Lin Qin remained composed.
Even if it was the Shan Feibai he knew at the university, ruling out a namesake, it proved nothing.
Shan Feibai hadn’t skulked around—he’d boldly signed his real name, acting openly.
Suspicion was all Lin Qin had, with no solid evidence.
Lifting his head, he closed the registry and summarized succinctly, “…We’ll need to visit the scene. That’s my input.”
Eller, eyeing this rising star with approval, calculated the benefits of promoting him, growing more pleased. “Lin Qin, the 930 case is closed. Chang’an District isn’t rushing you back, right?”
Lin Qin, having anticipated this, wasn’t surprised. “I’ll follow your orders.”
Compared to his earlier sharpness, Eller’s smile was now almost kind. “Would you mind serving as a consultant on this case?”
Before Lin Qin could react, Bell and Hardy cursed inwardly in unison.
“Consultant”?
A fancy title!
Just a way to gild Lin Qin’s reputation.
If the case went unsolved, they’d bear the brunt.
If it broke, how much credit Lin Qin, the “consultant”, got was up to the brass.
But rank trumped all.
Despite their grumbling, they swallowed it, shaking Lin Qin’s hand with forced smiles, proclaiming “happy collaboration.”
Lin Qin returned the handshakes, but his mind lingered on Shan Feibai.
Shan Feibai wasn’t his main concern.
He worried whether Ning Zhuo was tied to this.
Though that fear seemed baseless.
Motobu Takeshi, Raskin, and the Columbus concert hall heroes had no connection whatsoever.
…But what if someone hired Ning Zhuo?
Mercenaries, given enough money, took any job.
Yet the stakes and risks here were massive—Ning Zhuo would only agree if he was tired of living.
Recalling their last meeting, where Ning Zhuo had playfully carved an apple into a rabbit, Lin Qin’s lips curved slightly.
…He seemed to enjoy life just fine.
Lin Qin, Hardy, and Bell drove to Lentzburg University.
Compared to its vibrant anniversary days ago, the campus was now somber, students hurrying with lowered heads and grim faces.
But classes continued—the school clung to a facade of “normalcy” to minimize public fallout.
After all, Xiao Lin and Jensen were bombed right after their event.
Lin Qin didn’t rush inside, instead inspecting all five gates.
Each had a surveillance camera.
At the northwest gate, his brow furrowed.
The camera here was brand new, unlike the older ones elsewhere.
He turned to Hardy. “The other gates have old cameras. What’s with this one?”
Hardy called the university’s logistics office, quickly relaying, “This camera kept breaking. They’d patch it up every few days, barely functional. After the incident, they replaced it.”
Lin Qin’s heart sank.
The northwest gate was a weak point for outsiders to slip through.
Not surprising, though.
Universities weren’t fortresses.
Students, without guidance, found secret paths to the outside world, sneaking out at night for the thrill of breaking rules.
Outsiders could exploit the northwest gate’s faulty camera.
Insiders could use hidden routes.
After scouring every corner of Lentzburg on foot, Lin Qin grew certain: if he were the bomber, he’d choose this campus as his stage.
The surveillance had numerous blind spots, and many cameras were newly replaced—meaning the old ones were likely broken beyond repair.
This made it impossible to reconstruct anyone’s full movements.
No one had a complete alibi, so everyone was “clean.”
Bell and Hardy trailed Lin Qin, sweating profusely in the cold winter gloom.
“Fieldwork” was rare for them, given their reliance on surveillance.
Most cases—nine out of ten—were solved with footage.
The remaining few, usually minor, could be pinned on a suspect and closed.
But at a prestigious place like Lentzburg, their old tricks didn’t work. They trudged behind Lin Qin, exhausted and miserable.
They reached the conference hall where the flowers had been placed.
Lin Qin scanned the area, startled. “Where’s the table?”
“Moved,” Hardy said, wiping sweat with a handkerchief. “No issue—it’s safe. The student council pushed it to the warehouse.”
The explosion happened after the morning ceremony ended.
To avoid clutter during dispersal, the student council had moved the emptied flower table to the warehouse before the crowd left.
Bell added, “We checked it preliminarily—no explosive residue.”
Lin Qin caught an odd verb. “‘Pushed’?”
Hardy nodded. “The warehouse is far, outside the hall’s building. Without wheels, it’d be tough to move.”
Lin Qin pondered briefly, then issued a polite order: “Please have someone bring those tables back.”
Hardy and Bell exchanged a helpless glance, their faces turning sour.
This Lin guy sure knew how to make them jump!
They’d been at it so long, they hadn’t even had lunch.
…
At the “Haina” base.
