Chapter 121: Isn

"Dog Brother—"

"Dog Brother~"

Jiang Yuan was woken by the rooster's morning crow, stunned for several seconds, suddenly feeling as if time had reversed and he'd returned to the foot of Wu Long Mountain.

Back then, he was still a pure-hearted teenager, believing that if he went up the mountain and used his skillful Level 4 crime scene investigation technique, he could find trace evidence, and if lucky, even pry out fingerprints—perhaps smoothly solving the case.

In just the few days he'd eaten thirty or forty roosters, the case files already listed over twenty murders.

Equivalent to wiping out two and a half hiking teams.

He'd even risked his own life once!

Honestly, since graduating from the forensic medicine department of the Medical University, Jiang Yuan's top three feared occupational deaths were: first, infection from a corpse; second, being slashed by a murderer returning to the crime scene; third, developing cancer from inhaling too much formaldehyde.

Gunfire as a mode of death? Jiang Yuan had never even considered it.

It was all thanks to his teammates' strength—thrilling, nerve-wracking, and still a little terrifying to recall.

His heart still trembled.

Jiang Yuan pulled out his phone and sent WeChat greetings to Mu Zhiyang, thanking his teammates for their sacrifice and praying for safety.

When he got up and stepped out of the bedroom, he happened to see his father stumbling out as well, still half-asleep.

"Dad." Jiang Yuan called out.

"Mm." Jiang Fuzhen glanced at his son, then out the window, just as the rooster crowed again.

Jiang Fuzhen walked to the window, looked again, then looked at Jiang Yuan and asked: "Want roast rooster?"

Jiang Yuan hesitated, then said: "For breakfast? There's no time."

"Stir-fried chicken leg is still tasty," Jiang Fuzhen said, pulling out his phone and dialing: "Old Liu, was it you making the roosters crow? I know they're for ancestral offerings, but you've gone too far—kill one big one, I'll come over later to take two legs for breakfast."

After the voice on the other end agreed, Jiang Fuzhen washed his face twice in the bathroom and ordered Jiang Yuan: "Go heat up the wok. I'll go get the chicken and come right back."

"Okay." Jiang Yuan replied, turned into the kitchen, and as he came out, he clearly heard the rooster's crowing had changed noticeably.

For breakfast, Jiang Yuan received stir-fried green chili chicken leg meat, served with steamed buns and red chili paste.

With no woman to manage the household, the two men each brewed a cup of tea, ate with the buns, and enjoyed it thoroughly.

The neighborhood was utterly quiet; not another rooster crow was heard.

Around seven-thirty, groups began shouting as they set off.

In ancestral worship, the people of Jiang Village were professionals.

Especially over the past decade, as demolition progressed, households had little else to do—and the importance of ancestral worship had been continuously elevated.

From once a year, to twice a year, to whenever the chance arose. The heads of each branch had steadily strengthened their division of labor and cooperation in ancestral rites.

What each household did, what tasks they handled, were assigned and contested clearly every few years.

This year, the only change was that Uncle Seventeen and Aunt Seventeen were gone, requiring only minor adjustments.

9: 0 a. .

Old Jiang Village, Jiang Clan Ancestral Hall.

The ancestral worship ceremony officially began.

First, elderly men and women dressed in opera costumes danced with strange steps.

Then, several elders stood in the front row and offered sacrifices to the ancestors.

One large rooster, one sheep, one fat pig.

Immediately after, two teams of young couples, dressed in bright red wedding gowns and veiled with red veils, arrived before the ancestral hall.

These were young people taking the opportunity of ancestral worship to get married.

Most of them had already obtained their marriage certificates and even held weddings—but ancestral worship brought good omens, and villagers were happy to celebrate together.

When this was done, it was already 10: 0 a. . Grandpa San looked at the time and shouted: "The Top Scholar pays homage to the ancestors!"—and someone pushed Jiang Yuan forward.

Along with him went the plaque honoring the Second-Class Merit recipient.

