Chapter 16

Chapter 16 Chapter 16 Nightmare.

Jian Qing knew he was dreaming.

A fluffy, soft quilt covered him up to his shoulders, emitting a faint pleasant fragrance. Outside, fireworks burst with booming sounds, drowning out the television downstairs.

His eyelids felt as if they were weighed down by two stones. He opened his eyes groggily. The room was somewhat dark—his mother must have drawn the curtains for him. Fireworks lit up the world in flickers and flashes, like the tails of fireflies, blinking on and off.

Mother.

I fell asleep.

These two thoughts alternated in his mind. Jian Qing suddenly panicked. He threw off the blanket. His whole body felt soft and weak, his head dizzy, yet he still quickly got out of bed, not even putting on shoes, rushing toward the door.

The lights were bright.

The room was freezing.

Cold wind poured in violently, making him shiver.

The Spring Festival Gala host’s cheerful announcements poured into his ears, followed by thunderous applause. The air was filled with a slightly pungent smell of gunpowder smoke. Other than that, there were no father’s clumsy jokes, no mother’s gentle laughter, and no “good grandson” from grandparents who always noticed him first.

Jian Qing’s legs began to go weak.

[What’s the rush? They’re all going to die in this winter anyway.]

A hollow, distorted voice, as if someone were pressing close to his ear and whispering, spreading again and again, becoming sharper and sharper.

It’s today.

Sweat broke out in thin layers on his forehead. Jian Qing thought, like a young animal reacting instinctively to danger, his tense body telling him something had changed.

It was rapidly getting worse.

His small, soft hand gripped the railing. Barefoot, he stepped down step by step. The staircase felt like ice, mixed with a nauseating, rotten smell. The closer he got, the stronger it became. Gradually, Jian Qing saw the completely open front door, crooked footprints, and a living room covered in bright red.

His father and mother were sitting on the sofa, and beside them were his grandparents. A sharp-faced, monkey-like sketch comedian wearing a small black hat was entertaining the audience on television with laughter. The four of them sat with their backs to him, their four heads hanging stiffly and unnaturally. Large patches of blood were still wet, like a swamp that could at any moment give birth to a monstrous creature.

Biting his lip hard, Jian Qing stepped through the sticky, filthy mess. He saw four closed eyes, and four slit throats.

—It’s my fault they died.

Tears poured out in large drops. The small boy finally collapsed to the ground.

It’s my fault they died.

“Beep beep.”

Along with a buzzing vibration, a monotonous alarm rang out. Black eyelashes fluttered twice, revealing eyes as still and emotionless as a deep well.

Except for slightly damp bangs from sweat, the young man looked no different from usual. He slid right on the screen, glanced at the time, and sat up while wrapping himself in the blanket.

The bedroom was very dim, and the door was tightly shut. Everything was so similar to that nightmare night twenty-two years ago—like fireworks had not yet been set off, like life could still be reversed.

Jian Qing sat quietly for five minutes.

Then, for the countless time, he opened that door.

Outside the door was also complete darkness.

No glaring lights, no noisy television. The world was so quiet he could even hear his own heartbeat. Jian Qing stepped in slippers to the refrigerator, his throat bobbing as he gulped down half a bottle of water.

Glasses were left on the bedside table. He unconsciously narrowed his eyes, casually took out a handful of vegetables and half a bag of dried noodles, and simply seasoned them with salt and soy sauce.

While the water was boiling, Jian Qing quickly took a shower. He didn’t like the noise of the hairdryer, so when he returned to the kitchen, the ends of his hair were still slightly damp.

The noodles went into the pot. Jian Qing placed his phone on a nearby stand and opened a subscribed channel.

Because of various censorship regulations in television stations, online media was often more timely. Although one frequently had to distinguish truth from falsehood, on days when he was not directly involved in cases at the municipal bureau, this was the fastest way Jian Qing could learn about potential incidents happening in Beijiang.

Today’s narration was that always energetic, lively female voice. Jian Qing frowned at the screen and raised his hand to lower the volume slightly.

“See all of Beijiang’s affairs, understand all of Beijiang’s people.”

“Welcome to Mengmeng and Old Han’s gossip channel!”

“Late last night, near Ping’an Road on Yongxing Avenue in the western district of our city, a vicious murder case occurred.”

“According to frontline reporter Old Han, the victim was a young man dressed fashionably, his entire face slashed beyond recognition, lying in a bush. The strangest thing is…” The girl deliberately dragged out the ending tone and said softly, “When the body was discovered, there was a black cat standing on top of it, its green glowing eyes still eating the victim’s flesh.”

“Gulp, gulp.”

“It was just like—an evil ghost came to claim a life!”

The sudden rise in volume immediately flooded the livestream with a wave of “aaaaaa” screams, while Jian Qing’s chopsticks stirring the noodles froze the moment he heard the words “Ping’an Road.”

Ping’an Road, bushes, male corpse, face slashed.

This was clearly the case committed by Chen Yang.

But Chen Yang had already been arrested—personally handed over by him to the serious crime unit. Even if He Linfeng had not managed to deduce Chen Yang’s old case involving his younger brother, they would not have released him this quickly.

The female host in the livestream did not stop speaking, but the topic had already shifted to tips for warding off evil and removing bad luck. Jian Qing carefully examined the mosaic-covered photo of the corpse, turned off the heat, and subconsciously pulled up the contact labeled “Serious Crime Unit,” but his fingertip hovered, hesitating to press.

