Faced with Bell’s visit, the president of Lentzburg University maintained a calm exterior while his mind churned with chaos.
It was supposed to be a good thing—how did it come to this?
While the president grappled with his inner turmoil, Bell was sizing up the elderly man before him.
The man was a distinguished, old-school A-class citizen, and Lentzburg University wasn’t even in Bell’s jurisdiction.
Thus, Bell, hailing from the mid-city district, approached him with utmost patience and sincerity, his tone almost affable. “We’d like to know about the flowers… the ones you gave to Xiao Lin and Jensen after the speech.”
The president leaned forward, adopting a posture of attentive listening. “Yes. Go ahead and ask.”
Bell appreciated dealing with scholars like him.
They lacked the thick skin of others.
If this explosion case had stemmed from some corporate gala, Bell was certain they’d have destroyed all surveillance footage to cover their tracks.
Scholars had their peculiar sense of pride—they wouldn’t stoop to such tactics.
Bell asked gently, “Where were the flowers purchased?”
In the room stood the student council president and the dean of academic affairs, both directly involved in organizing the event.
The task of buying flowers fell to the student council.
The council president, still a student, was visibly nervous but answered honestly. “It was… we bought them. Foss Flower Shop, on Fifth Street Central.”
Bell: “Just one bouquet?”
“No. We placed the order a week ago—small flower baskets and bouquets, some for decorating the venue, others for distinguished alumni and special guests. The shop handled the packaging, and we brought them back in batches.”
Bell’s interest piqued. “Were all the flowers the same style?”
The council president glanced at the university president, hesitating before mumbling, “Um… the ones for the alumni were standard, but the flowers for special guests were upgraded versions. Each type was consistent in style.”
Bell: “How did you know which bouquet went to whom? Did you just hand them out randomly?”
Council President: “We wrote greeting cards for the guests and attached them to the flowers—”
Bell’s eyes lit up.
The mysterious call had used advanced tech, untraceable, but its message was clear: the attack targeted Xiao Lin and Jensen specifically.
The cards, labeled with names, confirmed this was deliberate!
The perpetrator was likely still on campus!
After the incident, the university had been locked down, with security footage from the gates and parking lot reviewed, and anyone who left during that time politely brought back.
Fool! The fox’s tail was showing!
Bell grew more confident of cracking the case. “Where’s the surveillance room?”
The dean stood, brow furrowed with worry. “Follow me.”
Lentzburg University’s Meige District “White Shield” police were sweating buckets maintaining order and calming VIPs attending the 120th anniversary celebration—prominent figures who required considerable effort to manage.
Even with all hands on deck, they were stretched thin. Bell took charge, directing his team to sort through the chaotic surveillance footage.
The university’s cameras weren’t advanced mobile types like “Bee Swarm” or “Goose Formation.”
With so many areas needing funding, surveillance wasn’t a priority.
Before sitting down, Bell worried about blind spots that could let someone slip through.
But when his team compiled the footage, he nearly laughed in triumph.
It was almost too perfect—the footage of the flower delivery vehicle entering the campus was complete, from start to finish, without a single gap!
While his team worked, Bell had them inspect the other upgraded bouquets to ensure the perpetrator hadn’t planted bombs in all of them.
Thankfully, they weren’t that deranged.
Bell settled in, eyes glued to the screen, determined to catch every detail.
On the monitors, student council members carried the bouquets in a steady stream to the preparation room.
The room was cluttered with tables and items, monitored by a single camera positioned high above.
It gave Bell a clear overview.
The greeting cards were handwritten.
A girl used the university’s custom cardstock, head down, copying names at a desk. A boy assisted, drying the ink and inserting the cards into the bouquets at an angle.
There were 15 special guests and 30 distinguished alumni.
The 15 cards were written in order of the guest list, top to bottom, but the boy was careless, inserting them haphazardly without following the sequence.
Bell’s eyes ached from watching repeatedly, but the pair’s actions were clean—no suspicious moves.
