The streetlight overhead flickered, dimming and brightening intermittently.
He crouched beneath the utility pole, shoving steamed buns into his mouth one after another, coughing violently as they stuck in his throat, his face flushing red.
The black backpack lay discarded beside him. At this moment, all he cared about was food—nothing else interested him.
Ever since that night when Cao Xiaojun had ambushed him, Xu Qingli hadn’t dared return to the parking lot. He wandered the streets all day, scavenging for food in the trash, and slept under bridges or on rooftops at night.
Someone wanted him dead. He couldn’t be sure if it was Cao Xiaojun, just as he couldn’t be sure if the police were still after him. He couldn’t go to the station—he had no evidence to prove his innocence, nor the courage to test his suspicions. His identity was fake, and he had other murders on his hands.
All he could do was wait for the heat to die down and leave this place.
Xu Qingli swallowed the last bun, wiped his mouth, and reached into the bottom of the bag, fishing out a hundred-yuan bill from the hidden pocket. Sniffling, he turned it inside out, shaking it desperately, hoping something edible might fall out.
That was when the notebook tumbled to the ground.
The brown leather cover slapped against the asphalt, splaying open to reveal densely packed handwriting.
He glanced at it—then froze.
The streetlight above buzzed and crackled, its current unstable. The cold, bluish-white light flickered, making the words "Ni Xiangdong," written in black gel pen, appear and disappear in the dimness.
Xu Qingli crouched down and picked it up gently. In the bottom right corner of the title page were two words: "Tong Hao."
Tong Hao, Tong Hao.
The name sounded familiar—had he heard it somewhere before?
"This is Tong Hao, the new transfer—"
He remembered. That kid was the young cop from that night. At Floating Peak Mountain, they had crossed paths.
Xu Qingli’s heart lurched, a chill of fear running down his spine. Tonight, he had only meant to find something to eat—he hadn’t expected to nearly walk straight into the lion’s den.
But then another thought struck him: Why had the police gone to that cabin on Floating Peak Mountain that night?
Could it be related to Cao Xiaojun’s case?
At this realization, his blood surged, his face burning hot.
Maybe all the answers were right here, in his hands, hidden within the pages of this ordinary notebook.
Xu Qingli glanced around furtively, like a thief, then retreated to a corner, hunching his shoulders as he squatted, afraid of being disturbed.
It was an unnecessary worry. This was a demolition zone—most residents had moved out over half a year ago, and by nightfall, the place was completely deserted.
He took a deep breath and turned to the first page. It was like inserting a key into a lock—with a soft click , the door to the truth swung open effortlessly.
What greeted him was Wu Ximei’s tearful testimony to the police.
Someone actually suspected a crime of passion? And there were witnesses claiming he and Wu Ximei had been having an affair?
Reading the neighbors’ statements, he laughed bitterly. Well, Wu Ximei had suddenly started paying him extra attention back then—attentive, considerate, even affectionate. It wasn’t just the neighbors who had wondered—for a while, even he had let his imagination run wild. Being misunderstood was only natural.
Another page.
What? Tianbao wasn’t Cao Xiaojun’s son? Then whose was he? Could he be the real mastermind?
He flipped through the pages rapidly, piecing together the missing fragments. The puzzle was slowly coming together, revealing the full picture.He saw the police go to Nanyang, saw them search Nanling Village, and visit the local police station. Just as he had expected, everyone back home thought he had died in the thatched hut.
But on the next page, he immediately saw:
His throat tightened, his hands trembling—his identity had already been exposed.
He flipped a few more pages with spit-moistened fingers, skimming rapidly, his heartbeat accelerating.
Pages rustled as he turned them, the flickering overhead light casting shifting shadows, drawing him closer to the truth.
"Scheme."
This was from the most recent meeting notes. The writer seemed agitated, repeatedly thickening these two characters until the pen nearly tore through the paper.
Xu Qingli straightened his back, scrutinizing each word, afraid to miss any detail.
A page and a half—quickly finished.
But he didn’t understand.
He traced the lines with his finger, reading again, line by line.
Faked death, set up the scene, used another’s hand to kill—Xu Qingli.
He read it over and over until the words nearly lost meaning.
Confusion, rage, sorrow—even a hint of mockery.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand. He just didn’t want to believe it.
Suddenly, he realized why Cao Xiaojun had tried again and again to kill him.
He wouldn’t have talked. If Xiaojun had asked, he would have sworn on his life.
But Xiaojun never did. Cao Xiaojun hadn’t even given him a chance to defend himself. He was certain Xu Qingli would betray him, would turn on him—as if, in Cao’s mind, he had always been a backstabbing traitor.
