At that moment, the biting “dog” was sitting by the bed, hands propping up his chin, placing a wrung-out cold towel on Ning Zhuo’s forehead.
Around his neck was a ring of faintly red, slightly swollen fingerprints. If not closely inspected, they could pass for a decorative choker.
Hearing Ning Zhuo call his name, he obediently raised a hand and barked, “Woof.”
Ning Zhuo ignored him.
Lin Qin didn’t hear.
Lin Qin pulled out another communicator, quickly looking up precautions for “dog bites,” and warned in a clear, precise tone, “If a dog bites you, you need a vaccine.”
Ning Zhuo, eyes closed, resting, responded, “Oh.”
Lin Qin realized, chuckling, “You’re messing with me.”
Ning Zhuo: “Where’s your brain? Left it at home?”
Glancing at the time, Ning Zhuo added, “It’s work hours. Why’re you calling me?”
Lin Qin took two steps forward. “I’m working on a case. Wanted to discuss it with you.”
Ning Zhuo lowered his gaze. “You usually don’t bring ‘White Shield’ matters to me; those are confidential. So, it’s a case I’d know about.”
Talking to Ning Zhuo was effortless.
Lin Qin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.”
Ning Zhuo: “The September 30th case?”
Lin Qin: “Yeah.”
Ning Zhuo: “That case has nothing to do with Chang’an District. You shouldn’t be handling it either. Where are you now?”
Lin Qin paused for a second before answering honestly, “Atber District.”
Hearing this, Ning Zhuo’s expression softened slightly.
A piece of his plan had clicked into place.
He asked, “Promoted?”
Lin Qin explained gently, “Not a promotion, a temporary transfer.”
Ning Zhuo sneered. “Dirty, thankless jobs like this—only you’d step up instead of dodging them.”
Yes, only him.
Lin Qin had talent but no backing.
In a system like “White Shield,” barring surprises, his ceiling was Charlemagne’s starting point: heading a chaotic precinct, toiling his life away, despised by local power brokers, until one night, on his way home from a shift, he’d die in a back alley.
A dignified explanation: killed in a “drunkard’s assault.”
A vicious one: beaten to death for “skipping out on a brothel bill.”
Silver Hammer City had buried too many good officers, with too many cautionary tales.
Lin Qin was different.
An orphan, emotionally clueless, he’d die with no one to claim his body.
Ning Zhuo had no intention of doing it either.
So, Lin Qin needed an opportunity.
A chance to shine.
A chance not to waste his talent.
…A chance to seek justice for his father.
Charlemagne might’ve been despicable, but Ning Zhuo learned one thing from him:
If opportunity doesn’t come, create it.
Even if that opportunity meant pitting their identities against each other completely.
This former friend was now seeking advice from him, the mastermind of the crime.
Ning Zhuo calmly weighed whether Lin Qin was asking as a friend or if he’d uncovered something, probing him as a “White Shield” officer and task force leader.
Facing Ning Zhuo’s jab, Lin Qin accepted it fully. “Will you help me think it through?”
Ning Zhuo stared at the ceiling. “Go ahead.”
Lin Qin: “If you were investigating this case, what angles would you pursue?”
Ning Zhuo thought. “The poison’s source.”
Lin Qin: “Checked. It’s homemade.”
Ning Zhuo: “People capable of making the poison.”
Lin Qin: “Investigating. There are quite a few.”
Ning Zhuo: “Narrow it down to those with connections to the suspect.”
Lin Qin let out a soft sigh.
Under layers of filtering conditions, Lin Qin had narrowed it down to two suspects.
Associate Professor Xue Liu had the means to create the poison, no alibi, and a strong motive—assuming Jin Charlemagne was the murderer of his daughter.
But where could Xue Liu have obtained Jin Charlemagne’s facial mold? One precise enough to fool the “White Shield” security system?
Unless Jin Charlemagne himself recorded the mold while conscious, such accuracy was impossible.
This lead was severed cleanly, leaving no trace to follow.
Moreover, after going to the trouble of acquiring Jin Charlemagne’s face for revenge, would Xue Liu really risk his life, wearing that face, to infiltrate “White Shield” headquarters just to swap medication for a death row inmate?
If that was revenge, it was far too convoluted.
Unless the death row inmate was the true target of his vengeance.
But why swap the medication?
Raskin, a serial rapist and murderer, was set for execution the next day, with no chance of seeing another sunrise. Why bother swapping his drugs?
Then it must be an issue with the medication itself.
The person wouldn’t die.
That would explain everything.
