Chapter 377: A Complete Set of Death for the Whole Family — Why Did He Come to My House?

Han Zheng's scalp tingled with numbness, his fingers scratching at the wet, slippery ground, yet he simply couldn't climb up in time.

He watched helplessly as the thermos rolled away rapidly, making intimate contact with the wires in a one-way trip.

Han Zheng saw the water droplets on the cup vaporize in the electric current, forming a ring of eerie mist. The next second, a dazzling blue light, seemingly more blinding than the sun, flared up — the gates of Hell opening right before his eyes.

In the intense light, the final image was branded onto his retinas:

A figure draped in a black raincoat crouched before him, the raincoat's hem hanging down, revealing the gleaming tips of leather shoes.

Beneath the raincoat was a pair of cold, gold-rimmed glasses; the eyes behind the lenses were a corpse-like, ghastly white.

"Save me—"

Han Zheng's vocal cords were already paralyzed; these words were more like a dying testament squeezed from the depths of his soul.

At death's door, Han Zheng heard this goddamn world's final response to him. The voice was so gentle it made one's hair stand on end, as if a master of ceremonies were narrating the epilogue of a closing play:

"The mortal world is not worth it, don't be afraid...

Death is the final destination bestowed by fate upon everyone, and you — you were merely lucky enough to be chosen by fate today, delivered to the finish line ahead of schedule!"

In the rain curtain, the Red Dragonfly leaned lazily against a lamppost, her crimson skirt hem lifted by the wind.

She coldly watched the distant master of ceremonies' "performance," her tongue tip unconsciously licking her mouth corner, as if savoring something.

Han Zheng was nothing but an ordinary temp worker, posing no threat; the weight of a single thermos was enough to crush him to death — no need for the whole of Party 103 to move out.

The master of ceremonies alone was enough to complete this "accident" performance.

"Only Zhou Hu is left now,"

The Red Dragonfly's tongue trembled slightly,

"Since he's as good as dead, do we still need to fulfill the order he gave?"

The bald man let the rain wash over his forehead; his fingers unconsciously stroked the pocket watch in his suit pocket, the hands on the dial rotating in reverse, emitting a faint "click" sound.

"Of course we do,"

The bald Captain grinned, revealing a mouthful of black teeth,

"Complete his order first, collect his payment, then dispose of him — that conforms to our Party 103's principle of receiving goods: see it through to the end!"

The Red Dragonfly habitually licked her lips: "Shall we go over now?"

The bald Captain snapped the pocket watch shut: "No rush, going tomorrow won't be too late."

The Beast didn't like to talk much, crouching in a corner to the side, his mouth simulating faint sounds; the cast-iron manhole cover by the roadside began to vibrate, fine water droplets rippling on its surface.

"Squeak—"

The first rat squeezed out of the crack, its eyeballs glinting with a sickly red light, followed closely by a second, a third — the rat swarm surged up from underground like asphalt, yet turned docile the instant they touched the Beast's ankles.

The distant master of ceremonies finished his "prayer" for the dead and walked back.

Before long, the four figures melted into the rain curtain, as if they had never been there.

However, in the distant shadows, rustling sounds still rose.

The rat swarm did not disperse; they silently followed behind those four figures, lurking in the rain and mud, wriggling, moving, trailing distantly...

For several days in a row, the school remained calm and peaceful, tranquil to the point of being eerie.

Of course, it wasn't that nothing happened at all — a few students went missing inexplicably.

But under the school's practiced "management," these incidents were like stones dropped into a deep pool, not even a single ripple rising.

The Martial Arts Joint Examination proceeded in full swing as ever; every day was like a grand festival, firecrackers deafening, red paper scraps fluttering like blood rain, gongs and drums shaking the heavens, stirring people's blood to a boil.

For Li Shang, these days of calm were undoubtedly a long-lost breathing space.

The worst-case scenarios he had anticipated, those nightmare scenes that kept him awake at night — not a single one had occurred.

This allowed his nerves, taut for so long, to finally relax slightly; that heart hanging in his throat finally dropped back into his chest. Though he still couldn't let go completely, he was no longer in a state of trembling apprehension.

He couldn't help but feel moved, his heart even carrying a trace of genuine admiration:

"Worthy of a century-old prestigious school indeed — the management level is just that high. As long as I endure through tomorrow, the Martial Arts Joint Examination can conclude perfectly, and I can withdraw."

For this reason, Li Shang hadn't gone home for several days already.

He spun like a top non-stop, even solving a "small problem" for Secretary Hou midway.

Never mind the Patrol Bureau Director's position; Li Shang felt the higher-ups ought to commend him with a "Model Constable" citation.

At this moment, Li Shang sat in the car, eyes closed, listening to the sound of raindrops drumming on the roof.

Patter, patter — as if the "sky" were playing a lullaby for him.

His mood was rarely this calm, as if all worries had been washed clean by the rain.

Suddenly, a piercing phone ring shattered this tranquility.

Li Shang opened his eyes; the weariness on his face instantly replaced by an indescribable annoyance.

He glanced at the phone screen — the caller ID showed the station. His finger hovered over the answer key for half a second, his Adam's apple rolling unconsciously.

A call in the dead of night — nine times out of ten, it wouldn't be anything good.

"Hello?"

His voice was a bit hoarse.

A reporting voice came from the other end:

"Captain Li, someone's dead. Identity just confirmed — it's Zhao Xing, Zone Chief of the Second Ward's Death Zone. You know, that Second Ward, the Death Zone where a riot killed quite a few people."

Li Shang's pupils contracted slightly; he wanted nothing to do with this matter:

"How'd he die? Accident, head missing, hmph — alright, I got it. Since it's confirmed an accident, close the case. Oh right, notify the prison side too."

Li Shang hung up directly, not asking another word, as if listening one more second would stain him with the stench of that rotten affair.

Li Shang let out a cold laugh:

"First Gong Lao, then Chen Yang, now a Zhao Xing — suicide, homicide, accident. What a complete set they've assembled."

Li Shang didn't need to go to the scene; with his Divine Detective's intuition, he dared guarantee the waters behind these three deaths ran deep — the kind where one careless step could drown a man.

The windshield wipers swayed rhythmically, sweeping away curtain after curtain of rain.

Li Shang watched the windshield wipers, and for no reason a young, gentle yet mad and dangerous face floated up in his mind.

Li Shang shook his head, tossed the stray thoughts behind him, and muttered to himself:

"Anyway, it has nothing to do with me. I'm not some fool like Chen Yang who doesn't know his limits. The Second Ward is a meat grinder right now, and I won't get mixed up in it."

But fate seemed determined to play a trick on him—the phone call he had just hung up rang again.

Li Shang frowned and picked up his phone; the screen displayed the two characters "Wife."

"Didn't I tell you, I've been busy these past couple of days, no time to go home..."

His voice carried weariness and irritation, until he heard his wife's voice on the phone, and his voice suddenly rose sharply.

"Guests? What guests? Did you make an appointment with me?"

Li Shang's fingers unconsciously tightened, and the phone shell emitted an overburdened "crack crack" sound:

"You ask him what his name is?"

His wife's answer came through the phone: "Feng Mu, he says his name is Feng Mu!"

Li Shang's heartbeat suddenly quickened, his fingers trembled slightly, and his throat felt as if it were blocked by the corpses of one, two, three death-family-buckets.

Suicide? Homicide? Accident?

No, I don't think I've offended Feng Mu; I even helped him. Hmm, I don't need to be afraid. Uh, but why did he go to my home?

End of Chapter