Yao Weihai’s eye had swollen shut on one side, blurring his vision. The taste and smell of blood filled his mouth and nasal passages.

He held Qi Yan’s gaze. His scattered, unfocused stare gradually pulled itself back together. His lips trembled faintly, and the words he managed were barely more than a whisper: “It was me… I fired the shot…”

Qi Yan’s eyes were utterly still — like stagnant water with no ripple of movement. He stared at Yao Weihai, then gave the slightest motion of his fingers.

One of his men stepped forward, gripping a pair of pliers, and clamped them around Yao Weihai’s finger.

Before anyone had even moved, Yao Weihai was already submerged in the terror of anticipated agony — his eyes wide, a scream tearing out of him.

Qi Yan turned to his subordinates beside him with an expression of complete bewilderment. “What kind of person does this? You offer him a way out, and he refuses to take it.”

Jiang Cheng closed his eyes and looked away. He couldn’t bring himself to watch — only to listen as Yao Weihai screamed with everything he had.

Only once those screams had burned through the last of his strength did the man holding him finally let go.

Yao Weihai crumpled facedown onto the ground.

Qi Yan continued in the same unhurried tone: “Alright. Then the next question. Who is the undercover officer?”

“…”

Yao Weihai lay curled on the floor, letting out low, strangled groans like a caged animal driven past its limits. The veins at his temples stood out beneath his skin. He bit down and said nothing.

Only Jiang Cheng, Meng Junfeng, and three other new members Jiang Cheng barely knew had been told the false information.

Qi Yan was certain that one of those five was the undercover operative, and he wanted Yao Weihai to identify them.

“Just point to the undercover,” Qi Yan said, “and I’ll make it quick for all of you.”

Yao Weihai, of course, refused.

But Qi Yan showed no particular concern. He looked over the five of them with an easy smile. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t tell me. Killing one is killing; killing five is killing. There’s little difference.”

The other three, hearing that they might be killed for nothing, could no longer restrain themselves. They rushed forward and joined in beating Yao Weihai, trying to force him to name the operative.

Only Jiang Cheng and Meng Junfeng held back.

Qi Yan glanced at Jiang Cheng with something that looked like genuine curiosity. “You’re not afraid of being killed for something you didn’t do?”

Jiang Cheng lit a cigarette. “You kill police officers — you’re walking straight into your own grave. I got on the wrong boat, so it makes no difference whether I die sooner or later. If you’re truly going to take the kill-them-all-rather-than-risk-letting-one-go approach, I only have one request before I go.”

“Let’s hear it,” Qi Yan said, visibly intrigued.

Jiang Cheng kept his eyes fixed on Yao Weihai. “Let me kill him first.”

White smoke curled lazily upward. Jiang Cheng narrowed his eyes with a cold detachment, the look in them sunken and bleak.

The torment continued.

At last, Qi Yan’s patience ran out. He raised his hand, signaling his men to step forward and kill every one of the suspects.

The other three, realizing they were genuinely about to die, stared in wide-eyed terror. One of them dropped to his knees, sobbing and begging for mercy. The sound of his pleading echoed through the vast emptiness of the warehouse, pressing the atmosphere to the brink of despair.

The shadow of death was tearing through that space — tearing through their reason.

Then, without warning, one of them suddenly drew a gun and aimed it at Qi Yan — and two shots rang out, punching through his body and his skull.

Blood and flesh scattered.

After the gunfire came a smothering silence. Then the muzzle swung toward Jiang Cheng and Meng Junfeng.

At that moment, Seventh Uncle’s brow creased ever so slightly. A’Feng was someone he had brought up himself — a person he trusted. Watching Qi Yan prepare to kill A’Feng, he felt a reluctance he couldn’t quite suppress — but for the sake of the bigger picture, there was no other way.

And he would not defy Qi Yan’s orders.

The moment the gun was chambered, Jiang Cheng genuinely believed this was the end of his road. But everything had happened so fast that he had no idea what he was supposed to think in these final seconds.

Only blankness. Only blankness.

Just as Jiang Cheng gave up thinking and closed his eyes in resignation, Meng Junfeng slowly sank to his knees in Yao Weihai’s direction.

Clawing at his own face — a face contorted by fear into something barely recognizable — he said to Yao Weihai: “I don’t want to die, Director Yao… save me… please save me…”

Jiang Cheng felt a jolt run through his entire body.

He hadn’t expected that this person called A’Feng also knew Yao Weihai. Was A’Feng an undercover operative? Just like him — someone Yao Weihai had sent in?

He watched as Meng Junfeng crawled on his knees toward Seventh Uncle, grasped at his trouser leg, and said: “Seventh Uncle — you’ve always been good to me. Please, spare my life!”