This time, he had no reason, and no right.

And he should not know the undisclosed details of the police investigation—such as Chen Yang’s original murder plan.

The deviated plot had returned to its proper track. In the high sky above, it was as if a giant hand hovered outside the world, gently manipulating everything, laughing as it told him:

You cannot escape.

Jian Qing took a deep breath.

Then he turned the heat back on, added in the washed spinach, and finally served up a bowl of steaming noodle soup.

The warmth returned to his fingertips.

Along with the resumed flow of blood, his frozen thoughts began to move again. Jian Qing picked up a chopstick of noodles and slowly put it into his mouth, thinking:

It should be a transmigrator.

From Yu Xiumei and the system’s conversation, it could be inferred that after formally entering the novel’s timeline, the system had issued a new type of mission: “restoring the plot.”

Successfully restoring the plot could reduce the probability of main mission failure and being erased after system unlinking. This meant that if Chen Yang’s “loophole” was successfully filled, the second killer hidden in the shadows could, even if he failed to win over him, continue living in this world under a new identity.

An enticing reward.

The cost was one life, two lives, or even more lives.

After a long while, he typed a large block of text in his notes app, as if simulating various conversations in the same situation, repeatedly editing it before finally deleting it all clean.

“The boy in red,” “the cat-faced old woman,” “a mass grave buried under a school”—just like these strange urban legends that had once circulated in almost every city, the murder case on Ping’an Road, together with the blood-mustached “Mimi” the cat, had also become Beijiang’s hottest topic of the day.

Mimi was the name given to the black cat by the children living nearby.

It had now been “arrested” by enthusiastic members of the public, and together with the corpse covered by a white cloth, it had been sent to the Beijiang Municipal Bureau.

“…This is the most unusual piece of evidence I’ve ever seen,” Wang Lai squatted down to examine the little creature in the cage. “Old Zhou, can it eat ham sausage?”

Because his wife loved cats, Zhou Shan had also often taken care of the “master” at home. Glancing at the black cat’s slightly sunken belly, he said, “It can eat. Just don’t feed it milk.”

“I’ll bring some cat food tomorrow, and open a can of wet food for it too.”

Curling up with its tail wrapped around itself, the black cat Mimi was far less ferocious than in the stories. Ever since it entered the police station, it neither made noise nor moved around much. Of course—it also ignored people.

This inexplicably reminded He Linfeng of a certain CEO.

“Put the… cat evidence aside for now. Let’s talk about the corpse,” Yan Qiuyu tapped the whiteboard, pulling everyone’s attention back. “The victim is Xiang Yun, male, 24 years old, a Taobao model. He also shot menswear product photos for several online shops. Half a year ago, he came alone to Beijiang to make a living and rented a place in an old residential area on Ping’an Road.”

“According to forensic analysis, Xiang Yun’s time of death was between 1:00 and 1:30 this morning. After questioning his friends, we learned they attended a dinner gathering last night and only finished after midnight. Considering the distance from the KTV to Ping’an Road, we can reasonably infer that Xiang Yun was attacked on his way home after getting out of the taxi.”

As everyone knows, Beijiang’s entertainment industry is highly developed, especially subsidiaries under “Hongda Construction,” which in recent years have successively produced more than a dozen rising stars. With film, television, and music all flourishing, young people like Xiang Yun—good-looking, well-paid, well-dressed, yet living in the western district—were not uncommon in Beijiang.

Most of the money they earned was spent on “maintaining their appearance.”

“The fatal wound is at the neck,” Yan Qiuyu said, opening the projection and enlarging the image. “Based on the position and direction of the wound, the killer was likely similar in height to the victim, right-handed, and attacked from behind. He has some medical knowledge, and his movements were precise, steady, and ruthless—he perfectly pierced the victim’s throat.”

Song Xiaotong’s eyes lit up. “So there wasn’t much high-pressure blood spatter at the scene.”

“Correct,” Yan Qiuyu nodded. “After that, the killer left the body in the bushes, waited until the victim bled out completely and died, then removed the knife. He slightly dragged the body to adjust its position so it wouldn’t be easily found, and then left fifteen chaotic post-mortem wounds on Xiang Yun’s face—rough cuts with signs of dragging. The weapon may have had serrated edges. The forensic team is still comparing possibilities.”

Wang Lai clicked his tongue. “Fifteen cuts.” What kind of deep hatred would that take.

Zhou Shan asked, “What about surveillance?”

Yan Qiuyu shrugged helplessly. “Long out of repair. It’s been broken for years.” The area around Ping’an Road was full of old buildings. Let alone modern facilities—even having property management that hadn’t run away was already lucky.

Adding insult to injury.

Noticing that his good partner had been silent the entire time, staring fixedly into the air, Wang Lai waved a hand in front of him. “What are you thinking about?”

“…Plants, knives, disfigurement, and a good-looking victim,” after a slight pause, He Linfeng asked, “Don’t you think this is somewhat similar to Chen Yang’s case?”

If everything had gone smoothly according to that man’s original plan that night, Jian Qing’s death would likely have been in a very similar state.

At the same time.

“The killer in the Ping’an Road black cat case might be an accomplice of Chen Yang,” accompanied by an unmistakable domineering CEO-like aura that remained calm even when mountains collapsed, the black-haired young man said methodically, “I am very afraid.”

“I need protection.”