“The Queen of Heaven, Mazu.”
Ji Xun chewed on these words slowly between his teeth.
He didn’t speak, and neither did Meng Fushan. A condensed, icy current swirled in the space between them.
Ji Yu’s death was the strongest bond connecting them.
As time passed, this unshakable link extended into even more points of leverage and balance—such as the suspicion surrounding Meng Fushan’s involvement in Chen Jiashu’s death, or the suspicion surrounding Ji Xun’s involvement in An Jie’s death.
There were two possibilities for An Jie’s death, just as there were two possibilities for Chen Jiashu’s.
One was that someone had killed An Jie and framed him. There were clues pointing to this: whether it was the suspicious timing of An Jie’s trip abroad, or his baseless, calculated deliberation when he first met Ji Xun’s younger sister, everything indicated that there was a shadow lurking behind An Jie.
Whose shadow was it?
The other possibility was that Ji Xun had killed An Jie himself.
His dazed state of mind and his lingering resentment had ultimately driven him to pick up the butcher’s knife…
Suddenly, his sister’s blood-soaked face flashed before his eyes.
His happy sister, his vibrant sister—no matter how many times she appeared in his initial memories, she was eventually replaced by a skeletal version of herself weeping tears of blood, alongside his parents who lay behind her, unable to rest in peace.
This was a pale, bleak world, drenched in a sea of blood, with the death knell tolling in the distance.
“Ji Xun, don’t be in a rush to find the police,” Meng Fushan said flatly. “We both have things to deal with. It’s not a good time for us to attract police attention… We’ve made it this far, and neither of us wants to fail at the final hurdle. Let me tell you what I’ve found.”
Ji Xun let out a ragged breath.
With great difficulty, he dragged his consciousness back from the uncontrollable past and focused entirely on what Meng Fushan was about to say.
“Chen Jiashu was not the mastermind. The mastermind goes by the name of Mr. Liu. His full name is unknown. He owns a ship and commands his own armed force; he might not be running this massive business alone. The ship is anchored in international waters. Getting on board requires a transit; they have dedicated vessels stationed at various ports, and to get on the ship, you have to be a regular customer. The ship offers illegal activities such as gambling, killing, and sex work. The services are provided by blindfolded women on board. Every single woman is blindfolded, and I suspect their eyes have been blinded or gouged out. I’m afraid they are also donors for the illegal organ trade.”
Meng Fushan spoke rapidly, and Ji Xun listened intently.
He engraved every word into his memory, thinking at the same time:
A ship. Another ship.
There was a ship tied to Tang Jinglong’s safe, Old Hu had a ship in his hands, there was a ship at the casino next to Chen Jiashu’s abandoned factory, and what he was going to Fujian to investigate now was still a ship.
“The last time I went, I was watched so closely that I couldn’t figure out the true nature of what was happening on that ship at all.” Meng Fushan had said a lot, but in the end, he felt he hadn’t witnessed anything truly useful. “I need a helper. And I’ve found an opportunity. Before long, they are holding a grand gathering. At this gathering, not only Mr. Liu but many other key figures will appear. It is the perfect opportunity to figure out exactly what kind of organization they are.”
“If we bring the police, we won’t get on board. If we don’t bring the police, we might get on but never get off. Ji Xun, are you coming?”
Meng Fushan asked, before adding:
“I don’t actually want you to come. The only reason I’m telling you this is because someone needs to know.”
If Meng Fushan boarded that ship and never came back down, at least Ji Xun would know the truth he had spent his life investigating.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Ji Xun said. “Of course I’m going.”
Boarding the ship, investigating, and uncovering the cause of his sister’s and parents’ deaths was never Meng Fushan’s responsibility alone—it was his.
“When do we board?” Ji Xun asked.
“In a week.”
“With an organization that strict, how did you manage to get tickets?”
“I’ll tell you when we meet.”
Without wasting a single word or a single second, Meng Fushan hung up the phone immediately after his last sentence.
Ji Xun set his phone aside and closed his eyes against the back of the seat. He had exhausted all his energy; he didn’t want to say a word or do a single thing.
After a very long time, Ji Xun opened his eyes.
He didn’t move. His body felt like a massive log, devoid of sensation. He tried moving his fingers.
One finger, two fingers… he regained control of his hand, then his arm. Using that arm, Ji Xun propped himself up. He glanced at the time—it was already close to noon.
So fast, Ji Xun murmured in his heart.
Another morning wasted.
He stepped out of the car, walked over to a noodle shop by the roadside, and ordered a bowl of noodles for himself. At the same time, he pulled out his phone, looked at the screen, and finally dialed a number.
Perhaps he had hesitated for too long; by the time the call went through, his noodles were served.
The young worker at the noodle shop shot a strange look at Ji Xun, then glanced up at the sky.
The sunlight wasn’t even that intense, so why did this man look like he was about to melt?
When Huo Ranyin received Ji Xun’s call, a detective from his squad happened to walk over.
Covering the receiver, he turned to the approaching detective. “What is it?”
“Chen Jiahe confessed to something,” the detective whispered. “It’s about you.”
Huo Ranyin’s brow furrowed, and he followed the detective toward the interrogation room. The questioning of Chen Jiahe had never stopped. However, the thug who delivered the newspapers had been unexpectedly stubborn this time; despite being interrogated intensively for so long, they still hadn’t extracted any information from him regarding Chen Jiashu’s organ trafficking business.
He walked up to the interrogation room and peered inside through the one-way glass.
With just one look, Huo Ranyin deduced: This man is on the verge of a breakdown.
“What did he say?” Huo Ranyin asked.
“He said that during the time you were away on a business trip to Qin City, it was Chen Jiashu who bought trending searches to allow overseas elements to track your whereabouts, thereby orchestrating the pursuit and assassination attempt in Qin City.” Yuan Yue appeared at his side, his expression solemn.
It was Chen Jiashu’s doing.
Huo Ranyin was somewhat surprised. This piece of news did indeed solve a question that had been lingering in his mind, but right now, that wasn’t the most important matter.
“Aside from this, what else did Chen Jiahe say?” Huo Ranyin asked. “Did he say anything about his brother’s organ trafficking?”
Yuan Yue shook his head.
The two of them looked at Chen Jiahe inside the interrogation room together.
At this moment, a possibility surfaced in both of their minds simultaneously.
They had to consider… perhaps Chen Jiashu had kept things so well-hidden that even his own younger brother truly knew nothing about it. They were unlikely to get any more clues out of Chen Jiahe.
Leaving the interrogation room, Huo Ranyin uncovered the receiver.
The call hadn’t been disconnected; the call duration was still ticking upward, second by second.
“Ji Xun?”
“I’m here.”
“Something came up just now. What did you want to say when you called?”
“Nothing in particular. I just wanted to say… I miss you.”
“…” Huo Ranyin paused. “It’s only been a little over twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah,” the voice on the other end chuckled lightly.
“What are you doing right now?” Huo Ranyin asked.
“Eating lunch.”
“Mm, I’m about to eat too.” Huo Ranyin spoke as he walked, stopping abruptly as he passed the police station’s backyard. He looked outside. Over the past two days, the weather had suddenly turned scorching hot. The sun in the sky seemed larger than usual, pouring down light onto the leaves until they began to curl at the edges.
“Also…” Huo Ranyin said softly, “I miss you too. I want to go to your place.”
It wasn’t just a matter of physical proximity.
It was the most genuine distance, stripped of all pretense—the distance from one person’s heart to another’s, from one person’s spirit to another’s.
The good kind of distance, and the bad.