Seventh Uncle stared at him with wide eyes, the shock held for just a moment before it curdled into fury. He raised his hand and cracked a slap across Meng Junfeng’s face.

“It was you——!!”

The shout tore out of him so violently that it caught in his throat, and he broke into a coughing fit. Someone steadied him, and it took nearly half a minute before he could speak again. He leveled a shaking finger at Meng Junfeng. “It was actually you!”

Yao Weihai summoned every last fragment of his strength and called out to him: “Concealed Blade!”

Meng Junfeng went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head toward Yao Weihai.

“Remember your mission,” Yao Weihai said. “Remember what you believe in. Don’t be afraid…”

At the hearing.

“I only understood afterward,” Jiang Cheng said, “that Meng Junfeng was also one of the undercover operatives Deputy Director Yao had placed inside. His mission was to protect my identity from being exposed at the critical moment.”

He paused, pressing his fingers to his brow. He closed his eyes, composing himself for a long moment before continuing: “I did not kill anyone. It was Old Scorpion who shot them. It was because Meng Junfeng stepped forward to take my place that I survived…”

The prosecution asked: “Then how do you account for your fingerprints on the weapon?”

“They handed the gun to me and sent me to dispose of the bodies,” Jiang Cheng replied. “That is when my fingerprints were left on it.”

Jiang Cheng had, in fact, had the opportunity to wipe the fingerprints away. But at the time, he had lost all means of contact with the police. If those prints could draw police attention onto him, that might not be a bad thing — so he had left them as they were.

“We have no further questions.”

The hearing ultimately affirmed Jiang Cheng’s outstanding contributions to the police force during his time undercover. As for the charges of suspected involvement in the killings of Yao Weihai and Meng Junfeng — due to insufficient evidence, they were dropped.

Going forward, Jiang Cheng would be placed under protection as a key witness in the “8·17” special task force investigation.

When the hearing concluded, the handcuffs were removed from Jiang Cheng’s wrists. He flexed his stiffened joints, testing the movement.

The officer who had been responsible for interrogating him offered him a cigarette. “You’re a hero,” he said. “I apologize for the rough treatment before.”

Jiang Cheng took it, leaned in for a light, and grinned with easy nonchalance. “Don’t give it another thought.”

The two of them stood together and smoked. Whatever grievances there had been dissolved with the shared silence.

Shortly afterward, Yu Dan came to find Jiang Cheng. She told him a fresh set of clothes had been prepared for him in advance and directed him to the logistics quarters to change out of his patient’s uniform.

On the way there, Jiang Cheng asked: “Who prepared this for me?”

“Director Tan,” Yu Dan said.

Jiang Cheng had assumed it was Zhou Jin — and felt a small flicker of disappointment. Still, for Tan Shiming’s consideration, he felt genuinely grateful. “Is there any way I could see Director Tan? I owe him a great deal for testifying on my behalf today.”

Yu Dan smiled. “No rush — there’ll be plenty of time for that. Director Tan asked me to tell you: once you’ve changed, come downstairs. Someone’s waiting for you.”

Jiang Cheng was puzzled. “Who’s waiting for me?”

Yu Dan didn’t say — she just pointed him toward the room and told him to go change.

Jiang Cheng was quick about it. He emerged four or five minutes later in a loose-fitting T-shirt layered under a black jacket. His features carried that particular kind of sharp, striking handsomeness — bold and a little untamed.

In his patient’s uniform, Jiang Cheng had looked somewhat worn and haggard. Now, more of his former vitality had come back.

Yu Dan couldn’t help but brighten visibly.

“Alright, I’ll take you down.”

On their way downstairs, Yu Dan had her phone out. Jiang Cheng’s eyes were uncommonly sharp — he caught a glimpse of a game interface on her screen and made a guess: “A league match?”

Yu Dan blinked in surprise. “How did you know?”

“Doesn’t seem like the type to be hooked on gaming for fun,” Jiang Cheng said. “Had to be official business.”

Yu Dan laughed. “You guessed right. Though the Major Crimes Unit has had a lot going on lately…” She thought of Zhao Ping, and her expression shifted with a trace of sadness.

Jiang Cheng, not picking up on her mood, said: “Zhou Jin is excellent at that kind of fighting game. You should get her involved.”

“She is excellent — so excellent she compromised the fairness of the match. She’s already been banned.”

Jiang Cheng raised an eyebrow. “Really?” He let out a laugh. “That’s my student, alright.”

Yu Dan had been about to say something about Zhou Jin having learned from him — but then she thought of the complicated, awkward dynamic currently between the two of them, and the corner of her eye twitched. She let it drop.

On the other side of the building, the moment the hearing concluded, Jiang Hansheng stepped out of the monitoring room. Out of courtesy, he exchanged a few pleasantries with Director Liu and some of the senior police officials he had worked with on previous cases.

