While Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai stayed holed up for two days, Bell was swamped with chaos.
Since neither side wanted to take the blame, Longwan and Meige Districts’ White Shield teams were in a frenzy, each trying to prove the bomb was planted in the other’s jurisdiction on Xiao Lin and Jensen’s car.
Someone had claimed responsibility for the attack.
—Feng Xueyuan, a man who supposedly died at sea 12 years ago.
According to this “ghost”, he met a bad end and returned to settle scores with the five-person team.
But that story wasn’t fit for an official case report.
The bomber, silent until now, had struck with a vengeance, sending the situation spiraling out of control.
The White Shield had to give the rattled public some answers.
The explosion’s force, combined with fire, left no valuable clues, making it impossible to pinpoint the exact detonation spot.
Experts, after laborious analysis, offered only a vague conclusion: the blast originated not in the engine or trunk but in the passenger compartment.
As for whether it was under the car or inside, they left it to the investigators to figure out.
Salvage efforts were equally fruitless.
As the investigation deepened, the White Shield realized the bomber had chosen the explosion site with cunning precision.
Beneath the bridge flowed not a river but seawater.
Winter currents had done a thorough job of erasing evidence.
The dashcam, on which they’d pinned high hopes, was retrieved in fragments—useless metal scraps.
Investigating via the car was a dead end.
Meige’s leader, Hardy, had no choice but to head to the Columbus Memorial Concert Hall for answers.
Seeing the hall’s stringent surveillance system, Hardy and his team’s hearts sank.
—Normally, no one would dare attempt planting a bomb under such dense, gapless monitoring.
Hardy planned to pull all footage from before the explosion.
His team went to work but returned with long faces.
“Our equipment doesn’t have enough storage,” one said.
Hardy was stunned. “That much footage?”
As soon as he said it, he realized why “storage wasn’t enough,” his head buzzing.
…The bomber’s timeline was long.
From the first explosion at the old dock’s container to the catastrophic blast by the Columbus bridge, the incidents spanned over half a month.
Who knew how long ago the bomb was planted? A day? Three days? Or even before the first explosion, lying dormant until now?
They were at a loss for where to begin.
Investigating would require immense effort.
The White Shield had an auxiliary tool—intelligent crime analysis software—that could quickly flag risks in footage.
But the hall’s surveillance was dauntingly voluminous. Even with all the White Shield’s software running, it would take three to four days to process.
For now, they knew nothing about the bomber.
Gender, age, height, build—all a mystery.
The bomber had exploited the explosion’s location and timed it to drag out the investigation, slowing their pace.
Hardy muttered curses. “Cunning little bastard!”
He ordered his team to request access to the crime analysis software from headquarters and decided to investigate on-site instead of transferring the footage.
Before leaving, one subordinate muttered, “…It’s like they walked from the old dock, taking half a month.”
That comment gave Hardy goosebumps.
Piecing together the timeline, he calculated with growing horror:
From the first explosion at the dock to the second at an old residential building, walking at a normal pace, day and night without rest, would take about three days.
To the third site, a park, another three days.
A chilling image formed in Hardy’s mind.
A sea ghost crawling from the dark ocean, tirelessly trudging through the streets, collecting items to craft bombs—crude at first, then sophisticated—marching purposefully toward the concert hall.
—For all he knew, it was watching him from the bridge now.
The thought sent a shiver through Hardy in broad daylight. He shook his head, trying to banish the eerie notion.
While Hardy struggled, Bell was shrouded in gloom.
After liaising with the White Shield’s traffic division and scouring road surveillance, Bell confirmed Xiao Lin and Jensen’s car hadn’t stopped en route.
No refueling, no shopping—just brief pauses at traffic lights.
That ruled out tampering mid-journey.
The flower shop that supplied the anniversary bouquets lacked internal cameras, making it a suspicious point.
But the shop’s staff were quickly cleared.
First, investigations showed no ties—familial or otherwise—between the staff and anyone on the Columbus. Their social connections were clean, with no clear motive to target Xiao Lin or Jensen.
Second, none had a background in chemistry.
Third, their purchase records were unremarkable—only gardening supplies and normal household items, nothing suggesting bomb-making materials.
Fourth, even if someone had slipped a bomb into a bouquet amid the chaos, how could they ensure that specific bouquet reached Xiao Lin and Jensen?
The trail led nowhere.
Reluctantly, Bell shifted focus.
Lentzburg University’s anniversary celebration was another potential strike point for the bomber.
Xiao Lin and Jensen’s car had sat quietly in its designated parking spot, untouched by any moving object.
From the end of their speech to their return with the bouquet, nothing stirred around the vehicle.
Bell requested the intelligent crime analysis system for Lentzburg University’s footage, but the results were disappointing.
A “no anomalies” prompt dashed all his hopes.
The only foreign object in the car was the bouquet.
Bell rallied, rewatching the footage, but found nothing.
No “helpful stranger” assisted during the flower transport.
The two students writing and attaching cards in the preparation room were from the student council.
