Chapter 486: Investigating the Trace

Federal Weird Investigation Bureau Headquarters, B District, third‑floor data analysis room.

2:17 a. m.

All the lights on the floor were out, except the analysis room, which glowed with a pallid fluorescence. Liang Wen sat at his workstation with his legs crossed, his left hand clutching a cup of full‑sugar milk tea that was down to ice cubes, a straw tucked in his mouth, emitting a gurgling, bottom‑reached sound.

His right hand hammered the keyboard at breakneck speed.

Six adjoining panels filled the entire wall, each streaming data of a different dimension—hunter‑ghost bounty order execution logs, Fierce Ghost wanted list, hunter registration info, Black Market transaction monitoring captures…—a dense cascade of characters poured down like a waterfall.

"Let the Abyss's data reveal the truth to us,"

Liang Wen muttered the line indistinctly, the straw still held in his mouth without spilling.

The overworked technician Xiao Liu beside him rolled his eyes and ignored him. It was almost three o'clock; the guy still had the energy to act.

But Xiao Liu noticed that Liang Wen's peach‑blossom eyes, reflected in the screen's cold light, were a different person from daytime.

His pupils stayed still, yet his gaze flicked rapidly among the six panels, each pause no longer than 0.3 seconds, precisely extracting useful fragments from the massive junk data.

"Xiao Liu."

"Here."

"Pull the 'high‑rank Fierce Ghost' tag out separately and cross‑reference it with the failed mission records of the 'hunter‑ghost bounty order.' Add two filter conditions: first, the Fierce Ghost's physical medium has not been turned in; second, the entire hunter team was killed or missing."

Xiao Liu's fingers flew, and thirty seconds later a new list popped up on the screen.

The data volume dropped sharply.

From tens of thousands down to twenty‑seven entries.

Liang Wen set the milk‑tea cup on the desk, leaned forward, and stared at the screen.

Of the twenty‑seven records, nineteen occurred within Jiang Hai City and a 300‑kilometre radius. The time span—the earliest one was four months ago.

"Four months," Liang Wen muttered to himself, tapping the date of the earliest record, "much earlier than I expected."

He began to review them one by one.

He retrieved the background files of each hunter team, laid them out on the screen like a spread of cards.

Then he smiled.

"Interesting."

Xiao Liu leaned in, "What's up?"

"Look at the backgrounds of these nineteen teams," Liang Wen said, using a laser pointer to circle several highlighted data points. "'Duan Ya'—a prior illegal organ‑trade record, who used a hunter licence as cover to continue the old trade. 'Tie Gou'—former Black Market enforcer, suspect in three unsolved homicide cases. 'Ye Cha'—arms smuggler…"

He rattled off seven or eight names in one breath, each rotten enough to bubble.

"All of them are scum," Xiao Liu frowned, "Does the killer specifically target this sort of lot?"

"Not only does he pick, he picks with precision," Liang Wen pulled up a timeline, arranging the nineteen cases chronologically. "See, the interval between each pair ranges from a minimum of three days to no more than ten days. Very consistent. It shows the perpetrator isn't acting on impulse but follows a planned, rhythmic execution."

He leaned back in his chair, lifted the straw and took another sip, only drawing in air.

"Moreover," he said, tossing the empty cup into the Trash Can with uncanny accuracy, hitting the mark three‑tenths of the way, "the Fierce Ghosts that were 'recovered' all share one common trait—"

Xiao Liu waited.

"They retain memories from before death."

The analysis room fell silent for a few seconds.

Xiao Liu processed the information, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Fierce Ghosts that retain pre‑death memories are classified as "high‑autonomy consciousness type," the category closest to living humans. The Federation's policy toward these Ghosts is clear—priority containment, absolute isolation, and a ban on any form of contact.

Because they resemble humans too much.

So much that you might forget they're already dead.

"This guy isn't just rescuing the Weird," Liang Wen's tone shifted, the playful glint in his peach‑blossom eyes completely gone, "he's rescuing—those who still remember who they are—those people."

The clatter of keys echoed through the empty floor.

Liang Wen and Xiao Liu buried themselves in screening for another twenty minutes, finally pulling a fresh lead from the encrypted frequency captured by Black Market monitoring.

"Liang Team, take a look at this."

Xiao Liu projected the intercepted data onto the main screen.

It was an auction notice posted on the Underground Black Market dark web, timestamped three hours ago. The publisher's ID was "Xue Shou."

"Xue Shou."

An active mercenary squad on the outskirts of Jiang Hai City, six members strong, well‑equipped, adept at tracking and encircling hunts. The leader, Ma Kui, a former special‑forces operative, was discharged after a prisoner‑abuse scandal and switched to the hunter trade.

Their reputation in the circles was infamous to the heavens.

Not because they're incompetent—quite the opposite; they're ruthless and professional, with a very high ghost‑hunting success rate. What's notorious is their manner—each time they capture a high‑rank Fierce Ghost, they don't rush to turn it in, but first livestream it on the dark web.

Torture‑Ghost livestream.

They used containment‑grade tasers, regulated chains, and various "special props" sourced from the Black Market to repeatedly torment the trapped Fierce Ghost. The highest‑earning livestream reward stream reportedly broke eight hundred thousand.

"The item up for auction this time—" Xiao Liu scrolled the page down, his voice a little strained.

A blurry photo popped up on the screen.

An iron cage. Inside, a humanoid silhouette curled, its body entwined with regulated chains, vaguely revealing the shape of a young woman.