Director Liu tried to pull Jiang Hansheng into joining them for dinner that evening. Jiang Hansheng politely declined, explaining that he had already planned to go home and spend the evening with his parents.

Director Liu didn’t press further.

It was at this moment that Jiang Cheng also came downstairs. In the corridor, the two of them came face to face.

“…”

The instant Jiang Cheng and Jiang Hansheng’s eyes met, Yu Dan — standing nearby — felt the atmosphere in the entire hallway subtly crystallize. A cold, ice-like chill began to spread through the air.

She blinked, her throat going tight. “Right, well — I still have some official matters to attend to. I’ll be heading off…”

Yu Dan slipped away without pausing for a second, and as she went, she fired off a message to Zhou Jin.

“Where have you disappeared to?!”

Zhou Jin replied quickly. “What’s wrong? Mentor wasn’t confident in my mental state, so he arranged for me to see a counselor.”

“…Your roof is about to catch fire.”

“?”

Zhou Jin had just left the psychological counseling center and was standing at the roadside trying to flag down a taxi.

She saw Yu Dan’s message, felt a bad premonition forming in her chest, and mustered the courage to ask: “Did the hearing not go in Jiang Cheng’s favor?”

Yu Dan: “We’ll talk when you’re back at the unit.”

Zhou Jin: “Understood.”

Before she slipped away entirely, Yu Dan couldn’t resist glancing back one more time. Jiang Cheng walked straight past as though he hadn’t noticed anyone standing in his path.

She didn’t linger any longer.

In the corridor, only Jiang Hansheng and Jiang Cheng remained. Jiang Cheng, however, did not put on his usual combative front the way he typically would — no attempt at provocation, no pointed acknowledgment. He simply ignored him and walked toward the exit.

As they drew level with each other, Jiang Hansheng spoke: “Why lie?”

Jiang Cheng’s footsteps faltered. He stopped where he was.

Jiang Hansheng’s eyes were dark and still — like deep water. “The one who fired the shots and killed them wasn’t Old Scorpion,” he said. “Was it?”

When Jiang Cheng had said “I did not kill anyone” at the hearing, Jiang Hansheng had been watching him give a small, almost imperceptible nod — a textbook contradiction between physical gesture and spoken word. And in recounting that part of his account, the remorse and guilt radiating from him had been far more pronounced than any anger.

Jiang Hansheng had no grounds to use something so subtle to overturn Jiang Cheng’s testimony at the hearing, and Jiang Cheng knew it perfectly well. He turned the question back on him: “And your evidence?”

Jiang Hansheng said nothing.

Jiang Cheng let out a short, contemptuous laugh. “I recall that the last time we met, you had a habit of making reckless accusations. Jiang Hansheng — did you think you could finish me off with a single sentence? It won’t be that easy.”

Jiang Cheng gave a casual wave, said his goodbye, and started walking. After two steps, he stopped again.

His voice dropped low — measured, composed, and serious. “I heard some things from Old Scorpion. About you. …Professor Jiang — in your view, is a police officer permitted to open fire after an enemy has raised their hands in surrender?”

Jiang Hansheng: “…”

His fingers curled suddenly inward.

Jiang Cheng had nothing more to say to him. He tugged at the zipper of his jacket, turned without a word, and walked out through the main doors.

Out in the distance, he spotted a white car — and three figures standing beside it. All of them were faces he knew.

“Dad! Mom!”

The shock broke into joy in an instant. He ran toward them at a sprint.

Hearing a familiar voice, Jiang Hansheng frowned slightly and followed him outside.

The sky had shifted toward dusk, and the evening glow blazed warmly above.

The person Jiang Cheng was running toward was Zhou Songyue. Jiang Cheng was long past being a child — yet the way he ran toward Zhou Songyue was every bit as unrestrained as one.

Jiang Cheng opened his arms and held him tightly.

Jiang Hansheng watched as Zhou Songyue’s eyes went red in an instant — but he held it back, refusing to let the tears fall in front of the young man.

Then Zhou Songyue pushed Jiang Cheng away, picked up his walking stick, and started hitting him with it.

One blow, then another — each one heavy, each one landing with real force.

Jiang Cheng stood exactly where he was and let Zhou Songyue hit him without moving a single step. Before many blows had landed, Zhou Songyue threw the walking stick aside, looked at him, and let out a long sigh.

Then Jiang Cheng stepped forward and pulled him into another embrace.

Zhou Songyue finally allowed a faint smile to cross his face, and raised a hand to ruffle his head.

Jiang Hansheng stood motionless in the pale, cold shadow — as though he had turned to stone — and for a long time, said nothing at all.