Professor Xue’s home was filled with the rich, soothing scent of tea—a warm and inviting atmosphere, the kind that naturally lowered one’s guard.
Professor Xue said nothing.
He didn’t rush to explain himself, nor did he feel the need to justify why he had smiled.
Only those with a guilty conscience would be overly sensitive to subtle shifts in their own emotions, afraid of exposing themselves and scrambling to cover it up—thus unraveling.
Paranoia breeds suspicion. That’s just how it is.
Professor Xue took a sip of tea to moisten his parched lips. “My daughter… she was beautiful, and sensible. If she were still alive, perhaps she would’ve found someone she was deeply in love with by now. If she’s dead, and already reincarnated, I hope she’s a carefree little child somewhere.”
Lin Qin nodded in response to that deep, fatherly affection.
A true master.
His words were gentle and honest, placing his missing daughter right out in the open. If anyone insisted on being cold-hearted—poking at that wound, pressing for the truth—it would only make them look cruel and inhumane.
…Someone else might have really tried to use his daughter against him—hoping to provoke this seemingly timid man into a rage and make him reveal something in the heat of the moment.
But Lin Qin wasn’t that ruthless.
And it seemed Professor Xue knew that too. Yet he was still fully prepared, just in case.
Because he also looked at Lin Qin with gentle eyes—another blade of softness, aimed with clear intent.
Professor Xue—Xue Liu—was ready to use that blade to protect one of the few things in this world that remained of his daughter.
Lin Qin exhaled silently. “Do you know what happened on September 30th?”
“I do,” Professor Xue nodded. “I heard someone died.”
It was a case that the entire city knew about. Pretending to be the kind of man who lived only in books and never paid attention to the news would be absurd.
“He was poisoned. But the poison wasn’t high-grade—not factory quality.”
“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Professor Xue replied. “If it had been a factory-made product, every transaction would be traceable.”
At that, Professor Xue chuckled softly. “…So, you came to me—are you suspecting I made the poison, or asking me to be a consultant?”
Lin Qin: “What if it’s the first possibility?”
Professor Xue: “Then it can’t be helped. I do have the ability to make poison independently. It’s reasonable for you to investigate me. If you need information, I’ll cooperate however I can.”
Lin Qin: “And if it’s the second?”
Professor Xue adjusted his glasses and began calmly, “That man—the murderer—I saw his symptoms. My judgment is that it was strychnine poisoning. But that’s just an unverified guess. The autopsy will provide the real answer. Lethal injection has two components—barbiturates and potassium chloride. The question is, which vial was tampered with? That’s the opinion of your temporary consultant. See if it’s of any value to you.”
Lin Qin smiled slightly and put away the recorder. “Would it be alright if I had a look around your home?”
Professor Xue stood up. “Please.”
Aside from one room preserved as a young girl’s bedroom, Professor Xue’s home had a warm, old-fashioned style. There were no signs of recent changes in layout, furniture movement, or deep cleaning. It was a space full of the signs of everyday life.
There was even a pair of dirty socks tossed on top of the washing machine.
Before coming, Lin Qin had requested the floor plans of every unit in the faculty housing building.
As university-assigned apartments, the structures were identical.
After walking through the apartment, Lin Qin confirmed there were no hidden rooms, false walls, or secret compartments.
Every room was open and clean—nothing was concealed, nowhere that experiments could be conducted.
This was, purely and simply, Professor Xue’s home.
And if he had urgent work, he could hop on his cobbled-together bicycle—a mess of scrap parts—and get to his lab within ten minutes.
There was no reason for him to bring his beakers and chemicals home.
After silently collecting all the needed information, Lin Qin was ready to leave.
Professor Xue didn’t show any signs of relief. Instead, he rose naturally to see him out.
While bending down to put on his shoes, Lin Qin glanced into the shoe cabinet. “You wear a size 46, don’t you?”
He tilted his head just slightly, looking up at Professor Xue from below.
“Same as someone I know. 183 cm tall, size 46 shoes.”
From the moment he walked in, Lin Qin had noticed.
Professor Xue’s build and posture were nearly identical to that of Jin Charlemagne.
