Chapter 954: Death or No Mercy

Director Li

Li Xuewu was speaking with Wei Wei when he heard Xiang Yun calling him.

He turned around to see the man quickly descending the stairs and stood up.

Wei Wei had been tense since entering this solemn office above the steps.

Especially this department, rarely seen in daily life but rumored to oversee cadres.

Think about it: cadres manage the masses, and they manage the cadres—how powerful must they be?

Seeing Li Xuewu rise, he tried to stand too, leaning on his cane, but Li Xuewu pressed a hand on his shoulder.

“Stay seated here and wait. Someone will come to verify your statements—just tell the truth.”

“Huh? Okay, okay, Deputy Director Li.”

Wei Wei felt uneasy as the cadre in a Zhongshan suit approached; he glanced at him once and lowered his head.

Especially when the man’s gaze swept over his leg—he lurched slightly and pulled his crippled limb closer.

After sizing up Wei Wei, Xiang Yun raised an eyebrow at Li Xuewu, his eyes full of doubt.

Li Xuewu tilted his head slightly and explained: “This is Wei Wei.”

“Oh?”

Xiang Yun frowned slightly, recognizing who he was, and looked again at Wei Wei on the bench, his gaze softening with pity.

Disciplinary cadres have no pity when handling cases—cases are cases; they are professionals, long hardened to indifference.

But as a man, he couldn’t help viewing this from another perspective.

“Let’s talk here—our leadership has already communicated with higher-ups and received new instructions.”

Xiang Yun pulled Li Xuewu aside and said seriously: “Regarding this case, leadership is highly concerned and has decided I will continue to lead the special task force.”

“We’ve coordinated increased support as well as with confidentiality and the municipal bureau.”

“Including here.”

Xiang Yun pointed at Li Xuewu and said earnestly: “I’ve already applied to leadership, and they’ve approved you to lead the interrogation.”

He raised a hand to silence Li Xuewu, then added: “Any plans or needs—just tell me directly.”

He locked eyes with Li Xuewu and lowered his voice: “I don’t recommend sending you to the branch—too many cases, too deep the waters. Someone else can go.”

After finishing the coordination details, he slapped Li Xuewu’s arm and said: “Too many people are involved this time—reward comes after merit. Be prepared.”

“What did Director Zheng say?”

Li Xuewu trusted Xiang Yun, otherwise he wouldn’t have connected him.

Xiang Yun glanced around, then said: “I’ll try my best. Leadership’s directive is for Director Zheng to handle arrest coordination and dig deeper into the murder case.”

“You don’t need to overthink him—our leadership gets along well with him. We’ve prepared here; it’s still up to you.”

He stared into Li Xuewu’s eyes and said: “Whatever you want—just ask.”

“No.”

Li Xuewu replied firmly: “I have no demands. I’ll handle the interrogation, but I need leave.”

“Alright, I understand.”

Xiang Yun studied Li Xuewu for several seconds, nodded, and said: “I won’t trouble your factory—you handle your own arrangements. Get started immediately after and aim to solidify the case tonight.”

“Alright.”

Li Xuewu answered, tossed his cigarette butt and crushed it underfoot, then signaled the duty room to make a call.

First he called the Management Office; the secretary replied Li Zhuren was away, so Li Xuewu reported his situation.

Then he called home—Qin Jingru answered. Upon hearing about the case, she said nothing more.

Finally he called the First Detention Center—Huang Gan answered, thinking he wanted to chat, and shouted about meeting up tonight.

Li Xuewu quickly explained the situation, told him to prepare immediately, then hung up and headed to the interrogation room.

He was interrogating not Du Xiaoyan, but Han Luyao, linked to the fraud-murder case.

The man had already been interrogated several times by the Disciplinary Commission and Confidentiality together—he was now a wilted eggplant.

“Keep it simple—I ask, you answer.”

Li Xuewu, along with a branch criminal cadre and a Disciplinary Commission deputy section chief, interrogated him.

As soon as he entered, Li Xuewu noticed his listless gaze and defeated expression.

“Did you participate in the fraud case? Did you participate in the murder?”

“No, I really didn’t!”

Han Luyao snapped his head up, startled, and said: “I’m innocent—I had no idea she’d do this.”

Thump. Thump.

Li Xuewu tapped the table with his pencil and warned: “I have limited time. Don’t cry injustice to me—you know whether you’re guilty.”

