Chapter 353: Lawyer

The Federation's criminal case reversal rate is 0.3 percent.

This number isn't written in textbooks; it's Yan Ming's own statistics. Of the 317 judgments, he went through them one by one, circling with a red pen the word in the result column that never changes.

The original verdict was upheld.

The original verdict was upheld.

The original verdict was upheld.

Out of the 317, only one was changed—and that was because the trial judge took a bribe and fell from power, so the case was directly taken up by the Supreme Court.

It wasn't because of the evidence. It wasn't because of the law. It was because that judge just happened to have bad luck.

Yan Ming spent seven years in college figuring this out: the essence of this country's judicial trial system is not a mistake‑correction mechanism but a rubber‑stamp mechanism. However it was initially decided, that's how it gets stamped. Because reversing a verdict means losing face, losing face means pursuing responsibility, and pursuing responsibility affects the prosecutors' and judges' performance scores, evaluations, and promotions.

So it won't be changed.

Even if the sky fell, it still wouldn't be changed.

——

"The defendant Zhou Desheng is guilty of intentional homicide, sentenced to life imprisonment, and deprived of political rights for life."

The gavel's sound echoed in the courtroom for three seconds.

Yan Ming sat in the defense bench, both hands flat on the table, unmoving.

Before him lay a 147‑page defense brief, accompanied by 43 pieces of evidence, seven appraisal reports, and two complete surveillance videos.

These had all been submitted during the first trial. The first‑trial judge watched the surveillance, the appraisals, and all the material that could prove Zhou Desheng acted in self‑defense, stayed silent for twenty minutes, and still sentenced him to life.

Yan Ming appealed.

On the day the second trial opened, he rewrote the defense brief from scratch—word for word, the logic so tight that any law professor would find no flaw. The prosecution didn't even offer new evidence; after the prosecutor finished reading the indictment, he just sat there playing on his phone.

Because the outcome had already been decided before the trial even began.

Yan Ming certainly knew this. He simply didn't believe it—or rather, he refused to believe it.

Zhou Desheng was a taxi driver. At three a. m. he picked up a drunk passenger; the drunk refused to pay, grabbed something and started swinging, Zhou Desheng got hit on the head, grabbed the self‑defense stick from the car, and struck back with one blow—causing internal cranial bleeding in the other man.

The other man was the nephew of a district committee member.

That's all.

Before the first trial, when Yan Ming took on the case, Zhou Desheng's wife knelt at the door of his law firm, her knees bruised from kneeling. He helped her up, saying he wouldn't charge a fee and would represent her for free.

"Attorney Yan, everyone says you're a good person. Please, my husband really only fought back after being beaten... the surveillance even caught it......"

Yan Ming said okay.

He spent two months preparing the materials. He hired the city's most authoritative forensic examiner for the injury assessment, paid himself to make four trips to the Traffic Management Center to retrieve the driving recorder data, and even found the drivers of two other taxis on the same road that night to serve as eyewitnesses.

In the first‑trial courtroom, he stood up and spent a full forty‑five minutes presenting his defense arguments. Every statement was backed by evidence, every logical point could withstand repeated scrutiny.

The prosecutor drank water twice during the proceedings; his hand shook a little the second time.

A few law‑school students sat in the gallery; one of them quietly recorded the audio on his phone and later posted it on a forum with the title "This Is What a Real Criminal Defense Master Looks Like."

The post went viral for two days, then was deleted.

That night, after the first‑trial judgment came down, Yan Ming locked himself in his office and stared at that line for a long time.

Intentional homicide. Life imprisonment.

In the surveillance video, Zhou Desheng was held down on the taxi's engine hood by the drunk and kicked seven times; it was only when the eighth kick struck his temple that he grabbed the self‑defense stick.

One strike. Just one strike.

The judge's verdict was written in flawless, formal language; the sentencing rationale cited three judicial interpretations, with wording that left no loophole.

But it didn't mention that surveillance segment—not a single word.

Yan Ming appealed.

The second‑trial collegial panel consisted of three judges. The presiding judge bore the surname Zhao, was in his fifties, and had the nickname "Rubber Stamp." Yan Ming checked the judge's handling of second‑trial cases over the past eight years—his reversal rate was zero.

It wasn'tclose to zero; it was zero.

Yet Yan Ming still prepared a 147‑page defense brief, still reorganized all the evidence, and still stood in court for forty‑five minutes.

