Chapter 110: Witness

Wenshang hadn't been this lively in a long time.

The last time so many residents gathered happily to watch was when the feed store at the east end of the road caught fire. Back then, flames shot into the sky, crowds rushed to help, and the scent of roasted corn drifted for miles, multiplying everyone's sense of participation.

Chen Fan's hardware store was also a well-known large shop in Wenshang, part of the town's most advanced heavy industry, holding certain core technologies. Sometimes, nearby auto repair shops would come seeking technical support.

"Didn't expect the hardware store would do that."

Around him, chaos reigned as locals chattered in their dialect.

Jiang Yuan caught a phrase now and then, turned in surprise, and asked: "What do you mean by 'do that'?"

"You're an outsider, you wouldn't understand—they're doing that." The local laughed Heiheihei.

"No, not that—it's this one," another local corrected.

"Ah, it's that one… that one…" another person chimed in.

Amid the loose exterior but tight internal cordon, no gunshots rang out.

Jiang Yuan checked his phone—the time had passed nearly twenty minutes. At this point, if the suspect hadn't fired, he likely wouldn't fire at all—or didn't have a gun.

After a while longer, Jiang Yuan's phone buzzed.

"Come in. The fish isn't big, but it's got fight." Liu Jinghui's voice brimmed with excitement.

"Got it. Coming right away." Jiang Yuan was also curious about this man's situation—how much impact he might have on the case.

Officers stationed along both sides of the shop street withdrew, allowing the public to enter and dispersing the crowd.

The shop owners rallied their spirits and shouted with all their strength:

"Brooms for sale! Basins for sale! Stainless steel shovels!"

"Beer, sunflower seeds, drinks!"

"Brooms, mops, fly swatters, cockroach poison, rat poison, dog-skin plasters!"

"Chicks for sale… cute little chicks!"

Each shop owner sought to ride the wave of their colleague's downfall and create a sales climax.

Police officers summoned from all over stood still—or were enthusiastically dragged into shops by the shop owners.

Two snipers slowly climbed down from the roof.

The older one remained calm, like a leisurely gecko.

The younger one looked dejected, glancing around as he climbed—likely regretting his failure to fully contribute and missing out on a second-class merit.

Inside the hardware store's backyard, behind the red-brick high wall, another layer of cement had been added—solid-looking indeed.

Though surrounding shops and homes had encroached toward the hardware store, squeezing into the remaining space, all were blocked by its red-brick walls.

Jiang Yuan could only see the dim but spacious workshop once he entered the backyard.

The most prominent item was a CNC machine; nearby stood older, heavily used lathes, boring machines, and other equipment…

In one corner of the workshop, piles of delivery boxes lay open, revealing various machined parts: gun barrels, stocks, air gauges, hand pumps, pressure valves, screws, washers, and more. On the better-lit side, several black-leather-covered tables clearly showed several unassembled air guns.

"So brazen?" Jiang Yuan was surprised. Wenshang's entire shop street was barely the size of a thousand corpses, yet now packed with over a hundred police—such an absurd density of force, and still manufacturing firearms? It was recklessly careless.

Chen Fan hung his head dejectedly: "I was just about to clean it up."

"How are you going to clean it? Are there any legal items in this workshop?" Liu Jinghui sneered, pointing casually: "You've got over a dozen assembled guns here, plus all these parts—what are you making so many for? Are you insane?"

Chen Fan muttered under his breath, saying nothing, wanting to defend himself but afraid of being beaten.

An hour ago, he was a happy hardware store owner; now, prison loomed ahead—his emotional shift was beyond description.

And deeper still, something even more terrifying gnawed at him.

Both lucky and panicked.

Liu Jinghui adopted a solemn tone: "As I told you before, don't think of resisting us. Resistance won't help you. You know how firearms are defined, right? Anything above two joules per square centimeter counts as a firearm. Do you know how many firearms you have here?"

Chen Fan trembled but stayed silent.

In the past, Liu Jinghui would've had Chen Fan taken away immediately. But this time, his target wasn't Chen Fan—it was the much larger murder syndicate. Right now, the priority was making Chen Fan talk.

After a brief pause, Liu Jinghui said: "If you won't speak, I'll explain. According to our firearms regulations, components that can form a complete set count as one firearm. Components that can't form a set count as thirty pieces per firearm. You run this factory—how many parts do you think you have here?"

Chen Fan shuddered, staring at Liu Jinghui in disbelief.

Liu Jinghui looked at Chen Fan with pity.

Liu Jinghui had lied. The method he described was used for smuggling firearms—not for manufacturing them.

But Chen Fan clearly had no knowledge of this.

Liu Jinghui had successfully confirmed his conclusion—and felt greatly relieved.

According to his plan, if Chen Fan had known the difference between legal definitions for manufacturing versus smuggling firearm components, Liu Jinghui would've played the strict cop and handed the interrogation over to someone else.

Now it was clear: Chen Fan was clueless. He was a youth who'd never been to prison, still full of glaring gaps in his criminal path. Why not deceive him?