“I ask, you answer. If it’s you, admit it. If it’s not you, tell me why. That’s it.”

“It’s not me. I don’t know.”

Han Luyao had never been officially implicated in fraud or murder; now he feared association and hurried to explain: “I only knew Du Xiaoyan took money from the unit…”

“We already know that. No need to elaborate.”

Li Xuewu first applied pressure, then interrupted twice—making him even more nervous.

“Now I ask you: did you take money from Du Xiaoyan and help her conceal the fraud investigation?”

“I… I took the money.”

Han Luyao hesitated, nodded, lowered his head, and said: “I made a mistake—I shouldn’t have helped her hide the accounting shortfall.”

“Then I ask you: when I questioned her at the branch, did you deliberately shield her because you knew she was involved?”

“Speak!!”

Li Xuewu slammed the table and roared: “At this point, are you still clinging to luck? Trying to take her place on the execution ground and shield her from bullets?”

“I—I—I—I knew.”

Han Luyao, startled by the slam, lifted his head, lips trembling: “I—I—I just guessed. The unit suddenly had extra money, her accounts balanced—I was surprised too.”

“Keep going. What else do you know?”

Li Xuewu glared at him: “Did she ever tell you how she carried out the fraud? How she committed murder?”

“No, really not.”

Han Luyao earnestly swore: “All this is just my guess.”

“She and I… I… we… did it together… she never mentioned anything like that.”

“She committed the crime on the 29th—she must have planned it. Did you notice anything?”

Li Xuewu tapped the table: “Did you notice her associating closely with anyone, or frequent contact?”

“I… I think… I don’t remember.”

“You really don’t remember?”

Seeing Li Xuewu’s hostile gaze, Han Luyao broke into a sweat, pleading: “Our relationship was purely professional—nothing complicated.”

“You still say it’s not complicated?!”

Li Xuewu slammed the table and cursed: “Do people have sex over professional relationships?!”

“Are you still lying?!”

He pointed at Han Luyao: “Listen—Du Xiaoyan is terrified of the execution ground. Right now, she’s naming names in the next room. What she’s writing isn’t a confession—it’s the Book of Life and Death from the King of Hell.”

“Now I ask you: will you speak? If you don’t, we’ll believe her testimony entirely—don’t regret it later!”

“I’ll speak! I’ll speak! I’m truly confessing!”

Han Luyao, terrified by Li Xuewu’s ferocious gaze, turned pale and trembled: “Before the 29th, I noticed nothing unusual. But after the incident, she changed.”

“Cut to the chase—how did she change?”

Li Xuewu frowned: “She’s named many people—I can’t waste time on you alone.”

“She became cautious… and stopped… that.”

Han Luyao glanced at Li Xuewu, lowered his voice, and explained: “At first I thought we’d been punished by superiors, so she was trying to tone it down.”

“She stopped inviting people home and stopped spending lavishly?”

Li Xuewu asked: “During this time, did she have any close associates?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know—she spent more time with you than with Zhao Ziliang. Don’t play dumb.”

“Yes, yes, I dare not.”

Han Luyao thought and said: “I asked her why the accounts changed. She said she feared an investigation and needed to balance them.”

“She really said that—and even borrowed money from me?”

Han Luyao explained: “To balance the books, she claimed she borrowed money from family relatives and asked me to keep it secret—didn’t want the unit to know.”

“And then?”

Li Xuewu frowned: “How big a hole did she fill during this balancing? You didn’t notice anything?”

“I really didn’t pay attention—it was a good thing, after all.”

Han Luyao grimaced: “I don’t know exactly how much she took these past years—you found out, and only then did I learn.”

“I questioned Du Xiaoyan about this, but she swore she was a victim too—said repaying had nothing to do with the fraud.”

“Do you believe her?”

Li Xuewu narrowed his eyes: “You don’t believe her—you shielded her during her interrogation at the branch.”

“Yes.”

Han Luyao lowered his head: “I never believed her. She’s the biggest liar—but… I’ve got no way back.”

There’s no turning back—you’ve chosen a path with no return.

Li Xuewu narrowed his eyes and asked, “You haven’t answered me yet—has she been closely associated with anyone? What are you avoiding?”

“...N-no.”

Han Luyao lowered his head, speaking hesitantly: “She...she seems to know someone from your branch...”

“Lai Shanchuan, Director Lai, right?”