After hearing it, Presiding Judge Zhao took off his reading glasses, wiped them, said "Counsel, please be seated," and then announced a recess.

Three days later, the judgment was released.

The original verdict was upheld.

As the gavel came down, the pen barrel clenched in Yan Ming's right hand was bent out of shape; the tip pierced his palm, blood seeped out between his fingers, and fell onto the last page of his 147‑page defense brief.

One drop. Two drops. Three drops.

The red spread across the white paper, blurring the line that read "We earnestly ask the second‑trial court to overturn the verdict in accordance with the law."

Zhou Desheng stared blankly from the defendant's bench.

He first glanced at the judge, then turned his head to look for Yan Ming's eyes.

When Yan Ming met that gaze, all the blood in his body rushed to his feet.

That wasn't disappointment. Nor was it sorrow.

It was hatred.

Zhou Desheng's mouth twisted downward, his eyes bulged red, veins rose from the base of his neck. As two bailiffs dragged him out, he suddenly lunged toward Yan Ming.

"You motherfucker lied to me!"

His voice bounced around the courtroom.

"You said it could be overturned! You said the evidence was enough! How much money did you take? Huh? How much did you take from them?!"

The bailiffs pinned him down. Zhou Desheng's face was pressed to the floor, turned sideways; the eye that could still see Yan Ming was filled with bloodshot veins.

"You, surnamed Yan, will die a horrible death——"

The door shut.

The voice cut off.

Yan Ming sat on the defense bench, the blood from the palm of his right hand had already dripped onto the table. He didn't wipe it.

He had never made a promise.

The prosecutor finished packing his briefcase, passed by from the side, his steps paused for a moment, his lips moved, but in the end he said nothing and left.

The clerk hurriedly followed the judge to the break room, his peripheral glance caught Yan Ming's blood‑soaked hand, and he quickly turned his head away.

The courtroom was empty.

Yan Ming sat alone for fifteen minutes, then stood up and neatly shoved the one‑hundred‑and‑forty‑seven‑page defense brief into his briefcase. The bloodstains had dried, the pages stuck together.

He walked out of the courtroom, along the Corridor toward the main gate.

Someone was waiting for him in the Corridor.

Zhou Desheng's wife, his sixty‑something‑year‑old mother, and a seven‑ or eight‑year‑old little girl.

Yan Ming stopped five meters away from them.

The old lady spoke first.

"Lawyer Yan, I ask you, what crime did my son actually commit? He was beaten, he fought back, why should he spend his whole life in prison?"

Yan Ming opened his mouth.

The old lady didn't wait for his answer, stepped forward two paces, her clouded eyes red to the point of bleeding: "Didn't you say you could win? Didn't you say you had evidence? Where is your evidence? Where is your conscience?"

Zhou Desheng's wife stood beside her, her expression uglier than Zhou Desheng's in court. She clutched a plastic bag containing fruit and a change of clothes, prepared to take Zhou home after his acquittal.

"Lawyer Yan." Her voice was very soft, soft enough to tremble. "My husband says you took the other side's money."

"I didn't." Yan Ming said.

"Then why did we lose?"

"Because......"

Yan Ming could not continue.

Because what? Because the judge's and prosecutor's assessment criteria cannot be overturned? Because this system has never operated for justice?

What could he say?

Zhou Desheng's wife waited a few seconds, got no answer. She lowered her head, took an apple from the plastic bag.

Yan Ming thought she was going to hand it to him.

The apple smashed onto his face.

Not heavy. But it hurt. Not a physical pain.

The old lady started cursing, her voice so sharp the whole Corridor echoed. Yan Ming heard "liar", "beast", "black‑hearted lawyer".

The seven‑ or eight‑year‑old girl hid behind her mother, showed half her face, eyes red, said nothing, only stared at Yan Ming.

That look was more effective than any curse.

At the courthouse entrance, a few people who looked like reporters held up phones and filmed. Yan Ming didn't know when they had arrived, nor what the edited video would look like online.

He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the marks from his face.

When he walked out of the courthouse gate, he glanced back at the blindfolded goddess statue.

Left hand Balance, right hand long sword.

Blindfolded eyes.

Yan Ming suddenly found it very funny.

Blindfolded does not mean fairness. It means cannot see.

——

Yan Ming groped his way into the apartment living room, tossed the briefcase onto the sofa. The briefcase zipper was undone, the blood‑stained defense brief spilled out, spreading across the darkness.