Liu Jinghui immediately picked up a screw from the table: "With all these parts you've got—if I count them all as firearm components, how many guns would that be? You'll be eating prison meals till you die."

Chen Fan lifted his head with difficulty, his face turning deathly pale.

Jiang Yuan watched him, feeling only frustration. He had the ability to independently manufacture mechanical products, the capacity to earn money—yet he used it to make guns. He'd already begun manufacturing firearms and still hadn't bothered to read the relevant criminal code provisions—though if he had, he might've stopped.

Liu Jinghui continued: "We didn't come here just to arrest you. Cooperate fully—name a few suppliers and buyers. For parts you can prove are general-use, I'll count them as general-use."

Chen Fan seized the lifeline: "Yes! These parts were for other products—not for making guns!"

"You don't get to decide," Liu Jinghui said coldly.

Under Liu Jinghui's prolonged gaze—lasting dozens of seconds—Chen Fan lowered his head again.

Liu Jinghui pressed on, immediately taking Chen Fan to the Wenshang police station and placing him on the "tiger bench," eager to begin interrogation.

The tiger bench resembled a large infant feeding chair—with wrists, ankles, and back strapped down. The infant chair prevented falls; this one prevented suspects from acting irrationally in emotional outbursts.

Liu's interrogation techniques weren't sophisticated by provincial standards, but against a criminal like Chen Fan—who'd never even been to detention—his methods were brilliantly effective.

Within one or two hours, Chen Fan spilled everything—his suppliers and buyers, all laid bare.

At this point, Chen Fan still believed he'd been arrested for manufacturing firearms.

Liu Jinghui took a sip of water, steadied his emotions, and delivered today's deadliest blow: "You made so many air guns—didn't you ever think of using them for hunting?"

"N-no… just occasionally, rabbits and such." Chen Fan dared not fully deny it, speaking cautiously.

"We didn't just find rabbits in your home," Liu Jinghui said, having prepared this blow for a long time—he wouldn't let Chen Fan evade it.

"No, there weren't any… definitely not…"

"It's a minor thing. Lying just makes it pointless," Liu Jinghui suddenly frowned, feigning offense.

Chen Fan scrambled to recall—had he left any uneaten pheasant in his fridge?

He often hunted in the mountains—not just with his uncle, but alone too, testing his guns. On the mountain, he shot whatever he saw—he wouldn't pass up a pheasant.

The more he hunted, the more leftover game he accumulated.

Then he remembered his medicinal wine—filled with eagles and snakes. Many households used venomous snakes for wine; in Wenshang, eagles weren't uncommon either. Those caught were merely fined—but now, Chen Fan felt he had to admit even more.

Under Liu Jinghui's gaze, Chen Fan put on a bold face: "Fine, I admit it—I hunted eagles too, soaked them in wine."

"And?"

"Also birds—just a few sparrows."

"Think harder…"

After extracting multiple game items, Liu Jinghui slowly drew his second heavy blade: "Where did you hunt these things?"

Confused, Chen Fan forced an answer: "Around our township."

"Does Wenshang have these animals?" Liu Jinghui stared into his eyes.

Chen Fan froze, murmuring: "Yes."

"Have you ever been to Wulong Mountain?"

"No!" Chen Fan shook his head immediately—his motion faster, more agitated than before.

He began to explain: "Wulong Mountain is a nature reserve—I'd never go there. I just wander around my home."

Liu Jinghui's expression turned sharp: "You've never been to Wulong Mountain? We found a mineral water bottle with your fingerprints there."

Only then did Chen Fan remember—he'd been caught because of his fingerprints. His face turned instantly white. He suddenly wanted to bolt—but struggled and realized his hands and feet were bound.

Cold sweat prickled his back, his face pale. He stared at the four large characters on the interrogation room wall: Confess and be lenient; resist and be harsh.

He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth: "I—I…"

"Think before you speak," Liu Jinghui said, having read his expressions and now cutting him off before he could lie.

Chen Fan fell silent.

Liu Jinghui let the room's tension thicken. After a long while, he asked softly: "How many did you kill?"

Chen Fan's heart jolted—utterly panicked.

"If you won't say, I'll count them all."

"No, that's not right!" Chen Fan suddenly understood, swallowed hard, and whispered carefully: "I'm just a runner. Really. I should be a witness—a tainted witness."

There was no such concept as a "tainted witness" in China. Liu Jinghui didn't explain—only stared at Chen Fan: "Then what did you see?"

"I… I saw them kill people." Chen Fan's voice was low, but his emotion was intense.

Witnessing murder had piled immense psychological pressure on Chen Fan.

Jiang Yuan stood outside the interrogation room, watching the surveillance footage, appearing calm as he listened, occasionally spinning a pen in his hand—swiftly, smoothly. His fingers were long; he spun the pen like a fan blade. When he heard the suspect speak those words, Jiang Yuan's pen dropped—plop—onto the floor. He bent to pick it up, stood straight, and in that moment, his heart settled back into place.