Li Xuewu frowned: “Are you suggesting Director Lai helped her carry out the fraud? Helped her commit murder?”

“No! I didn’t!”

Han Luyao lifted his head to protest: “You asked me who she was closely associated with—I only saw her knowing Director Lai...”

“Don’t try to bluff me.”

Li Xuewu cut him off, staring at him with narrowed eyes: “You should know how big this case is. Lai Shanchuan can’t protect her, and he won’t interfere with the investigation.”

He gestured toward the criminal investigators beside him and asked, “Have you seen him show up here at all?”

“Don’t you understand what this means? Stop playing games.”

“I...I’ll tell you...”

Han Luyao bowed his head, as if his spine had been pulled out, and said: “I’ll confess. I’ll tell the truth...”

Dongzhi had already passed—this past Monday was the shortest day of the year, and the coldest in feeling.

After eating the Dongzhi meal, each day grows a thread longer.

From Dongzhi onward, daylight lengthens, and night grows shorter.

But this also means winter has truly arrived—each day colder than the last, especially in northern cities.

Just after three o’clock, light snowflakes began drifting down, making the thin daylight feel even colder.

Even with the indoor clay heating system burning fiercely, it didn’t feel warm—almost icy.

The Public Security Division Chief’s office wasn’t spacious; filing cabinets were packed with documents, and the desk was piled high with urgent work.

Officials passing by this office in the hallway always walked softly and lowered their voices, afraid of disturbing their superior.

But they didn’t know that right now, the Division Chief had no interest in his desk work—his gaze was distant, fixed on the window.

“Chief?”

“Hmm?”

Hearing someone call him, Lai Shanchuan finally pulled his gaze back, focusing on the face of the man standing before his desk.

“What is it?”

It was his secretary. Irritated at being interrupted, he asked sharply, then absentmindedly wiped at nonexistent marks on his face.

The secretary feared him and spoke softly: “Director Zheng just called. He said don’t leave after work—there’s an emergency meeting tonight.”

“A meeting tonight?”

Lai Shanchuan frowned: “Did Director Zheng say what kind of meeting? He wasn’t home today, was he?”

“Yes, Director Zheng left in the morning.”

The secretary replied cautiously: “He went to the municipal bureau—apparently for training, then went along with them to the ministry.”

“Who else is attending?”

Lai Shanchuan picked up his teacup, sipped the cold tea, frowned in distaste, and put it down.

The secretary moved to take the cup and replace it, but he refused: “Keep going.”

“Yes. The Political Affairs Office received notice—Personnel, Discipline and Supervision, and Logistics all received notices.”

“I understand.”

The secretary didn’t notice that when he mentioned “Discipline and Supervision,” Lai Shanchuan’s eyebrow twitched.

Lai Shanchuan’s right eyelid had been twitching all day, leaving him unsettled.

Hearing that all departments in the branch had received meeting notices, his inner burden eased slightly.

“Where’s Guozhong?”

Lai Shanchuan frowned slightly: “Why hasn’t he shown up all day? Where’s he gone?”

“Group Leader Liu went to the crime scene.”

The secretary replied: “He said the goldfish pond hasn’t yielded anything—he wants to re-examine the scene.”

“What scene is he examining?!”

Lai Shanchuan slammed his hand on the desk, angry: “This is a waste of time! Can he pull Zhao Ziliang out of an ice hole?”

“Nonsense!”

Seeing the secretary’s cautious expression, he knew scolding him was pointless, so he said: “Call him. Tell him to come back immediately. It’s already the 26th—month-end’s coming. First, finish the case report before anything else.”

“Yes.”

The secretary nodded, then added quietly: “If we’re closing the case, shouldn’t we issue the wanted notice for Zhao Ziliang first?”

“I’ve already applied for it. It’ll take a few more days.”

Lai Shanchuan waved his hand: “Go call Liu Guozhong. Tell him to hurry up with this.”

He stood up, took his teacup, and walked to the door cabinet to change the tea leaves.

The secretary glanced at his back, then hurried toward the door.

Lai Shanchuan watched the secretary leave, then calmly brewed himself a fresh cup of tea. With a solemn expression, he carried the cup back to his desk and sat down, pulling out a file to read.

The file’s header bore the name Zhang Shuqin—clearly one of the two cases he’d handled.

Cases this prolonged, tangled in so many connections, and involving such large sums were rare in his tenure.