Why Raskin’s face peeled away after death to reveal Basil, another death row inmate.
Why there was yet another face beneath Basil’s?
Why Inspector Charlemagne, as if snapping awake, shot that face without hesitation.
As for Raskin’s true identity, Lin Qin had used some illicit methods to obtain his pre-death medical records, which provided evidence of a familial link to Charlemagne.
Reaching this point in his deductions, Lin Qin let out a helpless chuckle.
What good was evidence?
Xue Liu’s trail was tangled and murky, and looming behind him was a shadowy figure, shielding him.
Most crucially, despite countless suspicions, Associate Professor Xue Liu could not be the killer.
The September 30 case formed a special task force to provide the public with a palatable explanation.
Jin Charlemagne was Basil and Raskin—the precious asset Charlemagne repeatedly used “White Shield” authority to protect. On his third attempt to evade justice, the family of his first victim swapped the poison, killing him after all that maneuvering, finally bringing him to justice. This was far from a “palatable” explanation.
The higher-ups would never accept this narrative.
Even if another “White Shield” officer led the task force and reached this point, they’d promptly play dumb, scribble out Xue Liu’s involvement, and pivot to another investigative direction.
Because they couldn’t let the higher-ups know they’d uncovered too much—it would jeopardize future promotions.
The “White Shield” system, which shielded countless villains, also ingeniously cocooned the avenger Xue Liu.
But it wasn’t over.
The poisoner left a message pointing to a new target.
Motobu Takeshi, another notorious evildoer.
Why did Xue Liu leave this clue?
Was it at the behest of the figure behind him?
Judging by Xue Liu’s reaction, he seemed unaware of the code’s significance.
Seeing Lin Qin fall silent on the communicator, Ning Zhuo leaned back, slightly straining his sore waist, his brows furrowing faintly.
In the past, he’d brushed off such encounters without this languid, drained feeling, as if his energy had been sapped.
Ning Zhuo had an almost obsessive need to control his body’s sensations. He wanted to get up and move, but Shan Feibai pressed a hand to his forehead, pushing him back onto the bed.
Their call wasn’t over, so Ning Zhuo couldn’t speak. He shot Shan Feibai a fierce glare.
Shan Feibai mouthed, “You’re running a fever.”
Ning Zhuo mouthed back, his expression sharp, “Mind your own business.”
Shan Feibai, resting on his arms, replied, “I’m minding it. I have to take responsibility.”
Ning Zhuo’s lingering anger from last night hadn’t fully dissipated, and Shan Feibai’s provocation stoked it. He sat up abruptly, grabbed Shan Feibai’s hair, yanked him back, and pinned him against the blanket near his waist.
The angle exposed Shan Feibai’s prominent, taut Adam’s apple.
Ning Zhuo, holding the communicator between his ear and shoulder, gripped Shan Feibai’s hair with one hand, deciding to teach him what “responsibility” meant.
His fingertips traced Shan Feibai’s Adam’s apple, pressing slowly, deliberately on its rounded tip.
Under this pressure, the Adam’s apple bobbed faster, swallowing reflexively.
Ning Zhuo’s cold, snow-like fingers toyed with the hot, burning protrusion.
By Ning Zhuo’s standards, anyone who dared touch his Adam’s apple would be dead without hesitation.
He was curious how long it’d take for this Shan guy to snap.
On the communicator, Lin Qin spoke again. “It’s not that simple. The perpetrator left a string of numbers in the video.”
Ning Zhuo: “The criminal gave you their contact info?”
Lin Qin pressed his lips. “You think so too?”
As he spoke, he reached the office set up for the September 30 task force.
Inside, the officers were chatting animatedly.
This task force was a makeshift team, cobbled together, a mix of all sorts.
Some were reluctant conscripts, just there to coast and collect a paycheck.
Some were naive idealists, unaware of the stakes, genuinely seeking justice.
Others were infiltrators, sniffing out insider information.
Maybe from headquarters. Maybe Charlemagne’s people.
Lin Qin sighed again.
Lin Qin excelled at handling information but struggled with managing people.
How to lead such a motley crew was the real question he wanted advice on.
As the second-in-command of “Haina,” Ning Zhuo likely had some experience.
After hearing Lin Qin’s concerns, Ning Zhuo thought it over and offered his response:
“You don’t need to waste time managing them.”
“The art of using people is simple: keep anyone useful, no matter their type. Those who are good at investigations but prickly? Let them focus on the case. Those who can’t investigate but are good with people? Have them handle coordination. And those useless at both? They can sweep floors or write reports.”
