varied. Most were in English, though other languages appeared as well. It had the feel of deathbed confessions—there were prayers, there were drawings, and there were long passages of text. Wei Lai felt the pressure of it bearing down on him, and Cen Jin seemed to read his thoughts. “This room is probably meant especially for those awaiting trial. One comes, one goes, and now it’s my turn.”

There was a table against the wall with pens of various kinds laid out on it. Wei Lai let out a cold laugh: how thoughtful of them—they’d even provided these.

He took Cen Jin’s hand and led her over to the wall to read.

One person had filled lines with dozens of “sorry”s, the strokes hurried and chaotic. At the end: may God forgive me.

Another person’s “sorry” was written to family members, a confession for the wrongs they had committed—the suffering had to be borne by those they loved. They went on to instruct their wife: don’t let the children know the truth. Please never mention it again.

Someone had written in a frenzy: I didn’t kill anyone! I was possessed by a demon at the time—the real me didn’t kill anyone!

Someone else had given vent to their rage: If there hadn’t been a war, how would I have become a killer? The ones who started it should bear full responsibility—why should I have to answer for it!

And someone else, furious in a different way: I only killed this many people—so-and-so deserves to die far more than I do, why isn’t he the one being arrested!

Wei Lai murmured: “What kind of mentality is this.”

Cen Jin responded: “That mentality of ‘I don’t mind being poor, as long as you’re not richer than me,’ wouldn’t you say?”

The two of them laughed together, and the laughter faded into silence.

The wall was flat, the words were flat, but behind it stood a towering, complex, three-dimensional world. Strip away the identities of perpetrator and victim, and in the end they were all just people—and being people, they had emotions, attachments, friends, families, connections. Pull on any one of those threads and there was enough there to move anyone to sighs.

Wei Lai asked Cen Jin: “If it were you—what would you write?”

Cen Jin picked up a pen and scanned the wall. Finally she found a small gap, rose on her tiptoes, and wrote a line.

What she wrote was: May Wei Lai have peace for all his days.

Signed: Cen Jin.

Wei Lai said: “You—the way you write Chinese characters, you can’t do it properly. The character ‘Jin’ always gets a stammer in it…”

His eyes stung, and he found it hard to go on. He paused, then laughed again: “Do you know how unconscionable this is?”

Cen Jin said: “I know. At a time like this, I shouldn’t be doing anything sentimental that deepens your attachment to me. Maybe I should be acting cold, pushing you away, telling you I never loved you, that I was just stringing you along the whole time. But…”

Her voice dropped. “I’m afraid I may truly be running out of time. I feel that what I leave with you must be my genuine feelings.”

“If it weren’t for you, this would probably be the most liberated moment of my life. Death itself doesn’t frighten me—I’ve been preparing for a long time.”

She wrapped her arms around Wei Lai and rested her head lightly against his chest.

“The only thing tying me here now is you. I hope you’ll be well. Whatever the outcome, you must be well—we made that promise. Live well, eat well, sleep well, bring flowers on the anniversary, and—whoever you come to love in the future—don’t you dare compare them to me. Don’t say she’s gentler than me, or prettier than me. Get out of here with that. No comparisons.”

Wei Lai gave a helpless laugh. He put one arm around her and, with the other, took the pen from her hand. He looked at that line of writing on the wall, and then drew a circle around the characters for “Wei Lai,” added an arrow, and moved them beside the “Cen Jin” of the signature. Then he added two more characters.

It now read: May we both have peace for all our days.

Signed: Cen Jin & Wei Lai.

The two of them were together now—a wish couldn’t be made alone.

He bowed his head and kissed her hair. “There will be a way.”

Back in the room, Wei Lai dropped onto the bed and pulled the blanket straight over his head.

Ke Ke Shu was sitting on his bed reading a newspaper. After a moment the newspaper lowered, revealing his eyes.

He said: “Wei, don’t be so childish. Since we first ran into each other until now, you haven’t said a word to me.”

Wei Lai ignored him.

“Right now I should be in Wu Da, holding my wife close. I came all this way because of you, and there’s nothing to do here but read the newspaper—I’ve read it so many times I could recite it. At least in South Sudan there was alcohol to drink…”

Wei Lai pulled the blanket down slightly and said coldly: “You came for the money. What’s the point in sparring with me?”

Ke Ke Shu said: “Watch how you talk. My wife’s gold jewelry alone weighs over a jin put together. Do I look like someone who cares about money? I went barefoot until I was eight years old. Do I look like someone who can’t handle being poor?”

Life truly was full of too many mysteries: what on earth was there to be proud of about not having underwear until you were eight?