Especially after being toyed with by three letters, this case reeked of strangeness.

He stared at the names in the case file: some detained, some under investigation, some under surveillance, some in the morgue.

Some said they didn’t solve cases—they managed people’s lives.

Lai Shanchuan deeply understood this. He hadn’t reached his position through flattery or empty talk.

In his youth, he was bold and fearless, solving countless cases, earning his place as Division Chief through hard work.

He didn’t believe aging meant cowardice or excessive caution—he’d overseen many major cases even since becoming Chief.

The only case he’d ever been vague about was the one tied to a single name in the file.

He didn’t want any connection to that person—on the day Li Xuewu arrived, he deliberately kept his distance, afraid Li would notice something wrong.

What truly worried him wasn’t the case—it was Li Xuewu, his greatest threat.

Don’t talk about magnanimity or that everything’s in the past. Political struggles never truly end.

One side must fall—especially between them. It’s a fight to the death.

The evidence was in Li Xuewu’s hands. He couldn’t sleep, haunted by nightmares every night.

When Li Xuewu told him he looked worn out, it wasn’t from the case—it was from sleepless nights.

He’d considered retrieving the so-called evidence from Li Xuewu, but hadn’t found a way.

Then Li Xuewu and Wang Xiaoqin were transferred away, deepening his fears.

Simply put: once outside the same system, their ties would slowly fade. Then Li Xuewu could strike without restraint.

Sometimes he feared Zheng Fuhua—not just that he’d learn what Li Xuewu held, but that he might be transferred, leaving Li Xuewu free to unleash everything against him.

Once, this Chief position was pride. Now, it was his demon.

Ding ding ding~

The phone rang suddenly, startling him. He steadied himself, set down the file, and picked up the call.

“Hello, this is Lai Shanchuan. Who’s calling?”

“Who? Who took him?!”

“Director Zheng? Was it him?”

“No, I didn’t know. Should I call him?”

“Alright, alright, I understand.”

Click.

Lai Shanchuan’s phone dropped onto the desk, echoing the sound inside his chest.

He reached to grab the phone, but knocked over the teacup—tea spilled across the desk, soaking the documents.

He didn’t bother cleaning up. He snatched the phone, hung up, stood, and pulled on his coat hanging on the chair.

He stared deeply at the teacup and the water-soaked file, rummaged through the filing cabinet for a suitcase, grabbed it, and walked out without looking back.

“Hey, Chief.”

The secretary arrived with documents for his signature, saw him hurrying out with a suitcase, and called out.

Lai Shanchuan wanted to ignore him, but stopped, took the documents and pen, glanced at them not at all, and signed rapidly.

“Just got a call from home—my wife fell, badly. I need to go handle it.”

“Understood.”

The secretary took back the pen and asked: “Should I call Director Zheng to request leave for you?”

Lai Shanchuan paused mid-step, turned, and said: “No need to call directly. Just tell him later—it’s probably about ideological study.”

“Oh, by the way—”

Lai Shanchuan nodded to his secretary, gestured toward his office, and said, “I was in a hurry just now and knocked over my teacup. Help me clean it up, especially the case files—rewrite them again. Thanks for your trouble.”

After speaking, he patted the secretary’s shoulder and turned to go downstairs.

The secretary watched the boss’s back, rubbed his forehead, and thought: Is this the first time my superior has ever patted me on the shoulder?

If it weren’t for some urgent family matter, he wouldn’t have acted so out of character.

Normally, Director Lai was most careful about his personal image and conduct—he never showed excessive familiarity with secretaries like us.

The secretary tugged at his lips, walked into the boss’s office, first picked up the teacup, and noticed there was no tea leaves inside—only a faint white powder at the bottom, like un-dissolved Western medicine.

Could the boss be sick?

He usually brewed the tea himself; today was unusual—or perhaps there was some hidden reason.

The secretary didn’t dwell on it, washed the cup in the sink by the door, rinsed it again with clean water, then placed it neatly on the tea cabinet.

Then he saw the case file soaked and ruined by water, and silently cursed the boss’s carelessness—he’d be the one to suffer for it.

He picked up a dry cloth and wiped the water off the file; the open page listed personnel involved in the bureau’s fraud investigation.

He had helped organize the files and knew who this was: Du Xiaoyan, who worked at the credit union.

“Did she confess?”