Faced with this subtle challenge, Professor Xue reached into the cabinet and flipped one shoe over, showing the label.
Size 45.
Professor Xue said gently, “The actual size depends on the shoe’s brand and cut. Sometimes it’s 45, sometimes 46.”
He looked at Lin Qin. “People are always just a little bit different from each other, aren’t they?”
His gentle words were like a spring breeze, sweeping away all suspicion.
Lin Qin hummed softly. “Sorry to trouble you.”
“Not at all.”
At that point, Professor Xue paused slightly, as though deciding whether or not to say something further.
After a moment, he said, “Officer Lin, if I’m not mistaken, I’ve read some of your father’s writing.”
Lin Qin, halfway through straightening up, froze in place.
He didn’t turn around—just stared straight ahead, as if someone had pressed pause on him.
“His writing was excellent. Not very ‘in tune’ with the times, but quite outstanding.”
Professor Xue’s gaze lingered on the scarred, ruined side of Lin Qin’s face, and his voice held a gentle sympathy. “…I never believed what the reports said—that he was mentally ill.”
“Thank you,” Lin Qin replied, regaining his movement and straightening up. “Praise him as a person, he wouldn’t care. Praise his writing, and he’d show up at your door with a bottle of wine.”
Then, in a soft, nostalgic voice, he added, “If he were still alive.”
At last, the interrogation had come to an end.
After stepping out the door, Lin Qin turned around and asked one final question.
“Have you ever heard of Honbu Takeshi?”
His timing was deliberate.
By now, Professor Xue had successfully seen him out. This was the moment he’d most want the conversation to be over.
But by tossing out that question right then, Lin Qin hoped to catch even a flicker of a crack in his otherwise flawless defense.
Yet Professor Xue’s expression was surprisingly natural.
First he showed a bit of confusion, then thought it over, and eventually some recognition lit up in his eyes. “Honbu Takeshi… isn’t he that famous guy? With Titan Corporation…”
His tone was uncertain. Clearly, he had only a vague idea—heard of the name, not the details.
Most importantly, the progression of his expression was flawless—as if he truly hadn’t expected that question.
But the man who wore Jin Charlemagne’s face and poisoned someone under “White Shield’s” surveillance left behind a very real criminal ID: Honbu Takeshi.
—Of course, the real reason was simple.
Ning Zhuo had given that ID code to Professor Xue and instructed him to make sure it was visible to surveillance cameras. He never told him what the ID actually meant.
The door to the Xue household slowly closed.
Lin Qin stood there for a moment, staring at it.
As of now, in Lin Qin’s mind, Professor Xue Liu was the prime suspect in the September 30th case.
Height, build, chemical knowledge, a new face…
In terms of motive, Professor Xue had plenty.
Anything Ning Zhuo could uncover, Lin Qin could find out too.
It was highly likely that Jin Charlemagne was responsible for the death of his only daughter.
But…
Lin Qin gave a bitter smile in his heart.
To convict Professor Xue, they’d have to prove his motive.
To prove the motive, they’d have to reveal what happened with Jin Charlemagne—and truly get justice for his daughter.
But that’s not something the “White Shield” authorities would want.
Even if Lin Qin reported everything truthfully, they’d only bury the story—and then secretly make life hell for this gentle, grieving father.
This case was too complex to have been orchestrated by Professor Xue alone.
He must’ve had help.
And whoever helped him was far too meticulous.
The brilliance of the plan lay in this: if “White Shield” sent an investigation team that just wanted to go through the motions, they’d never look deeply enough to even suspect Professor Xue.
But if they sent someone like Lin Qin, who truly dared to investigate—by the time he got this far, he’d be unable to say a word.
He couldn’t even report it.
—Because Lin Qin had no proof. Only a conscience.
Professor Xue’s home was flawlessly ordinary. He didn’t even know who Honbu Takeshi was.
Someone in the shadows was banking on the conscience of a police officer.
As for the young officer assisting him, he didn’t have Lin Qin’s inner conflict.
After sitting through the entire interview, he only concluded that Professor Xue seemed like a nice guy—polite, not nitpicky, not preachy. Easy to like. He’d even served them tea. A model citizen.
They’d already checked his credit history. No unauthorized purchases of chemical substances.