“It was something I worked out with Mi Lu. We knew an ordinary person couldn’t handle you, so I came over specifically to keep an eye on you—to keep you from being bewitched by a woman and going down the wrong path, only to regret it when it’s too late.”

“That Miss Cen—I’ve heard the talk. Don’t let her sweet words fool you, Wei! She’s a writer. She can spin a story without a second thought.”

Wei Lai said: “Social commentator.”

Ke Ke Shu didn’t see much of a difference. Anyone who could put words to paper was a writer.

He grew more animated with each word. “Women all lie. My wife always tells me a different price when she buys clothes—never the real one. I just don’t call her on it. Wei, a man can play dumb, but he can’t actually be dumb!”

Wei Lai said: “What Cen Jin said is the truth.”

“Where’s the evidence?”

“At the moment… nothing has been found yet. But it will be.”

“And how long will that take—a hundred years?” Ke Ke Shu bristled with triumph. “Wei, if word of that gets out, people will die laughing. From now on every criminal would just shout: ‘We’ve been wronged, the evidence just hasn’t been found yet!’—and every single one of them would live to a ripe old age. Wouldn’t the whole world be in chaos?”

“Anyway, as long as you don’t do anything rash, you’ll be fine. I’m here precisely to stop you from doing anything rash.”

Getting worked up, he flung aside the newspaper and came to crouch by Wei Lai’s bed. “How about this… just break up with her? End it and there’s no more problem.”

Wei Lai said coldly: “If your wife were in trouble, would you break up with her?”

“Sure, just go marry another one.”

Wei Lai was so exasperated the pain in his wound flared up. He paused, then suddenly turned over, shot off the bed, crossed the room in two steps, grabbed the shark’s jawbone, and hurled it with force.

A beat of dead silence, then Ke Ke Shu erupted in fury.

“What the hell—if you’ve got a problem say it, why are you throwing my shark’s jaw!”

That night, Ke Ke Shu swore he would not speak to Wei Lai again before daylight.

The next morning, Ke Ke Shu woke early and was about to say good morning to Wei Lai—then suddenly remembered the grudge was still unsettled. His face fell immediately. He washed up with heavy, deliberate movements, gave the door a good slam, and went out for a wander.

Wei Lai was unaffected. He pulled the blanket over himself and slept on, level and undisturbed.

Half an hour later, Ke Ke Shu came bursting back in, shouting: “Wei! Wei! Guess who I saw!”

He rushed to the bedside, flipping the newspaper with a loud rustle. Wei Lai pushed himself up, his head a little foggy. “Who did you see?”

Ke Ke Shu had completely forgotten that he and Wei Lai were still mid-cold war. He whipped out a page. “Found it.”

He thrust the newspaper in front of Wei Lai.

A large photograph took up half the page—seven or eight people standing and applauding. The headline read: National Memorial Hall Approved, Construction Imminent.

Wei Lai couldn’t be bothered to read the long article. “What does it mean?”

“The sixth anniversary of the April Calamity. There’s a commemoration event, and the establishment of the national memorial hall has been officially approved. These people here are all senior officials, and the one in the middle is the president.”

Wei Lai was still somewhat dazed. “You saw… the president?”

Ke Ke Shu shook his head and pointed to someone on the side. “This one. At minimum the fourth or fifth most powerful person in Ka Long right now. They mention him specifically further down—read it yourself. It says his rise has been fast. In particular, his position advocating for the pursuit of war criminals has won him widespread public support. A few years ago he was organizing protest marches, accusing the government of failing to act decisively on the issue. He later won votes in an election and gained the favor of those in power, and has been ascending ever since.”

Wei Lai came to his senses. “You saw him at the gate?”

“Yes. He stepped out of an armored vehicle, a few people clustered around him. I’ve looked after enough people to know at a glance when someone’s important, and the rest were all bodyguards. I kept thinking I recognized him from somewhere…”

Before he could finish, Wei Lai suddenly snatched the newspaper out of his hands, got up, and walked out.

Ke Ke Shu craned his neck and watched Wei Lai corner Dao Ba in the courtyard.

Wei Lai pushed the newspaper in front of Dao Ba and pointed to the person Ke Ke Shu had identified.

“This person—is he here for the trial?”

Dao Ba considered for a moment, probably deciding there wasn’t much point in concealing it, and nodded. “Yes.”

“You said Cen Jin’s case is special. Is that because of the attention from senior Ka Long officials?”

Dao Ba didn’t deny it. “For one, the nature of the case is indeed serious. For another, yes, the attention from senior officials is a factor—does that seem strange? When the higher-ups have personally passed down word about a case, the people executing it naturally handle it with greater care.”

Wei Lai gave a cold laugh. “Very well. Your connections go all the way into political circles.”

