After Xie Dong returned to the hotel and found out that Rong Qian hadn’t come back yet, he was just about to go out and look for her when he stepped through the hotel entrance and saw Rong Qian and Rong Xiwen stepping out of a taxi.

Xie Dong approached and asked, “Officer Rong, where did you go?”

“Nothing much — just walked around a bit.” Rong Qian closed the car door. Seeing her expression, Xie Dong didn’t press further, and instead turned to greet Rong Xiwen, who smiled and asked, “How’s your father doing lately?”

Xie Dong nodded. “He’s doing well. His legs still give him some trouble, but otherwise fine.”

The exchange between the two men seemed perfectly ordinary — but to Rong Qian’s ears, it sounded deeply bizarre.

“What did you just say?” Rong Qian’s expression shifted with sudden confusion. Xie Dong’s father, Xie Yan — hadn’t he died in the line of duty decades ago while apprehending Thomas?

Xie Dong looked puzzled. “Is something wrong, Officer Rong?”

“Your father is still alive?” The words left Rong Qian’s mouth before she could stop them.

Rong Xiwen’s eyes went wide. What on earth was his daughter saying?

The corner of Xie Dong’s mouth twitched. “Officer Rong, did my father do something to offend you? He’s perfectly fine and living well — why are you wishing ill on him for no reason?”

“That’s not what I meant — it’s just that, from what I knew, wasn’t your father supposed to have…met with an incident while apprehending Thomas?” Rong Qian quickly corrected herself.

Xie Dong said, “He did get into trouble then. He was severely injured at the time — doctors said he’d be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. But my father’s sheer stubbornness got him back on his feet.”

Rong Qian stood there, stunned. The future had been changed?

She quickly turned to Rong Xiwen. “Dad — did you know that Officer Xie Yan was still alive? Have you always known?”

“My daughter, what are you saying? Of course old Yan is still very much alive.” Rong Xiwen shot her a look, signaling her to stop talking.

Hearing that, Rong Qian fell into deep thought. History was different now.

Which meant her two months in the past hadn’t simply been about filling in gaps in history — rather, acting on what she’d told him, Shen Yi had changed the outcome that would have taken Xie Yan’s life, allowing him to survive.

Once she had worked that out, and after tracking down the location of Longjing Garden, Rong Qian called both Rong Xiwen and Xie Dong to her room and said, “I have a plan — I’d like to discuss it with you.”

Rong Xiwen and Xie Dong exchanged a look.

That same night, Rong Qian set out alone for Longjing Garden.

She stepped out of the taxi and surveyed her surroundings. Longjing Garden was a middle-class residential complex — the kind that suited older residents, peaceful and unhurried.

After asking the security booth for directions to Unit 807 in Longjing Garden, Rong Qian found the right building, took the elevator to the eighth floor, walked to the door of Unit 807, produced the key, and opened it with ease.

She had half-expected Mu Chaoxue’s instructions to lead her to something shocking. But when the lights came on, there was nothing remarkable at all — just an ordinary home interior, covered in a fine layer of dust from long disuse.

Rong Qian swept through the place: the kitchen, the bathroom — all perfectly ordinary, nothing unusual, except that the bedroom door was locked.

She couldn’t find a key, so she picked up a screwdriver and simply pried the lock off.

The bedroom was dark. Rong Qian found the light switch and flipped it on — and in that instant, she froze.

This was no bedroom. It was a storage room, and everything inside it was devoted to one person: Shen Yi.

The moment the door swung open, Rong Qian had the surreal sensation of walking into the room of an obsessive fan. The walls, the desk — everywhere she looked were photographs, posters, magazines, newspapers, film discs, Shen Yi’s albums. On and on they went, seemingly without end.

These things were, in effect, proof that Shen Yi had once existed. His entire life was contained here, almost in full.

“How did Mu Chaoxue come to collect so many things belonging to Shen Yi?”

Rong Qian shook her head in disbelief. She picked up a magazine at random — coated in dust. She brushed it off and flipped through it, finding the content saturated with the feel of a bygone era. She turned a few pages, then set it back down.

Looking up, she saw a whiteboard mounted on the wall. It was covered in notes about Shen Yi in meticulous detail.

Like an obsessive stalker, someone had recorded his habits, his way of speaking, even the particular way he walked. Was Mu Chaoxue… studying how to imitate Shen Yi?

That thought gave her pause.

It was true that Mu Chaoxue resembled Shen Yi. With a little makeup and some careful grooming, even a partial imitation of Shen Yi’s manner and bearing would be enough to fool anyone who didn’t know him well.

Had Shen Fongran put him up to this? And what was the purpose?

Rong Qian remembered that Mu Chaoxue had told her: once she came, she would understand everything. So she searched the room and eventually found a notebook tucked inside a drawer.

The moment she opened it, a photograph slipped out and fell to the floor.

Rong Qian picked it up, and the instant she saw it, her heart leapt with fierce joy. Sure enough — it wasn’t the last time after all. This was the one.

In the photograph, Rong Qian was wearing exactly the same clothes she had on right now — a clean white t-shirt, blue jeans — standing in what appeared to be a hospital ward, back against the wall, lips pressed into a thin line, expression grave.

Seeing this, Rong Qian knew she would cross over three times on this day in succession.

And this photograph — unless she was very much mistaken — would be the last. Because Fu Bozhong’s death had taken place in a hospital ward…

She set the photo on the desk and began reading the notebook, turning through it page by page. As she read, her expression kept shifting, and by the last page, her face had gone utterly blank with shock.

The notebook was Mu Chaoxue’s diary. It laid out Shen Fongran’s plans in clear detail — and the truth of how Shen Yi had died.

On the night of May 4, 1988, the banquet held aboard the ship had not been organized by Shen Yi.

It had been Mu Chaoxue, disguised as Shen Yi, who had used Shen Yi’s name to invite everyone there.

The purpose was singular: if Shen Yi did not come that night, the ship would be sunk to the bottom of the ocean, and everyone aboard would die.

Yet knowing that going meant certain death, Shen Yi had kept the appointment anyway.

That night, Shen Yi stood alone on the deck, waiting for someone.

Not just anyone — it was Shen Fongran.