He observed coldly. The two students were painfully honest, their movements and demeanor utterly guileless, not the stuff of schemers.
After finishing, they began transporting the bouquets.
The preparation room wasn’t far from the conference hall.
Special guests often left after their speeches, so the flowers had to be ready for the etiquette team to present on cue.
For convenience, long tables were set up outside the hall, covered with dark green velvet cloths, forming a temporary display. The bouquets were arranged in order of the speakers’ schedule, creating a makeshift flower garden.
Once the two workers finished, they sprayed the flowers with a mist to keep them fresh and vibrant before leaving.
Opposite the display was an open window. A breeze made the flowers’ leaves rustle.
Bell, outside the screen, held his breath.
Each gust made his shoulder muscles twitch rhythmically.
During this time, a few passersby came by, but Bell saw no one suspiciously lingering near the flower table.
Then, the etiquette team appeared, quickly checking the cards before taking the bouquets.
When the table was cleared, the footage shifted to the conference hall.
Bell watched as the suspect bouquet was handed to Jensen, saw them pose for photos, and saw them carry the flowers to the underground parking lot.
As the car sped off in the footage, Bell froze.
He asked, “That’s it?”
His subordinate answered honestly, “That’s it. You wanted to check the flowers, right? This is all the flower-related footage.”
Bell: “…”
At that moment, the frazzled Meige District “White Shield” leader barged into the surveillance room, catching the tail end of the conversation.
A blunt man, he asked, “Why check the flowers? Check their car!”
Bell swallowed hard, cursing Lin Qin and himself internally.
Led astray by a red herring! Wasting his precious time!
Was Lin Qin his boss that he followed blindly?
But when they reviewed the car-related footage, both Bell and the White Shield leader were dumbfounded.
From start to finish, the university’s surveillance showed no suspicious individuals approaching Xiao Lin and Jensen’s vehicle.
Bell felt a growing sense of unease.
Bell’s bad feeling became reality almost instantly.
The Meige District leader glanced at him. “Hey, Bell, tell me—could that bomb have been planted in your district?”
Bell’s scalp tingled as he recalled why he’d so eagerly followed Lin Qin’s suggestion: he’d subconsciously wanted to shift the blame from Longwan District to Meige.
He forced a laugh, his expression sour. “Hard to say. We still need to investigate.”
The Meige leader waved generously. “Investigate, sure. But keeping all these high-profile guests from the Lentzburg anniversary so late—it’s not right. Can you step in and calm them down?”
Bell grimaced.
He’d have to be out of his mind to take on that thankless task!
But he knew the flower investigation had consumed much of his energy.
It was late, and Lentzburg University lacked accommodations for these VIPs.
If Bell left the soothing to Meige, they’d surely throw him under the bus, claiming “the Longwan District officer won’t let anyone leave.”
Stepping in himself was even worse.
He wasn’t local police—his words carried little weight.
The two locked eyes, both aware that arguing was pointless.
Whoever handled this would end up looking bad.
The Meige leader tested the waters. “…How about we ask higher-ups to let everyone go for now?”
Bell sighed in relief, jumping on it. “Yes, yes! We’ll investigate slowly. We’ve got the footage. The bomb’s origin, relationships, motives—there’s still so much to check, right? Holding everyone isn’t practical.”
As the Meige and Longwan leaders reached a rare consensus, far away at interest company’s headquarters studio, Lin Qin sneezed.
Kainan, concerned for his new cash cow, asked, “What, catching a cold?”
“It’s nothing.” Lin Qin asked softly, “So, are we airing that recording?”
Kainan shook his head. “Bosses said no.”
“Why not?”
The true cause of the Columbus sinking was known to fewer than ten people in Silver Hammer City.
Kainan wasn’t one of them.
He only knew their five-person team were has-been heroes, ripe for squeezing news value, but he didn’t know why the higher-ups refused to air the recording to avoid speculation.
He shrugged casually. “No idea.”