Dao Ba shrugged. “No harm in telling you. Mr. En Nu was one of the founding figures of the Hand of God. After the war, the government was not very active in pursuing war criminals. He represented a certain political position, and he organized protests and marches. The footage of him and his supporters being dispersed by tear gas can still be found in some news programs today.”

“The Hand of God began very small—no bigger, in its early days, than the bodyguard agency you work for. It grew alongside Mr. En Nu’s rise through the political world. The United Nations established a dedicated tribunal for the massacre right here in Ka Long. Six years, fewer than twenty people charged, over three hundred million dollars spent—even the government had grown impatient with that progress. There are reportedly ongoing secret discussions within the cabinet about formally absorbing the Hand of God as an auxiliary body to the tribunal. It’s only a matter of time.”

Wei Lai was quiet for a long moment before saying: “Then congratulations to you all.”

It was good news, but not a good sign. With the Hand of God on the verge of being formally incorporated, with state power able to intervene more legitimately and forcefully from here on—even if Cen Jin somehow managed to escape, she would never have a day of peace again.

Perhaps the only real hope was truly what Dao Ba had said: find the evidence.

But where was the evidence?

The trial was set for six o’clock that evening. Before then, Wei Lai called Mi Lu.

Mi Lu was gentle but firm: “Wei, I’m not trying to go against you. I’ve spoken at length with the other side. They have one demand—evidence against evidence. You must respect the outcome of the trial.”

Wei Lai asked: “Do you believe what Cen Jin said? Tell me the truth.”

Mi Lu was quiet for a moment. “You know me—from the very beginning I thought she was odd. She’s sharp enough that spinning a story with almost no holes wouldn’t be difficult for her.”

Wei Lai gave a rueful smile, then said: “Alright. Before the result comes in, keep helping me as best you can. Look through Cen Jin’s social commentaries—apparently there was a significant shift in her style. I want to know the specific timing. And for Re Lei Mi’s murder—I want to know more details about that.”

He put down the phone. Ke Ke Shu gave him a sideways look. “Is any of this going to be useful?”

Wei Lai said: “It’s like digging a well. You stop at two meters and walk away, you never get water.”

Keep digging, and maybe there’s still nothing. But as long as the shovel doesn’t stop, the next moment holds a possibility.

And before hope runs dry, he wasn’t going to quit.

Six o’clock.

The trial took place in an unassuming room tucked into a corner of the sanatorium. It was modeled on the standard criminal courtroom layout. The jury numbered about a dozen or so; two or three wore masks and hats, clearly not wishing to be identified, while the others seemed unfazed by this and showed no curiosity. A space had been partitioned off in one corner as a special observer’s gallery. Wei Lai recognized at a glance that the bordering panels were one-way mirrors—those outside couldn’t see in, but those inside could see out clearly.

Wei Lai indicated to Ke Ke Shu: “The important figure is probably sitting in there.”

Ke Ke Shu was immediately on alert. “Wei, I’m warning you—don’t get any ideas about taking him hostage.”

Wei Lai hadn’t even had a chance to respond when he suddenly saw Cen Jin entering.

She looked composed, her expression neutral, her gaze sweeping lightly over him before she took her seat.

The full procedural announcement of the court opening washed over Wei Lai like wind past his ears. He was restless and irritated over why so many rules of courtroom conduct needed to be read aloud.

The middle-aged woman representing the prosecution on behalf of the Hand of God was polished and composed. As she read the indictment—which amounted to a full review of everything that had happened at the wildlife reserve—even before she had finished, a murmur rippled through the gallery.

Cen Jin sat motionless, as though she couldn’t hear any of it.

When it was Cen Jin’s turn to make her statement, her tone was not heated. She offered a different account, systematically denying the inaccuracies in the indictment point by point.

By the time the prosecution began its examination, Ke Ke Shu had already yawned twice. He nudged Wei Lai with his elbow and said under his breath: “This is so dull. A fistfight would be so much more straightforward.”

Wei Lai thought inwardly: that’s because you don’t care.

He didn’t miss a single exchange. His scalp was taut the entire time.

The middle-aged woman asked her questions at an unhurried pace—nine out of ten were phrased as “is it not the case that.”

——”Is it not the case that you established the wildlife reserve?”

——”After your colleagues lost contact, is it not the case that you proactively entered into cooperation with Re Lei Mi and Sai De?”

——”Is it not the case that you gathered a small number of those seeking refuge and conveyed to them word of the escape boat?”

——”Is it not the case that you subsequently knew with full awareness that this was a death route?”

……

Cen Jin answered “yes” to each question in turn. Her voice grew softer and softer, the pauses between responses longer and longer. Wei Lai could barely keep his seat, but there was nothing he could do.