Zheng Fuhua returned from outside and saw Li Xuewu emerging from the interrogation room, holding a teacup. He asked, “What’s the update?”

“Hmm. There are issues—it’s like squeezing toothpaste.”

Li Xuewu walked to the door of the tea room, glanced at Zheng Fuhua, and asked, “Any progress on your end?”

“Yeah, I’ve got some solid leads.”

Zheng Fuhua nodded, sighed, and said, “I never imagined things would come to this.”

“You knew from the start this case had problems, didn’t you?”

He looked at Li Xuewu and slowly nodded. “Back at the Goldfish Pond, when you spoke to him—I now realize I shouldn’t have let you go.”

“You overestimate me. I’m human, not a god.”

Li Xuewu lit himself a cigarette, blew away the smoke in front of him, and said, “I didn’t figure it out—it was he who exposed himself. He got scared.”

“Hmm, maybe.”

Zheng Fuhua declined the cigarette Li Xuewu offered; his throat was swollen and painfully sore.

“I really admire your composure—you can swallow anything and endure anything.”

“How could I? I’m no saint either.”

Li Xuewu smiled. “You think I avoid money and women? That’s just because I never had the chance. If someone really hunted me, I might’ve already fallen.”

“Heh, I still have faith in you.”

Zheng Fuhua took a sip of hot water. “Over the years, I’ve seen and managed countless cadres—but you’re the only one I can’t read. It’s rare.”

“Maybe we’ve just spent too little time together.”

Li Xuewu grinned and nudged him. “You should treat me to meals more often—even tea. That’d give us a chance to understand each other.”

“Hahaha~”

Zheng Fuhua waved his hand. “Stop joking. Tell me—how do we proceed with the interrogation? Du Xiaoyan won’t easily walk herself to the guillotine.”

“Right. So we start by chewing through Han Luyao’s bones first.”

Li Xuewu narrowed his eyes. “The only thing I’m curious about now is where they’ve hidden Zhao Zilang.”

“Indeed.”

Zheng Fuhua sighed softly. “Where could they have hidden him?”

“Alright, we’ll waste all day guessing here. Let’s just ask the real person.”

Li Xuewu smiled, gesturing toward the interrogation room. “I’m sure she’s been waiting for me impatiently.”

“Hmm.”

Zheng Fuhua nodded. “You’re still young—you’ve got charm. She trusts you.”

“Save the sarcasm. Don’t go and get me assigned to interrogate you someday—you’ll regret it if I take revenge under the guise of duty.”

Li Xuewu and Zheng Fuhua walked and talked together, heading straight for Du Xiaoyan’s interrogation room.

Just as Li Xuewu reached for the door handle, he suddenly turned back. “Did Lai Shanchuan run?”

“Yeah. He ran.”

Zheng Fuhua paused, then his face darkened. “Let’s see if he can escape the Buddha’s palm.”

“I trust your handling of this.”

Li Xuewu didn’t know where he’d picked up that phrase—he used it on Zheng Fuhua.

Laughing, they entered the interrogation room and saw Du Xiaoyan’s face—panicked, stunned.

“Have you written the statement?”

Li Xuewu ignored her shifting expression, glanced at the stack of paper before her, didn’t touch it, and sat down with Zheng Fuhua behind the interrogation table.

Before either could speak, Xiang Yun pushed the door open, glanced at Du Xiaoyan, then asked them: “Still interrogating her?”

“Yes. Just go through the motions.”

Li Xuewu looked up at Xiang Yun. “How’s your side going?”

“Almost done. The net was cast in time.”

Xiang Yun didn’t elaborate but glanced at Zheng Fuhua’s calm face. “Should we prepare special forces? I’m worried about collateral damage.”

“No need. Li Tuan’s right here.”

Zheng Fuhua casually pointed at Li Xuewu. “He has a 24/7 standby special operations unit—excellent at urban assault and emergency response. This is his chance to shine.”

“I’d rather not use the 3rd Regiment.”

Li Xuewu took a drag of his cigarette, ignoring Du Xiaoyan, who was trembling violently beside them. “Using special ops to catch him? That’s like using a cannon to swat a fly—no point exposing our strength.”

“You’re getting cocky now.”

Zheng Fuhua smirked. “If I hadn’t feared destroying this unit myself back then, I’d never have let go—you wouldn’t be so bold today.”

“Fine. On behalf of the entire 3rd Regiment, I thank you for your selflessness—you’ve made us what we are today.”