He didn't pick it up.

Something hung on the wall. He knew what it was without turning on the light.

The far left was a graduation certificate from the University of Political Science and Law, gold‑embossed, "Excellent Graduate". Next to it was the judicial exam score sheet, 438 points, third in the province. Further right was the lawyer's practicing certificate, then a silk banner—

"Defend justice, speak righteously."

That silk banner had been given three years ago by a client. A supermarket cashier who had been falsely accused of theft; Yan Ming helped her win the case.

The cashier had cried at the time, "Lawyer Yan, there are still good people in this world."

Yan Ming stood in the darkness, staring at the wall where the banner hung. He couldn't see the characters clearly, but every stroke was etched in his mind.

Twelve years.

He had been a lawyer for twelve years. He had taken over four hundred cases, of which one hundred sixty‑three were pro bono legal aid. He had sued for unpaid wages for migrant workers, applied for personal protection orders for abused women, defended innocent suspects.

He had won. He had also lost. He lost more.

Of the cases he won, half were because the opposing side's power was too weak to merit judicial interference. The other half because the matter escalated, public opinion forced the court to be fair once.

Not once was it because the law itself played a role.

No.

Not a single time.

Yan Ming slowly squatted down, leaned against the wall and sat on the floor.

He suddenly recalled a line his constitutional law professor had said in university.

"Law is humanity's most precise achievement."

Precise.

Yan Ming smiled silently.

Precise, what a joke.

This whole system is rotten to the core. It's not a single regulation that's wrong, nor a single judge bought. It's the entire operating logic—it punishes the weak, not the evil.

Those with great power never sit in the defendant's seat. Those who sit there are always people like Zhou Desheng, who drive taxis, do odd jobs, can't even afford a decent lawyer and have to wait for legal aid.

And Yan Ming is the most diligent, most by‑the‑book, most unadaptable screw in this rickety machine.

Screwed for twelve years.

Worn bald.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The sound of a cane striking the floor came from somewhere in the living‑room. The rhythm was even, unhurried, like a pendulum.

Yan Ming's pupils snapped shut.

He even locked the door, all the windows were shut, and the apartment was on the fourteenth floor.

No one has ever entered.

But the sound was just three meters away.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Getting closer.

In the darkness, a silhouette emerged from the shadow in the corner.

Suit. Cane. Mask.

On the gray, featureless stone Mask were only two pitch‑black eye holes. Behind the Mask, a pair of crimson eyes looked down from above at the crouching Yan Ming.

The Living Eyeball at the tip of the cane turned slowly, its pupil aligning with Yan Ming.

Sai Men halted the cane on the ground and stood still.

He tilted his head, surveyed the unlit apartment—the certificates and silk banner on the wall, the scattered blood‑stained defense statements on the floor—scanning it with the leisurely air of someone appraising an art exhibit.

Then he spoke.

The voice came from behind the Mask, echoing, like a choir in a church singing at the wrong pitch.

"Defend justice."

He read the words on the silk banner.

"Fine words. Truly, I sincerely appreciate them."

Sai Men took two steps with his cane, his leather shoes pressing on the scattered defense statements, the paper crackling with crisp folds.

"What a pity, Lawyer Yan—"

He crouched, the Mask's eye holes level with Yan Ming's eyes.

The crimson light reflected on Yan Ming's retina like two cold flames that would not burn.

"Do humans, this inferior species, deserve the meticulously crafted defense statements you wield?"

"Pathetic idealists; they are not worthy of being measured by your mortal laws."

"The perpetrators pervert the law for selfish ends, the victims repay kindness with vengeance..."

"What you need is to forge a new law, bringing to this world your own absolute justice."

Yan Ming's back was pressed against the wall. His body trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper, rising from his marrow.

Sai Men pulled something from the inner pocket of his suit.

A crimson Seed.

Slightly larger than a Nail, entirely translucent red, its interior threaded with fine patterns that flowed slowly, like a miniature vascular network.

"A disease the law cannot cure," Sai Men placed the Seed on the floor before Yan Ming, twirled his cane, stood up, "I will help you heal it."

Yan Ming lowered his head to look at the Seed.

He reached out his hand.

His fingers hovered above the Seed for three seconds.

Then they closed.

When the Seed entered his mouth, it tasted bitter.

Bitter to the point of turning sweet.

Yet in his heart, he felt an unprecedented resonance.