A female witness was called to the stand—one of the 175 survivors. The judge asked her: “In your view, who was the true authority at the wildlife reserve?”

The female witness looked at Cen Jin. “It was Cen. We all knew she worked for an international organization. When the United Nations convoy pulled out, she was authorized to board… Re Lei Mi and Sai De joined later. We didn’t know who they were. Cen said they were volunteers too. We trusted Cen, so we trusted them.”

Cen Jin’s body gave a faint recoil.

And then, as expected, the part that truly broke everything open—the evidence.

The middle-aged woman produced a list. “This is the registry of 292 persons at the wildlife reserve. The original 175 names submitted by Re Lei Mi six years ago is on file at the National Archives Center. After comparison, we have confirmed that 175 of the 292 names match the original. The remaining 117 appear on the missing persons list.”

She did not reveal the source, only stating that it came from an important figure within the Hand of God: “It was precisely because he provided the informant’s letter—identifying the secret behind this wildlife reserve—and provided the name list that we first began to suspect Re Lei Mi, a man surrounded by so many honors. Without that, who knows how much longer the truth would have remained buried.”

Wei Lai’s gaze fell on the special observer’s gallery. Was it En Nu? He couldn’t have been at the reserve at the time—the media would long since have dug out that Si Yue Jian Shi – Chapter of his story. Had someone close to him perished there, making him especially invested in Cen Jin’s case?

The second category of evidence was letters and diaries written by refugees inside the reserve at the time.

The middle-aged woman read from the most critical passages.

——”Including myself, only eight people were in Cen’s room. Cen said there was a boat on the great river, and the ticket was expensive. But none of us thought it was expensive—compared to our lives, it truly wasn’t…”

——”I noticed—this had happened several times now—that Cen would see off the field workers in the middle of the night, rising before dawn to wait for them. They would cluster together talking, clearly in high spirits. I couldn’t help myself; I found an opportunity and asked Cen. She said she had simply transferred some people to nearby reserves…”

The photographs and bank account records had come from Sai De. They were sufficient to prove that Cen Jin had dealings with the leaders of the perpetrators, and that from the figures on paper, she had received the largest share of the money.

What Wei Lai least expected was a death-bed recording made by Sai De.

The courtroom went terrifyingly still. The recorder played back the tape; through the transparent cassette housing, the reels could be seen turning slowly. Sai De’s voice—panicked and trembling—spread through the air.

He said: “She was the one directing everything. Re Lei Mi and I both answered to her. We were just in it for the money—we didn’t know about any of that. She was the educated one; she knew about cases like this, and she taught us. We just did what we were told…”

“Re Lei Mi was always worried she’d silence us. He said she’d eventually deal with us, so we made preparations. I kept mostly out of sight, so she couldn’t find me. After Re Lei Mi died, I went to her. She argued it was because everything had blown open—that the avengers of Ka Long had done it—and she told me to run…”

The tape stopped.

The judge asked Cen Jin: “Did you have the above conversation with Sai De, in which you told him Re Lei Mi had been killed by the Hand of God, and then urged him to flee?”

Cen Jin was silent for a moment, then said: “Yes.”

Something plummeted in Wei Lai’s chest.

The middle-aged woman rose sharply, her tone shifting toward fury. “I request that the tribunal disregard the defendant’s self-defense on the grounds that it is not credible. This woman is lying. We have sufficient evidence to prove that Re Lei Mi did not die at the hands of the Hand of God. Before we ever approached Re Lei Mi, he was already dead.”

……

The gallery broke into uproar. The tide of voices rose wave after wave. Ke Ke Shu leaned over and asked: “Do you still believe her?”

Author’s Note: Regarding the inspiration behind Ka Long—the Rwandan genocide—I believe it’s been mentioned before. It occurred in 1994. The reality was far more harrowing than anything depicted in Ka Long. The international community generally holds that the massacre lasted three months, with a death toll of between 800,000 and one million. After the violence subsided, the United Nations did establish a dedicated tribunal in Rwanda, but progress was slow. According to figures I had seen at the time of writing—which may no longer be current and are for reference only—over nearly twenty years, 93 people had been indicted, at a cost of over 1.7 billion dollars. That represents only a small fraction; many perpetrators remained in hiding outside Africa. Rwanda’s government projected that at that pace, securing justice for the victims could take two hundred years. The Rwandan government subsequently proposed the “Gacaca process”—a community-based approach to trying local residents, encouraging confessions and seeking the forgiveness of victims’ families. This process was widely criticized as chaotic and illogical, and was formally abolished in 2012 amid opposition from many quarters.