“Hey, if you’re going to talk like that, I’ll give you a piece of my mind.”

Zheng Fuhua tapped the table. “I don’t care about others’ gratitude—but you and Wang Xiaoqin? You owe me.”

“Isn’t that right, Director Xiang?”

He turned to Xiang Yun. “If you had a man who could borrow arrows with straw boats and sneak through a hidden pass—what would you do?”

“Me? I’d shove him into an ice cave!”

Xiang Yun grinned, shot a sharp look at Li Xuewu, then glanced at the door. “I’ve asked the canteen to prepare food.”

“Try our disciplinary committee’s meals today. After this case is over, I’ll treat you to roast duck.”

“I want Qianyifang’s. I won’t eat Quanjude—it’s too greasy.”

Li Xuewu put on airs. “Roast duck alone isn’t enough. Their meatballs are great too—I won’t be polite then.”

“Who said I’m treating you?”

Xiang Yun smiled, gesturing to Zheng Fuhua. “I’m talking to Director Zheng—why are you butting in?”

“Director Zheng, let’s leave it at that.”

He smiled at Zheng Fuhua, nodded toward Du Xiaoyan, whose body was shaking like a sieve. “Hurry up—the canteen’s about to serve. Don’t be late.”

Without another glance, he walked out easily, as if the case had already been solved.

When the interrogation room door clicked shut, Du Xiaoyan jolted, then completely broke down—tears and snot poured down, soaking the thick stack of papers before her.

“Stop crying. Wipe your tears. They’re worthless.”

Li Xuewu took the tissue from the table, tore off a long strip, folded it neatly as he walked, and handed it to her right in front.

Du Xiaoyan slumped over the desk, sobbing violently, her body trembling—clearly terrified.

The room was small; her wails were raw and sudden, sending chills down the spine.

This was emotional release—utter despair, heart-wrenching grief, unbearable sorrow.

Li Xuewu stood beside her, the tissue resting on the small table, listening to her animal-like howls, his expression unmoved.

No matter how hard she cried, it was crocodile tears. Would she repent sitting here? If she walked out of this room, would she still believe she was wrong?

No. She’d think she’d escaped another disaster—and next time, she’d be more careful.

Like those tigers in warning documentaries—do you really think they repent? Do they truly reflect on their crimes?

No. Most just think they were unlucky, caught by accident, or dragged in by misfortune.

Some even scheme to escape blame—just like Du Xiaoyan’s confession, now soaked in her tears.

Why isn’t Li Xuewu interested? Because her written words can’t capture her full guilt—it’s too vast, too countless.

Who would believe she fully confessed, based on what she wrote herself?

The words Li Xuewu spoke to her before leaving—she’d already prepared her escape plan before he even stepped out the door.

And when he stood at the door and asked that question, and she saw Zheng Fuhua answer—it shattered her completely.

Even the one person she relied on had been exposed, marked for arrest—what did she have left to say?

The words on paper, the desperate attempts to contact the outside—all became meaningless.

Right before her, Li Xuewu and the others laughed and chatted, casually discussing where to celebrate after the case ended.

What did that mean? Was she slow to confess? Or had someone betrayed her already?

Either possibility was possible. She knew she couldn’t gamble anymore—she had no leverage, no room for negotiation.

She knew exactly what consequences awaited her for what she’d done—knew the punishment awaiting her for what she’d done to Zhang Shuqin and Zhao Zilang.

Du Xiaoyan was truly afraid. The thought of enduring the most agonizing time alone, eating her last meal, being bound and dragged to the execution ground, feeling the bullet strike her back—her heart ached with unbearable pain.

She wished she could cry herself to death right here, never again to endure the torment in her heart or the agony of fear.

Zheng Fuhua drank hot water patiently; his throat ached terribly, and the few words he’d just spoken to them had been forced out—he now only wanted to rest properly.

The driver found him anti-inflammatory pills; he took one in the morning and one in the afternoon, but they did nothing.

Xiang Yun said his condition was due to excessive internal heat; without removing the root cause, he would never find peace, and he claimed to have a miraculous remedy that would cure him completely.

He wanted to tell the man to shut his mouth—this remedy was so effective, it should’ve been used on more people in the Discipline Inspection Corps.

The root cause—why call it a “root”?—because it ran deep, entangled in too many connections and bindings.