Then Grandpa San instructed Jiang Yuan to wear the Second-Class Merit medal, light three incense sticks, and report the good news to the ancestral spirits.

Jiang Yuan obediently complied.

Amidst the swirling smoke, Jiang Yuan's emotions were unusually calm.

Suddenly, he felt a strong urge to bow sincerely.

This journey, this Second-Class Merit medal, carried the scent of death. Like those dead hikers, none of them truly wanted to die.

A simple, ordinary outing—merely a change of location—had turned into a final journey.

Death often comes closer and more suddenly than anyone imagines.

The final ritual involved someone nailing the small, roughly thirty-centimeter-long plaque reading "Second-Class Merit Recipient" onto the ceiling of the hall's entrance.

Looking up, the hundred-square-meter ceiling was already covered with all kinds of plaques, some even obscuring older, smaller ones.

The most prominent plaque, without doubt, was the three-meter-thirty-by-two-meter-two "Jinshi Degree" plaque, its dark red background centered directly on the main beam.

Grandpa San stamped his foot, looked up, and said: "When our Jiang family produces more talent, we'll expand this entrance hall, hang more plaques, and give our descendants something to be proud of."

The young people around him responded enthusiastically, their spirits high.

But everyone knew that once they returned home, what they'd do most was still provide consumption power for the motherland.

…

Afternoon.

Jiang Yuan took the keys to a Raptor from the key cabinet, drove it out from the underground garage beneath his building, went straight to the community canteen, loaded two boxes of boiled red eggs into the truck bed, thought better of it and added some leftover incense sticks from the ancestral rites, then took a few packs of Zhonghua cigarettes and headed to his workplace.

He had leave, but staying home was noisy—better to come directly.

He drove to the parking lot with ease; since he arrived late, his spot was farther away, so he called Wang Zhong: "Brother Zhong, I brought some eggs—want to come help carry them?"

"Oh! Jiang Yuan, you're back? Perfect, I was just thinking of going downstairs for a walk," Wang Zhong replied, the sound of a chair scraping heard through the phone.

Soon, Wang Zhong ran down, grinning like a mischievous kid.

Jiang Yuan stood on the truck bed, waving, then pulled out another box of red eggs: "Been on a business trip a long time—brought some red eggs for everyone."

"Red eggs from a forensic guy? Perfect," Wang Zhong laughed, sizing up Jiang Yuan and clucking: "Brother Jiang, next time you've got something, just call me. You wiped out all the fingerprint cold cases in Shannan Province—who'd have thought? Ten murder cases, you don't know how much saliva Chief Huang drools every day."

"My fingerprint work in the fingerprint campaign doesn't count as our team's?" Jiang Yuan raised an eyebrow.

"Of course it counts—it's just that the full score gets split among everyone," Wang Zhong said, shouldering a box of boiled red eggs and striding off.

Jiang Yuan shouldered another box, grabbed the Zhonghua, followed Wang Zhong, and set the boxes down in the lobby, telling the officer at the service desk: "These are the red eggs I brought—take any you want."

"Oh, okay," the officer was still stunned.

Wang Zhong, carrying his box, said: "This is Jiang Yuan, our bureau's forensic expert—the one who matched ten cold murder cases in the fingerprint campaign."

Jiang Yuan bowed slightly, then took the Zhonghua and went upstairs.

In the office.

Wu Jun had pushed his office chair all the way back and was dozing off.

Jiang Yuan stopped Wang Zhong from waking him, opened a pack of Zhonghua, lit one, and waved it in the air.

Wu Jun's eyes slowly opened.

"Dreaming?" Wu Jun saw Jiang Yuan holding a lit Zhonghua and felt as if double fortune had descended—yet couldn't believe it.

"Master, I'm back on duty," Jiang Yuan handed the Zhonghua to Wu Jun.

Wu Jun took two puffs, instantly wide awake, sitting up straight: "Good kid, you finally came back."

"I was detained by Director Liu from the provincial bureau," Jiang Yuan explained.