"B Ji Fierce Ghost."

Unregistered number, wild specimen.

At the bottom of the auction notice, a line of fine print was attached:

"In the forty‑eight hours before the official auction, a paid livestream of the entire 'training' process will be available. First‑come, first‑served; no refunds, no exchanges."

Liang Wen said nothing.

He stared at the photo for a long time.

Then he stood up, pushed his chair back, and said three words to Xiao Liu.

"Notify all personnel."

At the same time.

Twelve meters underground in Jiang Hai City.

At the end of the corridor in the Air‑raid Shelter "Ferry Port", Ji Bai shoved the last blanket into the corner of Su Xiaoya's temporary stall.

Water seeped through the shelter walls, making the air damp and cool. Yet the stall was layered with three thick quilts, and the pillow—an old piece of unknown origin—had been washed white and clean.

Su Xiaoya sat on the stall, her amputated arm wrapped in thick containment bandages, the resentment no longer leaking out. She didn't look at Ji Bai; her gaze passed over the corridor and fell on a piece of clothing hanging on the opposite wall.

A red old jacket.

The fabric had faded, the shoulders bore patched stitches, and the collar was frayed. Yet someone had carefully propped it on a hanger, flat and without a single wrinkle.

It looked as if it were on display there.

"That's Hong Jie's," Ji Bai said, following her line of sight, pausing briefly without further explanation.

Su Xiaoya was silent for a moment, then whispered, "I'll adapt to this place well."

Ji Bai nodded, tucking the excess bandages back into the first‑aid kit.

"Sleep," he said.

He turned and walked toward the deeper part of the corridor, his steps deliberately slow as he passed the red jacket.

He didn't stop.

But Su Xiaoya saw his hand, clenched so tightly over those few steps that the knuckles turned white.

Ji Bai returned to his room—though it was really just a small compartment carved out of the main shelter space, two square meters, with a marching bed, a folding chair, and a patched‑up old laptop.

He sat down and opened the computer.

The light from the screen fell on his youthful face, the angles still bearing the rawness of a boy not yet grown, yet his eyes were old beyond his years.

He logged into the dark‑web node of the Underground Black Market.

The page loaded slowly; the shelter's internet signal was weak to begin with. While waiting, Ji Bai's fingers absentmindedly brushed the handle of the black umbrella lying on the table's edge.

The handle bore dried bloodstains, the kind that wouldn't wash off.

The page finally appeared.

Pinned at the top was the auction notice for "Blood Hand."

Ji Bai clicked the attached live‑stream preview.

Thirty seconds.

On screen, a young female Fierce Ghost was locked in an iron cage, regulated chains digging into her translucent body; each struggle triggered an electric shock. Her mouth was sealed, mute, but her eyes kept moving.

In those eyes, there was fear.

There was also pleading.

Ji Bai turned off the video.

He sat in the darkness for about ten seconds, then stood, pulled an aluminum box from under the marching bed, and lifted its lid.

Inside were six neatly stacked homemade interference grenades, two vials of containment‑grade anesthetic, and a modified lightweight containment handcuff.

And the black umbrella.

He slung the gear onto himself piece by piece.

A faint sound came from the doorway.

A Jie's voice drifted in through the crack, carrying the ethereal quality of a ghost: "Xiao Bai, you're going out again?"

"Hmm."

"Take us with you. Lao Wu's telekinesis is a bit weaker now, but it's enough for cover. And Xiao Zhu, her invisibility—"

"No need."

Ji Bai closed the box and strapped the black umbrella to his lower back.

"The more people, the more trouble."

He opened the door, and before stepping across, glanced back at A Jie.

"Take good care of Xiao Ya."

A Jie didn't block him further.

She had lingered at the Ferry Port long enough to know this boy's innate obstinacy isn't something anyone can sway.

Ji Bai climbed up the shelter's emergency passage, pushed aside the camouflaged manhole cover, and slipped into the night of Jiang Hai City's outskirts.

The rain began to fall again.

Investigation Bureau headquarters.

Liang Wen stood in the armory, a whole row of tactical crates arranged before him.

All seven members of the Project Team were present, fully armed, awaiting orders.

"Everyone, turn off the anomalous radiation detectors on you,"

The moment he said that, the team members looked at each other.

The detectors are standard issue for the Investigation Bureau, essentially their sixth sense. Going into a combat zone without them is like a blind person on a highway.

"Liang Team—"

"I said turn it off."

Liang Wen snapped open the latch of a tactical crate, revealing a row of larger, rugged, army‑green devices.

"Swap to this. Military‑grade thermal imaging, just borrowed from the army by San Ke."

He lifted one, weighed it, and continued: "The target we're after doesn't need anomalous powers to kill; his body, enhanced by anomalous gear, crushes opponents. Conventional detectors are useless against him, but he's alive—has body heat, a heartbeat. Thermal imaging won't deceive you."

The team members silently took the equipment and began swapping.

Liang Wen cast a final glance at the tactical wristband.

00:41.

Xue Shou's live broadcast preview is set for tomorrow night at eight o'clock, but given the opponent's style, Fierce Ghost should already be locked in their temporary base.

And that "Ghost"—if Liang Wen's judgment is correct—won't wait until the broadcast starts.

He will act beforehand.

"Depart."

The convoy's engines roared; three black armored off‑road vehicles sped out of the headquarters Underground Parking Garage and merged onto Jiang Hai City's empty night ring highway.