They’d be perfect scapegoats.
But securing key roles in Lentzburg’s student council required at least B-class citizenship or higher, with no upper limit.
Bell, despite his tactics, wouldn’t dare strong-arm B-class citizens.
Besides, their social networks were spotless, with no ties to the Columbus and no motive to target Xiao Lin or Jensen.
After they moved the flowers to the display table, tampering was even less likely.
The table was directly under a surveillance camera!
Desperate, Bell even checked the spray bottle they’d left on the table.
It was just water.
The few passersby near the table, after investigation, were all clean—merely using the building’s restroom.
Bell felt he’d investigated every detail, day and night, until stress gave him two huge mouth ulcers.
If the bomb wasn’t planted in Meige District, was it really in Longwan?
But seeing Hardy, cheeks swollen like a squirrel from stress-induced inflammation, Bell’s worries vanished.
Both White Shield teams, dizzy from fruitless searches, turned their attention to the other three Columbus survivors.
Without their heroic aura, Bell would’ve detained Sanjay and the others long ago.
The reason was simple.
In the unreleased recording, the bomber explicitly referenced the Columbus sinking 12 years ago, targeting the five-person team.
Their social connections, since surviving, were both complex and simple.
Complex because, running the Columbus Memorial Concert Hall, they interacted daily with Silver Hammer City’s elite.
Simple because they kept these elites at arm’s length, maintaining only superficial ties.
This meant the five were closest to each other.
…And most likely to have internal conflicts.
Running the hall for over a decade, surely some profit-driven disputes had arisen?
Being so close to the action, they could plant a bomb anytime.
…Even two months in advance, a remote-controlled bomb in Xiao Lin and Jensen’s car wouldn’t matter.
The hall’s cameras were so numerous that cloud storage only held a month’s worth, with old footage overwritten.
Sanjay’s behavior was oddest—he’d avoided public events for years, let alone driven anywhere.
Had he clashed secretly with Xiao Lin and Jensen, harboring murderous intent under a dead man’s name?
The two leaders compiled a preliminary report, cautiously presenting it to White Shield Deputy Director Eller.
Silver Hammer City’s last major incident was the Raskin-triggered White Shield trust crisis.
Eller, fresh from handling it, was now saddled with this new mess.
The capable bear the burden, after all.
Furious, with a throbbing migraine, Eller eyed their speculation-heavy report. “This is your investigation result?”
The two mumbled, admitting it was just their current direction.
“I don’t want stories. I want hard evidence.”
Eller dialed a number. “Lin Qin, come to my office.”
Lin Qin arrived, standing quietly as he heard the investigation’s progress. He turned to Bell, voice gentle as ever. “Mr. Bell, have you checked the list of everyone who entered the campus that day?”
Bell froze.
He’d been fixated on finding direct evidence of the bomb’s placement, staring at footage until his eyes watered.
Screening key figures was overwhelming enough—who had time for a broader net?
But sensing Lin Qin’s suspicion leaned toward Meige District, Bell saw a chance to shift blame. “We know Lentzburg has five gates. That day, the southeast and southwest gates were open, plus the underground parking lot… but all entries were logged. It was the anniversary, so the school planned to use the sign-in book for a fifty-meter commemorative scroll.”
Catching Lin Qin’s drift, he ventured, “Should we screen for suspicious individuals?”
After a pause, Lin Qin spoke slowly, addressing everyone. “I still suspect the flowers.”
“Pre-planting a bomb is possible, but the bomber couldn’t rule out someone cleaning the car and finding it, or an accidental detonation.”
Lin Qin was certain the bomber targeted the five specifically.
To minimize risks, the bomber would shorten the bomb’s time in the car.
The flowers were the perfect opportunity.
With such a powerful bomb, outsourcing was unlikely.
The more intricate the plan, the more likely it would fail.
Simplicity is key—the bomber likely acted personally.
Lin Qin said, “I need the guest registry and footage from all entry points.”
On the day of the incident, Lentzburg’s management was lax.
The 120th anniversary drew alumni across generations, many unfamiliar faces, and gate security likely couldn’t recognize everyone.
Slipping in wasn’t hard.
The task was straightforward.
Cross-reference the registry with entry footage to identify non-university outsiders.
But another possibility existed.
A guilty party might use a fake name to muddy the waters.
Lin Qin wanted to check for that too.
Hearing his request, Bell eagerly said, “The registry is among the sealed evidence. We brought it but haven’t had time to check!”
Lin Qin understood his enthusiasm.
Ignoring Hardy’s pale, angry face, he nodded to Bell. “…Thank you.”
Bell soon returned with the thick, hundred-page registry.
Lin Qin flipped through it casually, instructing softly, “This is just my theory, not necessarily correct, but it’s a direction. You can use it as a reference—”
His hand paused subtly.
He saw a familiar name, signed with bold, flamboyant strokes.
—Shan Feibai.
Author’s Note:
Shan Feibai: Real name, real confidence.