Pulling out the root brought not just blood and qi, but also soul-deep pain.

Even if he was sick, he had to hold on, just like all the major cases he’d faced over the years, when he had to remain at headquarters.

Those on the front lines don’t get to say they’re sick—minor injuries don’t leave the line; you just keep going.

He kept drinking hot water because night was coming fast, and some things couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

His own people—he had to bring them to justice himself; he couldn’t let someone else do it for him.

He didn’t know whether it was the too much hot water, the anti-inflammatory pills working, or Du Xiaoyan’s crying easing the fire smoldering inside him.

Just as Du Xiaoyan’s crying began to fade, the pain in his throat eased slightly.

“I’m going to die, right? Right?”

“First wipe your tears. Can you even listen to me in this state?”

Li Xuewu spoke lightly, with no intent to frighten her, no trace of pressure.

Du Xiaoyan clutched the tissue before her, tear-blurred, opened her mouth to speak, but remained silent for a long time.

“Should I call a doctor to give you an IV?”

Li Xuewu picked up the teacup from the table, lifted the lid, and signaled he would feed her water.

Du Xiaoyan looked at Li Xuewu, gave a slight nod, tilted her head, and drank the warm water he offered.

At that moment, her heart was icy; the water she swallowed seemed to refill her dried tear ducts, and more tears spilled from her eyes.

“Cry for a while, but don’t go on forever.”

After she finished drinking, Li Xuewu put the teacup back on the table, then pulled his own chair from behind the desk and placed it directly in front of Du Xiaoyan’s interrogation chair.

As he sat down, he rubbed his hands and said, “I just ran into Wei Wei outside—he came in for questioning.”

“Wei Wei…”

Du Xiaoyan froze, eyes wide with shock, staring blankly at Li Xuewu.

“Yes, Wei Wei.”

Li Xuewu crossed his legs and nodded slowly. “It’s a coincidence—I’ve known him for a year, since a little earlier than this time last year.”

“Back then, I’d just moved out from my family home and went to the market to buy cooking utensils, and I happened to meet his junior brother, Yang Shuqian.”

“You know Yang Shuqian, right?”

Li Xuewu asked; seeing Du Xiaoyan nod, he continued: “He said the three of them—master and two disciples—lived together, had lost their jobs, had no rice to cook, and were selling their pots and spoons just to buy food.”

Hearing this, Du Xiaoyan’s tears fell again, silently, without a sound.

“It was fate—the factory needed a cook, and I thought of them.”

Li Xuewu nodded slowly. “When I went to their home to find them, I met Wei Wei for the first time—and discovered he was crippled.”

“Wu wu wu~”

Du Xiaoyan clenched her lips tightly, refusing to let out a sob—she couldn’t even bear to hear it herself.

Li Xuewu ignored her and continued: “Since they joined the factory, I’ve often seen him, but mostly just exchanged greetings—never had any deep conversation.”

“You know my position—in the factory, I’m Deputy Director of Security; previously, in the branch, I was Deputy Director of Public Order; now, after being transferred to the Garrison Command, I’m Deputy Regiment Commander.”

“You could say it’s because of this case that you met me—otherwise, I’d never have known how Wei Wei’s leg became crippled.”

Li Xuewu raised an eyebrow. “He’s served and known leaders higher than me—yet he never mentioned this to anyone.”

“I don’t know whether to call it your luck or his misfortune—after all this time.”

“If you’d met me sooner, or if he’d told me about this sooner, I wouldn’t just have handled one Lai Shanchuan—even two like him, I could’ve taken care of you. Do you believe me?”

“Wu wu wu~”

This time, Du Xiaoyan cried out—but Li Xuewu sat right in front of her, and she dared not cry loudly.

He showed no harsh expression, no deliberate pressure—just recounted a fact—but it filled her with deep fear and dread.

“Who you cried for just now—I don’t care. But I want to ask you: how much of your tears now are for Wei Wei?”

Li Xuewu frowned slightly at her. “Do you feel even a trace of regret? Or if you could live again, would you still betray him, betray your family?”

Du Xiaoyan lowered her head, tears falling silently—perhaps even now, deep inside, she was pondering this question.

Or perhaps since the moment the handcuffs and leg irons were clamped on her, she’d replayed this moment countless times.

Li Xuewu tapped the tabletop before her. “Wei Wei should be in the lobby right now. Have you thought about how you’ll face him when you walk out of here?”