Then Kainan asked, “What do you think of this case?”
Lin Qin pondered. “Tough to crack. Cross-district cases always get messy.”
Kainan eyed him. “If it was assigned to you?”
Lin Qin shook his head, calm but firm. “My task force is disbanding. I’m heading back to Chang’an District soon.”
Kainan chuckled, finding Lin Qin naive.
He’d already gained public attention, and his popularity was solid.
Even if he wanted to return to Chang’an, the White Shield higher-ups wouldn’t let him go.
Lin Qin lowered his head, expression serene.
He knew he didn’t need to fight for it—Kainan would lobby the brass to put him on the case.
The whole thing felt off, unlike the Laskin or Benbuwu cases.
From that recording, Lin Qin sensed his new adversary was “wild,” exuding a reckless, youthful defiance.
While the White Shield scrambled, Ning Zhuo was in his “Haina” room, being styled by Shan Feibai.
Shan Feibai had returned excitedly with an invitation, twirling it like a prize. Seeing Ning Zhuo wasn’t sleepy, he dragged him to pick outfits for the Columbus memorial banquet a week away.
Ning Zhuo set down his book, watching Shan Feibai flit about like a butterfly, puzzled by his obsession with “dressing up.”
In five minutes, Shan Feibai transformed Ning Zhuo into a refined gentleman.
This time, a white suit, pristine from head to toe.
Ning Zhuo’s naturally pale skin carried the bold color effortlessly.
As Shan Feibai rummaged for matching pins and scarves, Ning Zhuo stood by, gazing at the floor-length mirror nearby, feeling the man in it was a stranger.
He stepped closer, lightly touching the eyes of his reflection.
Why go along with this pointless charade?
Why did he feel a faint smile tugging at him?
In his confusion, Ning Zhuo’s peripheral vision caught his father standing in the room’s corner, hands at his sides, drenched in blood.
Ning Zhuo lowered his head, avoiding his gaze.
Since age thirteen, any hint of happiness or ease filled him with guilt.
Shan Feibai turned, saw Ning Zhuo’s vacant stare at the mirror, and instantly understood.
He glanced around. “Is Uncle here again?”
Then, raising his voice, he called out, “Hello, Uncle! Tell Aunt we’re living together now! What do you and Aunt like to eat? I’ll cook for you next time!”
Ning Zhuo: “…”
Despite being used to it, he was still floored by Shan Feibai’s brazenness.
In a blink, he noticed “Uncle” had been scared off.
Shan Feibai didn’t comment further, stepping lightly to Ning Zhuo’s side. “The scarf’s no good. Let’s go with a tie.”
He pinned a brooch neatly, speaking softly to the probably-not-far “Uncle.”
“Be kinder to him,” Shan Feibai murmured, almost nagging. “He’s had a hard life.”
Ning Zhuo’s heart skipped, but he shoved his hands into his suit pockets, pretending not to hear.
He knew Shan Feibai was a wild card.
In front of him, Shan acted like an obedient puppy, scampering about as if he had a tail, naturally cheeky.
But unleashed, he was a cunning beast, lurking coldly in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Ning Zhuo studied that face, unable to read his heart. The wilder and sharper Shan’s mind, the more handsome and docile his appearance.
To shake off the odd itch in his chest, Ning Zhuo asked, “What method did you use?”
When he’d tasked Shan Feibai with handling it, he meant it.
With limited information from White Shield and interest company, Ning Zhuo, like most Silver Hammer citizens, knew little about what happened.
Shan Feibai tied a perfect bow, eyes crinkling with satisfaction. “…Guess?”
His gaze swept Ning Zhuo from head to toe, lingering on his naturally flushed, shapely lips.
He muttered softly, “Stunning.”
Shan Feibai felt he’d hit the jackpot, his affection swelling like a balloon, warming and lifting his heart.
He vaguely wanted to act out but restrained himself, asking gentlemanly, “Ning-ge, can you dance?”