"Mm. The Wu Long Mountain wildmen case ended up being classified as a serial killer case. Good you're back so fast. I saw the report—over twenty dead?" Wu Jun kept tabs on Jiang Yuan's situation.

Jiang Yuan nodded. "Still not fully interrogated—probably more."

"Did you eat red eggs?"

"Yes. I brought plenty," Jiang Yuan couldn't help smiling.

"Eat a couple more. I'll have one too," Wu Jun said, cracking open an eggshell, then asked: "Crossed the fire?"

"Not yet."

"Mm. Then cross one later. Want to burn some yellow paper?"

Jiang Yuan was speechless: "You still have yellow paper?"

"Whenever I see more than two corpses, I burn some yellow paper," Wu Jun said, pulling a stack from the bottom drawer and retrieving a Xuande incense burner from under the radiator, locking the office door, then lighting it in the center: "Do both at once—new era, let's be efficient."

Jiang Yuan followed suit, though he doubted Wu Jun's notion of "new era."

When the office door reopened, officers who'd heard the news came over to gawk—though officially, they came to pay their respects.

For a small place like Ningtai County, even one cold murder case was a huge deal—let alone ten.

Jiang Yuan visited every office on the fourth floor, solemnly presenting red eggs.

As a member of the Criminal Science Team, Jiang Yuan was eager to maintain good relations with his colleagues.

As he carried them to the image analysis office, he saw something interesting.

Two officers were desperately helping a young woman, likely a victim, search for road surveillance footage—trying to get a clear facial image—but Ningtai County's surveillance cameras generally had low resolution; finding even one slightly clearer image was difficult.

This was a common phenomenon. Though surveillance cameras were increasing across the country, they were installed at different times. High-definition cameras cost several times more than standard ones, so they were only installed on key roads and checkpoints.

Moreover, cameras exposed outdoors endured wind, sun, rain, and constant changes in lighting and environment—blurry footage was normal.

Image investigators typically searched through countless blurry images to find just one clear one—often enough to crack the case.

But for Jiang Yuan, who had just upgraded his image enhancement to Level 5—wasn't this just perfect?

"Brother Shen!"

"Mm!"

Shen Changqing walked down the road; when he met acquaintances, they nodded or greeted each other.

But no matter who—

Everyone's face bore no extra expression, as if indifferent to everything.

To this.

Shen Changqing was already accustomed to it.

Because this was the Demon Suppression Bureau, an institution maintaining the stability of the Great Qin, whose primary duty was to slay demons, monsters, and malevolent spirits, though it also had some side occupations.

One could say.

In the Demon Suppression Bureau, every person's hands were stained with much blood.

When one grows accustomed to life and death, they grow indifferent to many things.

When he first arrived in this world, Shen Changqing had been unsettled, but over time he grew used to it.

The Demon Suppression Bureau was vast.

Those who remained in the Demon Suppression Bureau were all powerful experts, or those with the potential to become such.

Shen Changqing belonged to the latter.

Within the Demon Suppression Bureau, there were two official roles: Demon Warden and Demon Exterminator.

Anyone entering the Demon Suppression Bureau began as the lowest rank of Demon Exterminator,

then advanced step by step, eventually having the chance to become a Demon Warden.

Shen Changqing's predecessor had been a probationary Demon Exterminator in the bureau—the lowest rank among Demon Exterminators.

He possessed the predecessor's memories.

He was very familiar with the environment of the Demon Suppression Bureau.

Without spending much time, Shen Changqing stopped before a pavilion.

Unlike other areas of the Demon Suppression Bureau, which brimmed with lethality, this pavilion stood out like a crane among chickens, radiating a quietness unlike the blood-soaked surroundings.

At this moment, the pavilion's doors stood open, with occasional people entering and exiting.

Shen Changqing hesitated only briefly, then stepped inside.

Entering the pavilion.

The surroundings changed abruptly.

A scent of ink mingled with faint traces of blood struck his face, causing him to instinctively frown—but he quickly relaxed.

The scent of blood on every person in the Demon Suppression Bureau was nearly impossible to wash clean.