Chapter 109: Lethal Hormones

“Fanzi, let’s go get your fingerprints taken.” A friend from the same village ran into the hardware store, called out, and waited for him to come out.

Chen Fan rubbed his eyes and came out from the back, frowning: “What fingerprints? Are you crazy? I haven’t broken any law—why should I give my fingerprints?”

“Didn’t you see the street notice? Shop owners have to give fingerprints. If you don’t… they didn’t say, but I’m afraid they’ll shut your store down.” The friend grinned. “Come on, your personal info’s already been sold to dozens of companies—every day you get scam calls trying to lure you to open a shop in Myanmar. What’s the big deal with giving fingerprints?”

“They all tell me to go to Sihong to do seafood business—earn a year’s income in a month.” Chen Fan spoke lazily, his voice dragging, his body too heavy to move even a step.

“Seafood business? You’d be better off selling abalone. Are you coming or not? Let’s go—it’s mandatory anyway, you can’t escape.”

Something struck him, and Chen Fan asked again: “I really have to go?”

“They’ve already collected all the civil servants and public institution staff. You’re on their list as a shop owner—you’ve got no choice.” The friend, unwilling to queue alone, urged him: “If you don’t go now, they’ll come knocking at your door.”

“I won’t go. Can they really shut down my store?”

“They could shut down your store for missing just one fire extinguisher—don’t you remember?” The friend was referring to an earlier incident where Chen Fan had been fined dozens of times over crayfish.

Chen Fan grunted, thought for a moment, then said: “You go ahead. I’ll sleep a bit longer, then go later. You go first—I’m dead tired.”

“What were you doing last night?”

“Just wanted to win one game before sleeping. Almost pulled an all-nighter.” Chen Fan turned and walked back into the back room.

His hardware store was inherited from his father, an old-style front-shop-back-factory setup. With some skill, he could install and repair things, made house calls, and extended credit to regular customers—his business in the village was decent.

Chen Fan had more than one source of income. His most profitable craft was making air dogs—air guns.

Typically, they were high-pressure air guns capable of shooting birds and rabbits.

But the real selling point wasn’t hunting—it was replicating the Waixing of M16s and AK-47s. Still, they had to be functional, or people would just buy real LEGO instead of paying LEGO prices for Wensheng knockoffs.

Yet his income from this craft had been shrinking. Before, he’d disassemble the air guns into parts, call a courier, toss in a few spare mechanical pieces, and ship them off.

Now, couriers inspect packages far more strictly. Fellow craftsmen across the country have been busted, and buyers have grown scarce. Fake-looking guns keep turning into firearms cases—it’s frustrating.

Chen Fan didn’t care much, but the truth was he was earning less. He had no choice but to join his uncle’s hunting group, a return to the family trade. But after a few trips, seeing too much, he’d grown afraid.

People who’d seen too much blood were truly wild.

Back in the workshop behind the house, Chen Fan stared blankly at the lathe.

He feared his fingerprints might be left at some crime scene—maybe not now, but someday? So if he could avoid giving fingerprints, he would.

If all else failed, destroying them was an option.

He’d once seen a big boss who used sulfuric acid to erase his fingerprints—not just excruciating pain, but risked ruining his hands. Still, the effect was real: after that, he could do anything without fear.

Grinding his fingers on the lathe was another option. At least right now, his fingerprints would be worn off—no way they could be recorded.

But it was dangerous.

Worst case: he didn’t hide anything, yet still got suspected.

Chen Fan stared at the lathe, lost in thought.

After a moment, he made up his mind: Thirty-six strategies, flee as the best. He’d run away first—better than ending up in police hands if something went wrong. That’d be walking straight into a trap.

Later, if anyone asked, he could just say he didn’t want to give fingerprints—no big deal.

Grinding fingerprints? No need to rush now—it’d slow his escape, and it’d be excruciating. If he hurt his hands, it’d be counterproductive. Chen Fan counted on his hands to earn his living and enjoy women in retirement.

Someone knocked a few times on the front door, then the doorbell rang as a voice called out, “Boss? Are you there?”

Someone pounded on the front door, and the doorbell rang as a voice called: “Boss? Boss there?”

Chen Fan hesitated, then pulled out his phone to check the surveillance feed—he saw several uniformed officers pacing inside the shop.

No point pretending. Chen Fan feigned death, acting as if he wasn’t there.

At the same time, voices from the front shop came through his phone’s monitor:

“What if he’s not here?”

“Call him. Dial the number on the door.”

Chen Fan listened to the uniforms, smirking inwardly. He pulled out his other phone and switched it to airplane mode.

“Can’t get through.”

“Should we move to the next shop?”

Chen Fan couldn’t help but smile. That’s right.

Before the thought settled, the tallest of the officers said: “I’ll scan the boss’s fingerprints.”

Chen Fan froze. Then he heard the officer ask: “Where from?”

“The cash register—probably the boss’s prints.” The tall officer stepped forward and began working.

Chen Fan looked down at his hands, then at the lathe—and suddenly felt relieved. Thank God he hadn’t lost ten good fingers.

Jiang Yuan glanced briefly at the cash register and recognized one of the fingerprints.

Jiang Yuan barely scanned the cash register and recognized one of the fingerprints.

The entire operation—deploying hundreds to collect fingerprints from over twenty thousand villagers—was all for this single print.

It was, without doubt, the fingerprint Jiang Yuan knew best.

“Alright. Next shop.” Jiang Yuan turned and walked out without a word.

There were four police officers present—enough to apprehend one man. But with unknown threats and unfamiliar colleagues, Jiang Yuan said nothing.

Outside, he took two steps forward, then pulled out his phone and told the officers: “You carry on. I’ll make a call.”

He dialed Liu Jinghui directly.

Fifteen minutes later, both ends of Wensheng’s busiest shopping street were blocked off.

Liu Jinghui, clad in a bulletproof vest and helmet, led a squad of armed police straight toward the hardware store’s backyard.

He dared not lead from the front. But letting such a critical suspect be handled behind him made him uneasy.

Jiang Yuan, by contrast, stood quietly among the crowd, neck craned upward, blending in with the civilians. The suspect very likely had a gun—a powerful, military-grade firearm. Jiang Yuan, who hadn’t even attended police academy, had no Zige to secure the scene.

“Police!”

“Don’t move!”

“Hands on your head!”

“Kneel!”

The sudden surge of voices unleashed fresh, lethal hormones—Jiang Yuan’s emotions surged instantly.