Chapter 82

"Just toss out a random clue for fun…"

Outside the doors and windows, Tan Wenbin and Yin Meng exchanged a look of disbelief.

How could something like this be "random"? How could it be "fun"? Did they not understand that doing so could ruin a peer’s entire life?

Tan Wenbin recalled the scene he'd seen in Wu Xinhui’s memories, a confrontation between the two:

"Why did you frame me? Why? Why?!"

"If you were dead, it’d be fine. If you were dead, no one would know."

So Wu Xinhui had charged after Zhao Junfeng with a knife not because he was the killer, but to cover up this "joke"?

What kind of baffling logic and motivation was that?

Tan Wenbin whispered, "I don't get it…"

Inside the house, Mao Chang’an let out a maniacal laugh.

"Hahahahahahahaha!"

Clearly, the person who least understood and could least accept all of this was him.

He had gone to such lengths, scheming step by step, pretending not to know while secretly watching every development. He even sacrificed his own son. And in the end, this was what it all came to?

"Please, let us go. We’ll give you anything you want."

"Yes, yes, just let us go. We won’t tell anyone about tonight. We swear."

Mao Chang’an’s laughter ceased. At this moment, he wished he could unleash torture on the two in front of him. Too bad Wu Xinhui had died too cleanly—it was too easy on him.

But just as Mao Chang’an raised his hand and silver needles appeared at his fingertips, he paused.

From outside the crack in the window, Li Zhuiyuan noticed this detail and his gaze sharpened slightly.

This old bastard was ruthless. Even with his plan falling apart and his rage boiling over, he was still wary of the Heavens and held himself back.

He truly loved himself.

By now, the scent of blood incense had burned out.

The bright, fresh formation drawn on the tiled floor faded instantly into peeling, aged paint.

Zhao Junfeng and Qiu Minmin, standing side by side, began to sway. Liquids seeped steadily from their bodies. With their puppets damaged, they were slipping into a state of uncontrollable decay.

Mao Chang’an waved his hand and said with deep gravity, "You are innocent. Run. Be safe."

"Thank you, thank you!"

"Thank you so much!"

Zhu Hongyu and Liu Xinya fled as if granted amnesty. But the Confusion Formation that Mao Zhushan had set up while still alive remained. The two of them spun in circles for ages and still couldn’t find their way out of the hall.

Such a simple little formation could’ve been broken with a flick of Mao Chang’an’s hand. But he didn’t. Instead, he clutched his face and began sobbing over his dead son and the horror that had unfolded. While doing so, he stepped out of the hall and dropped to his knees with a thud, once again repenting to the heavens.

It was clear he had no intention of letting those two women go—but he didn’t want to dirty his own hands.

Zhao Junfeng and Qiu Minmin stopped swaying. A heavy aura of death blanketed them. Zhao Junfeng’s was thicker; Qiu Minmin’s was lighter, probably because she’d recently suffered a serious injury.

The two Dead Sinkers instinctively turned to the women still running inside the hall and began to move toward them step by step.

Zhu Hongyu and Liu Xinya screamed and backed away, nearly pressing up against the door—just inches from where Li Zhuiyuan and the others were hidden and peeking in.

Tan Wenbin and Yin Meng showed subtle changes in expression. They could save the two women just by showing themselves.

But clearly, neither was willing to do so. Not only did they avoid seeking Li Zhuiyuan’s opinion, one turned his face away while the other hung her head low.

Tan Wenbin asked, "Did you see the two Dead Sinkers trying to kill them?"

Yin Meng got the cue and answered immediately, "Didn’t see it."

Tan Wenbin hesitated, then decided that sounded too blunt. He rephrased:

"Did you just see Zhu Hongyu and Liu Xinya run out of the hall?"

"I did. They just made it out!"

"Good. They escaped. They’re safe now."

"Yeah. I’m really happy for them."

When doing something that violates common decency, people often make excuses for themselves—to relieve their conscience, to avoid inner conflict.

Many people had died in the hall tonight. They’d watched the whole thing from outside. If they’d acted earlier, perhaps most wouldn’t have died. But why should they have intervened?

Ran Qiuping and Sun Hongxia had attacked them. Runsheng was still in the hospital. Mao Zhushan deserved what he got—his own father and master hadn’t cared. As for Wu Xinhui and the others… anyone could play blind if they wanted to.

With that line of reasoning, both Tan Wenbin and Yin Meng relaxed visibly. Their minds were at ease.

Even the two fresh screams from inside didn’t make them feel guilty.

Li Zhuiyuan, who had been silently watching the entire mental performance from behind them, had no such rationalizations. For him, aside from explaining things to the Dao of Heaven, there was no need to justify anything.