“‘White Shield’ knows you’re new and green, so they’ll plant a few ‘eyes’ to watch you. Just keep that in mind. Use those you can; marginalize those you can’t. Keep their energy tied up, not yours.”
Ning Zhuo stressed, “The most important thing is solving the case.”
His tone was steady, and his words were candid and reasonable.
But he omitted a crucial piece of advice, leaving it unsaid.
Lin Qin’s chaotic management approach smoothed out with this guidance. He nodded gently, “Thanks.”
Just as Ning Zhuo was about to say more, an abrupt change occurred.
The prison’s long-silent intercom crackled to life, playing cheerful music.
A drunken prisoner’s voice came through, “Hey, is Mr. Takeshi there? Come sing!”
In the First Prison, inmates brazenly used the intercom to call others for fun.
But since Ning Zhuo and his group arrived, it had never been used.
They didn’t even know about this!
The music was piercing, the voice less clear.
Lin Qin caught a snippet but didn’t jump to connect the faint “Mr. Takeshi” with “Motobu Takeshi.” “You’re out of ‘Haina’ this early? Working somewhere?”
This unexpected disruption tightened Ning Zhuo’s throat, loosening his grip slightly.
As he prepared to explain, Shan Feibai suddenly climbed up from his waist, pressing against Ning Zhuo’s chest. Facing the phone, he let out a sultry, “Ning-ge, mm…”
Both sides of the call froze.
A flush crept from Lin Qin’s chin, disappearing under his bandages.
He wasn’t versed in such matters but he wasn’t naive.
Taking a deep breath, he said, “If you’ve got company, I won’t disturb you. Hanging up. Bye.”
For the first time, Lin Qin didn’t wait for the other side to hang up, breaking call etiquette.
Snapping back, Ning Zhuo gripped the communicator until it creaked. “What are you doing?”
Shan Feibai, all righteous indignation, starkly contrasted his earlier flirtation. “Helping you out, Ning-ge. They’re calling for karaoke outside, and this is the private booth—sounds like a shady place, right?”
Ning Zhuo pinched his chin, thinking coldly, This one’s done for.
Once they were out, he’d send him to a brothel.
With that sultry hum, Shan Feibai could easily be a top courtesan.
Meanwhile, Lin Qin, having hung up, leaned against the door, fingering the short black copper baton at his waist, listening to the officers’ heated discussion about their prime suspect.
—Motobu Takeshi.
A junior officer who’d visited the First Prison with Lin Qin gestured animatedly, “You guys don’t know—the guards there bow to the inmates, just like the rumors! Motobu Takeshi said no meeting, and that was that.”
Another hot-blooded young cop chimed in, “Told you he’s suspicious. In Silver Hammer City, he’s one of the few who can make poison. Heard he won a chemistry-related invention award in high school. A genius, even skilled in bio-face-swapping tech!”
Someone added, “The security systems for ‘White Shield’ and the First Prison? All from his family’s Titan Company! That’s his confidence.”
The old-timers were either absent or glued to their computers playing cards, slurping tea loudly, steering clear of the discussion.
A cautious voice asked, “Why leave his prisoner number?”
“To show off!” the junior said. “To look badass. Plus, he’s got a perfect alibi—he’s in jail. You’ve heard of the ‘VIP prison zone,’ right?”
Someone nodded heavily. “Yeah, heard inmates can come and go as they please. Insane!”
The cautious one pressed, “Motive?”
The junior replied, “We’re looking for his link to Raskin. Both are vile sex offenders—coincidence? Maybe partners!”
“No link doesn’t matter,” another said. “Motobu Takeshi’s a certified nutcase. Likes causing chaos. Nothing he does surprises me.”
The cautious one worried, “Making him the prime suspect—is that okay? He’s still a Titan Company heir.”
Someone countered, “After that scandal, Titan couldn’t cover it up. They threw him under the bus to save face. Shows the company’s reputation matters more to Motobu Liang. Takeshi’s half-abandoned—jail, psych ward, no big deal.”
The cautious one persisted, “Doesn’t that prove ‘White Shield’s’ prison security is flawed?”
The junior disagreed, “His dad developed the prison and ‘White Shield’ security systems. A backdoor for his son to slip through? Makes sense.”
Hearing the chaotic debate, Lin Qin exhaled deeply outside the door.
…Was this why Xue Liu was made to leave Motobu Takeshi’s prisoner code?
Inside, a silent figure’s finger twitched, sending a recording of the discussion through a secret channel to an email.
“Current investigation progress, please review.”