Though there was one large, suspicious transaction recently—sent to an untraceable, blacklisted account.
But Professor Xue had a perfectly reasonable explanation: he went to a black-market doctor to treat facial burns.
And there was no sign of a home lab.
As for motive…
Yes, he’d lost a daughter. But he never made a fuss about it. He still taught his classes, still clocked out on time.
What kind of well-mannered professor would suddenly lose his mind, change his face, and go murder a killer who was going to be executed anyway?
So the young officer gave his verdict: “I don’t think Professor Xue is suspicious at all.”
Lin Qin didn’t comment, but gently guided him, “Where do you think we should go next?”
The young man lit up and gestured enthusiastically. “Obviously, we go talk to the prime suspect!”
…
In the high-security wing of Atber District’s First Prison.
Shan Feibai had just picked up a novel, spreading it open on his lap and flipping through the pages when he saw Ning Zhuo stride in from outside, pushing the door open with long, forceful steps. His complexion was a bit pale, and a thin sheen of sweat clung to his temples—like cold water droplets on ceramic in the winter, one after another—highlighting the translucent clarity of his skin.
Ning Zhuo went straight into the washroom and held his hands under the automatic faucet.
…What followed was silence.
No water.
Just as Ning Zhuo was starting to feel puzzled, Shan Feibai appeared at the doorway of the washroom, poking his head in. “Ning-ge, they just notified us. The water’s out for half an hour.”
Ning Zhuo turned his head around with a blank expression.
As he moved, Shan Feibai finally got a good look at the cracked corner of his lip, the dust on the edge of his clothes, and the half-dried blood all over his hands.
—Shan Feibai couldn’t tell the color red.
In his eyes, Ning Zhuo looked like a beautiful lead in a black-and-white silent film.
Only when a bit of blood stained his body did he seem to take on colors beyond the monochrome.
Ning Zhuo brushed past the dazed Shan Feibai, bumping his shoulder, and walked over to the bed. He spread his legs slightly, leaned his back against the headboard, and twisted his waist a bit. His chest was still heaving with uneven breaths.
Shan Feibai suppressed the flicker of heat kindling in his chest, walked to his side, and crouched down slightly. “Ning-ge, what happened?”
Ning Zhuo replied crisply, “Jin Hu brought men to surround me. I won.”
He made it sound simple. But to handle four tall, muscular mercenaries at close range—one of them even a former underground boxing champion—it had taken a lot out of him.
The whole time, he had to maintain a distance from them while seeking an opening to break their bones one by one.
To make them hurt. To make them afraid.
It had been a long time since he’d gone all out like this.
His stamina had burned away in the heat of battle, but now a lingering flame still smoldered throughout his body. Inside and out, an unruly surge of hormones was crashing through him like a series of small asteroid impacts.
Gradually, that strange chemical energy settled in his lower abdomen, pulsing with a distinct rhythm.
Ning Zhuo tried to suppress it, but that part of his body didn’t obey as easily as his limbs.
He braced himself with one hand on the iron ladder beside the bed, adjusting his posture to sit straighter.
His brow furrowed as he tried to think of a solution.
He found the blood from those men disgusting, and naturally had no intention of using these filthy hands to calm himself down.
But he also didn’t want to step out to the outdoor hot springs to wash up under the gaze of those filthy men in this sorry state.
So, the best option was to let it subside naturally.
Ning Zhuo had always been a man of low desire. Normally, he dealt with such things hastily, never finding any pleasure in them, and naturally didn’t consider this kind of situation important—more like hunger, something that would pass if he just endured it.
To cool off faster, he undid two buttons at the hem of his prison uniform, revealing the rise and fall of his lower abdomen. Sweat dotted around his navel and trickled down.
Just as he sat there in a state of growing frustration, waiting for the hormones to wear off, a hand slowly reached the edge of the bed. Fingers tapped twice against his blood-stained nails.
Ning Zhuo opened his eyes impatiently, only to be met with Shan Feibai’s handsome, well-behaved face.
“Ning-ge, are you feeling unwell?”
He raised both hands in a small gesture of surrender, his eyes gleaming with a sincere light. “I’m still pretty clean. I can help you.”