Everyone inside was dead. Mao Chang’an got up, wiped away tears, and walked back in.

His face first showed shock, then sorrow, and finally rage.

"You two abominations! How dare you slaughter the living right under my nose!"

Tan Wenbin couldn’t help but comment, "Now that’s what I call an actor."

Yin Meng chimed in, "Total professional."

Li Zhuiyuan wrapped up the moment like a teacher closing a lecture.

"Make sure to take notes and hand them to Runsheng. Don’t let him fall behind in class."

Every adventure they shared was a valuable learning experience.

Yin Meng lagged behind Tan Wenbin in terms of group synergy and often spouted useless remarks—mostly because things had been smooth since she joined the team in Nantong. She hadn’t gone through those early trials that shaped them. Back then, Tan Wenbin used to talk even more nonsense than she did.

Mao Chang’an began clearing the scene. His plan had failed. His son and disciple were dead. But life had to go on.

Zhao Junfeng and Qiu Minmin advanced on him, likely driven by instinct to attack.

He bent down and picked up the broken puppets from the floor. Facing the oncoming Dead Sinkers, he remained utterly calm as his fingers moved swiftly—rewrapping threads, reinserting pins.

Li Zhuiyuan turned and walked out of hiding. He strolled up to the doorway, looked at Mao Chang’an, and said:

"Good evening."

Tan Wenbin and Yin Meng didn’t understand why Li Zhuiyuan chose this moment to appear. Wouldn’t it be better to let Mao Chang’an deal with the Dead Sinkers first, then the three of them could take care of him?

That had been their original plan anyway—except now, only the old man remained.

But even though they didn’t get it, they quickly moved to Li Zhuiyuan’s side, holding their Yellow River Spades, standing protectively to his left and right.

Mao Chang’an, now holding two newly repaired puppets, flicked his fingers. The Dead Sinkers froze in place. Another flick, and they turned to face the door.

Then he held out three fingers with his left hand, spun his right arm in a flourish, crossed them, and ended with a stacked gesture.

"I am Mao Chang’an. My ancestors held sway over the Qinhuai wharves in Jinling. May I ask which wharf you hail from, young man?"

When people in the trade meet, the first thing they feel is caution. Testing the waters helps avoid unnecessary conflict.

After all, everyone has tricks up their sleeve. If you rush to tear each other apart, no one wins.

Now, if someone answered “the Hao River wharf,” they were clearly just joking around.

Li Zhuiyuan kept his hands in his pockets, too lazy to return the gesture.

"I’m not from a wharf. I serve the Dragon King of the Liu clan."

Mao Chang’an’s face froze. Panic flickered in his eyes. He stumbled back several steps and quickly explained:

"I failed as a father. My son went astray and caused this tragedy. I’ve already dealt with him myself and cleaned up the mess. Please, see that I’ve done the right thing!"

He was terrified.

But this fear was different from when Yin Fuhai had named his background back on Fengdu Ghost Street.

Yin Fuhai was from a remote county—his knowledge of the river world came from rumor. But Mao Chang’an? He had enough pull to hang a cultural heritage plaque on his doorstep.

He wasn’t afraid of the Liu clan’s former reputation—he feared their present strength.

Which reminded Li Zhuiyuan of that storyteller, Yu Shu, who once came to Nantong.

So even during that after-dinner stroll at the Ding family banquet, Grandma Liu hadn’t told him everything. She hadn’t lied—but she hadn’t told the whole truth either.

Li Zhuiyuan pointed to one of the puppets in Mao Chang’an’s hand.

"Mind tossing one over for me to see?"

Mao Chang’an hesitated.

Wait, is he actually going to throw it?

Li Zhuiyuan added, "Give it up. The place is crawling with our people."

Even though they all knew the truth—unless Runsheng came charging out of the hospital with an IV pole, there was absolutely no backup out there.

Still, Tan Wenbin and Yin Meng stood tall and calm. Tan Wenbin even wore a smug little smirk.

"Be my guest."

Mao Chang’an tossed the female puppet toward them.

It was covered in needles. Li Zhuiyuan didn’t catch it.

Yin Meng made a fancy move to absorb the momentum, caught it cleanly, and passed it to Li Zhuiyuan.

Mao Chang’an said, "I can explain everything that happened here tonight. It was all—"

Li Zhuiyuan inspected the puppet and nodded.

"Don’t worry. We won’t frame the innocent. And we won’t let a guilty one go."

The old man clearly thought he was dealing with someone like Yu Shu.

Which made it clear—after Uncle Qin left the old man’s house, he hadn’t just retired somewhere quiet. He had business to handle.

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