Chapter 95.2

“That’s not a person,” Tan Yunlong said, rising to his feet. He’d helped a colleague dig up that stack of case files, so he had some idea what it contained. “What the photo shows is a clay statue propped up on the water vat.”

“I thought clay statues melt in water. So why would they deliberately place it on top of a vat?”

“And yet you’re asking me that?”

“Who else would I ask? It’s not like there’s anyone else in this archive room,” Tan Wenbin said, glancing exaggeratedly around the room and calling out in a low voice, “Hello? Anyone here?”

A sheet of paper on the desk suddenly lifted in the air.

Tan Wenbin’s eyes widened instantly. The door was closed, and the only window was a small skylight in the corner that couldn’t even be opened. Where could a breeze come from?

Ever since he’d gotten into this line of work, he’d become particularly sensitive to such things—wind from nowhere.

Little Yuan had once said that certain malevolent spirits like to manifest in everyday phenomena to announce their presence.

Could there actually be something lurking here?

Hell no. What kind of malevolent spirit would dare take up residence in a police station?

Tan Wenbin tried to convince himself he was just being paranoid.

Tan Yunlong noticed his son’s sudden stiffness. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Didn’t sleep well last night. Spaced out a bit. What were you saying?”

Tan Yunlong pointed again at the photo. “Shouldn’t you be more of an expert on this sort of thing than me?”

“Dad, that’s like asking you to do forensic analysis or autopsies. You’re a cop too, but you don’t do that stuff, right?”

“What about Little Yuan?”

“My Little Yuan is a whole different story.”

“Then why can’t you be more like him—”

“Dad, stop. If we keep going down this road, it’s going to damage our precious father-son bond.”

To change the subject, Tan Wenbin looked again at the photo. “So, this clay statue—is it White Impermanence?”

“No. According to the suspect we arrested, it’s not White Impermanence. They called it ‘Granny Yu.’”

“It’s a woman?”

“Yeah. The suspect admitted they were doing unspeakable things and were terrified of being sent to the frying pans of Hell after death. So they began offering sacrifices to this ‘Granny Yu,’ hoping she’d disguise herself as a ghost messenger and lead them safely to the afterlife, sparing them from punishment.”

“Not many people worship this one. The belief never spread. Only a handful of criminals know about it. We’re currently tracking leads based on info from the sculptor who made these statues.”

“What kind of crime are we talking about?”

“Child trafficking.”

…

In the study, it wasn’t the girl painting today—it was the boy.

When it came to art, Li Zhuiyuan had learned from Ah Li.

But like with chess, he had picked it up quickly thanks to his sharp mind. Once he reached a decent level, he stopped bothering to go deeper.

No one, no matter how smart, can master everything. Once you hit a certain level of understanding, going further requires far more time and energy. In short—it just wasn’t worth it.

For the boy, chess and painting were merely activities to share with the girl. He never saw them as competitions.

Ah Li stood silently at his side, switching brushes and mixing paint without needing a single word of instruction. Their rhythm flowed with unspoken understanding.

Finally, Li Zhuiyuan finished his painting.

It depicted a figure in white robes, wearing a tall hat, perched on stilts, holding a lantern in each hand.

He didn’t write any characters on the lanterns. He knew those weren’t part of the original appearance—they were deliberately added by the thing to taunt and provoke Ah Li.

The real lanterns would’ve had different words.

Because he worked so fast, the painting needed time to dry before he could roll it up and take it with him.

He didn’t know who this figure was. And he couldn’t go ask Granny Liu—that would entangle her in karma.

Still, Li Zhuiyuan had a hunch.

Before, when he didn’t know your face, it didn’t matter. But now that I’ve drawn you…

The river will bring you to me.

Just last night, he’d been wondering how to go from reactive to proactive. And now, the answer had walked right up to his door.

Li Zhuiyuan relished the mystery—and even more so, the act of unraveling it.

To him, walking the river was like sitting for an exam.

Most test-takers walk into the room with nervous hearts. Only when the paper, still smelling faintly of ink, lands before them do they begin to respond with whatever they’ve prepared in advance.

Li Zhuiyuan didn’t care for that mindset. He liked getting inside the examiner’s head, treating each exam as a conversation—guessing their thoughts and, while he was at it, passing judgment on their choices.

Do I need to wait for you to write the question?

Here. Why don’t you take a look at the one I’ve written myself? See if it satisfies you.

He stepped back from the easel and sat down on the bed.

Ah Li wrapped the used brushes in a silk cloth with delicate care.

Most of her old collection boxes were still in the basement of that other house, just a short walk away, so she hadn’t bothered to move them here.

Still, this “reset” of her collection had sparked a fresh wave of joy and enthusiasm in her.

Liu Yumei had even made her two brand-new collection boxes in the third-floor room—the same one where the initiation and river-walking ceremony took place yesterday. They were placed beneath the altar table.

Officially, it was to make it easier for Ah Li to add items when she came to pay respects to the ancestors.

But the real reason? They all knew Ah Li liked to admire her collection before bed. So the boxes offered them a convenient way to sneak a look at “Ah Li.”

Once the brushes were neatly stored away, Ah Li turned her gaze to the painting.

Clearly, she wanted to collect that far more than a brush.

“Ah Li, I need to take this one. I’m going to use it,” Li Zhuiyuan said, catching her thoughts.

She nodded, though her fingertip still lingered on the edge of the scroll.

“I’ll bring it back when I’m done. I’ll give it to you,” he added, glancing at the desk. “You know how those painters like to stamp their favorite works? You could carve one for yourself.”

He’d seen her handiwork before. She could carve intricate formation patterns with ease—making a personal stamp would be child’s play.

And besides, it gave her something to do.

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