Shan Feibai and Ning Zhuo were indifferent to Lin Qin’s frantic investigation.
Ning Zhuo was heading out.
Shan Feibai, with nothing better to do, offered styling advice. “Ning-ge, your watch and tie don’t quite match. How about swapping it?”
Ning Zhuo’s tie was a casual one he’d grabbed—Shan Feibai’s, with a touch of peacock-green pattern.
He saw nothing wrong with his usual mechanical watch and ignored the peacock-green malachite watch Shan Feibai held out. “No need.”
Shan Feibai didn’t push, twirling the watch strap, eyeing Ning Zhuo from every angle.
Uncharacteristically quiet, he drew a glance from Ning Zhuo.
Ning Zhuo had seen news of the explosion online.
The analysis was thorough.
An explosion of that scale, unsolved after three days, cemented the White Shield’s incompetence in many minds. But the culprit was clearly skilled, no petty thief.
Ning Zhuo didn’t want Shan Feibai seeing these comments.
…He could already picture Shan Feibai circling him, yapping, “Pretty impressive, huh?”
Adjusting his tie, he asked casually, “How’d you do it?”
Ning Zhuo decided if Shan Feibai played coy with another “guess,” he’d smack the back of his neck.
His skin, reinforced with a steel spine, was soft yet firm—a satisfying hit.
He hadn’t done it in a while and kind of missed it.
But Shan Feibai didn’t give him the chance.
He said earnestly, “Just a small trick.”
Ning Zhuo, unused to such humility from him, knew more was coming.
Sure enough, Shan Feibai flipped his palm, revealing a butterfly brooch between his slender fingers.
He tossed it to Ning Zhuo. “Ning-ge, catch.”
Ning Zhuo caught it, opening his hand to find not a butterfly but a sleek cross-shaped brooch.
Startled, he watched Shan Feibai step closer, naturally grabbing his left wrist—watch and cross brooch in hand—lifting it to chest level.
Shan Feibai’s palm was, as always, warm, almost scalding, making Ning Zhuo want to pull away.
But Shan Feibai held firm, standing close, voice light. “Ning-ge, the butterfly’s on your right shoulder.”
Ning Zhuo glanced right, spotting the silver butterfly brooch there.
As he removed it, Shan Feibai asked, “Meeting the ‘Tuner’ today, Ning-ge?”
Ning Zhuo hadn’t shared his plans.
His heart stirred, and he turned, staring at Shan Feibai.
Shan Feibai smiled. “Don’t check your right pocket—it’s already in your left.”
Ning Zhuo vaguely grasped Shan Feibai’s game and what he was demonstrating.
—Through a series of small, calculated moves, he’d distracted Ning Zhuo to achieve his real goal.
Ning Zhuo didn’t check his left pocket—he knew the Tuner’s card had moved from right to left.
He grabbed Shan Feibai’s wrist in return.
But Shan Feibai had already accomplished his initial aim.
Smiling faintly, he gestured with his eyes.
Sensing something, Ning Zhuo released him.
Shan Feibai pulled back.
From between his index finger and thumb slid Ning Zhuo’s black mechanical watch.
The delicate peacock-green watch was now securely on Ning Zhuo’s wrist.
With Ning Zhuo’s pale skin, the watch looked, as Shan Feibai had hoped, stunning.
The sleight-of-hand combo was executed flawlessly.
Shan Feibai gave an exaggerated curtsy, hands behind his back, lightly licking his lips. “Perfect match.”
Ning Zhuo stared at him.
Before, he’d seen Shan Feibai as brimming with carefree vitality, occasionally sprouting a wolf’s heart or dog’s lungs—amusing yet infuriating.
Now, he noticed a fresh, alluring aura about him, tempting Ning Zhuo to step closer, to look deeper.
A small spark ignited in his heart.
He didn’t let it spread.
His belt was still unfastened.
Ning Zhuo grabbed the nearby belt, looping it around Shan Feibai’s neck, giving a light tug.
The spark turned into an urge to act, easing slightly after the release.
He critiqued, “Petty thief tricks.”
Shan Feibai, recovering from the ambiguous choke, took a deep breath, grinning shamelessly. “Works, doesn’t it?”
Having shown off, the flirt in him peeked out. “Ning-ge, it’s been ages since I saw the Tuner. Take me along—”
“Nowhere for you.”
Ning Zhuo knew Lin Qin hadn’t returned to Chang’an District’s White Shield.
Fresh off cracking the 930 case, they were likely still buzzing about him.
This case probably involved him too.
If so, Lin Qin’s sharp instincts would soon uncover Shan Feibai’s trail.
Ning Zhuo adjusted his belt, saying calmly, “…Someone will come for you soon.”