That damned Cao Xiaojun and Wu Ximei had spent months weaving this elaborate murder plot.
No—maybe it had been a lie from the start. Maybe, three years ago, they had already begun laying the groundwork for his death.
Cao Xiaojun’s true brother had always been Ni Xiangdong. Xu Qingli was just a stand-in, a shadow, a disposable replacement.
Stepping in during fights, taking him in when he had nowhere to go, moving together, celebrating his birthday—all those kindnesses were just to make up for what they owed Ni Xiangdong. And like a fool, he had believed it, baring his heart, dreaming of loyalty unto death. He had even wanted to avenge him. And what about Cao Xiaojun?
That coward Cao Xiaojun had lurked in the shadows, trying again and again to kill him in secret.
Fuck them!
The whole family had known all along. But no one told him. They let him play his part, let him indulge in his pitiful, laughable delusions. What was he to them? A clown, a joke, a pig raised for slaughter—fed and cared for, just waiting for the final stab.
It was all an act. Every kindness, every show of goodwill—just bait over a trap. What awaited him was the blade at the bottom of the abyss.
All the good was for Ni Xiangdong. Only death was reserved for Xu Qingli.
Rot in hell!
Xu Qingli kicked over the trash can and hurled the notebook across the room.
He had finally found the answer, but the bloody calculation and cruelty were a burden too heavy to bear. His chest heaved violently, emotions churning and exploding inside him. He laughed and sobbed, clutching a lamppost as he retched, his agonized screams torn apart by the night wind.
So "heartbreak" wasn’t just a metaphor. When grief and fury collide, the heart truly suffers a thousand cuts.
Resentment overflowed, hatred burned. His eyes bloodshot, teeth grinding, he slammed his head against the lamppost.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Blood trickled down his temple, the throbbing pain unbearable, a stark reminder of the price he had paid to claw his way back from the brink at dawn.
Xu Qingli had died—twice.
Once on a sweltering southern night, consumed by flames.
Once in the biting northern winter, devoured by human cruelty.
Yes, Xu Qingli was dead. The man who lived now was called Ni Xiangdong.
The Ni Xiangdong known to the world as utterly wicked.
He took a deep breath, smearing the tears and blood across his face with a rough hand.
Fate’s blade spares no one who stands unarmed, and salvation never lies in tears or pleas.
Now, he had to choose his role—butcher or livestock. Kill or be killed. There was no third option. Mercy and weakness belonged to Xu Qingli. Ni Xiangdong lived by a different creed: an eye for an eye, blood for blood.
A sudden thought struck him, and he grinned savagely, chuckling to himself.
He barged into the nearest convenience store, demanding three things: a bottle of liquor, a pack of cigarettes, and a knife.
Swigging the liquor, he swaggered under the streetlight, clutching a tattered notebook.
He no longer feared exposure. He had a foolproof plan, one that would ensure his escape. After all, schemers weren’t limited to Cao Xiaojun and his wife.
Reeking of alcohol, he flipped to a marked page, where possible hiding spots for Cao Xiaojun were circled.
No rush. He had all night to hunt. The darkness had only just begun, leaving him ample time to search.
He knew Cao Xiaojun as well as Cao Xiaojun knew him.
He knew exactly where he’d be hiding.
Finally, on the third floor of an abandoned building, he spotted a fleeting glimmer—jarringly out of place in the pitch-black night.
Found him.
But he didn’t hurry upstairs. Instead, he lit a cigarette, lips curling as he exhaled slowly.
Since Cao Xiaojun had shown no mercy, neither would he.
The thought made him smile—a smile that belonged solely to Ni Xiangdong.
Cao Xiaojun, I’m back. The life you owe me—it’s time to repay.
Flicking the cigarette away, he tightened his grip on the dagger, humming a tune as he ascended the steps, one by one.
Cao Xiaojun limped up the stairs, his leg aching fiercely, but his mind was at ease. He’d already struck a deal with the local boatman. Once night fell, they’d smuggle his family out of here.
Once they left, they could start anew. The future could wait—for now, all that mattered was keeping his family safe.
As he stepped inside, he saw Wu Ximei standing there, face streaked with tears, frantically scanning the hallway behind him.
“Where’s Tianbao?” She seized his arm, her eyes wild with panic. “Tianbao didn’t come with you?”
“Why would he be with me?”
Her hands fell limp, her lips trembling as fresh tears welled up.
“Don’t panic,” he said, steadying her. “Tell me what happened.”
“Tianbao—Tianbao’s gone. It’s my fault, all my fault.” She sobbed. “I went to buy food, only left for ten minutes, but when I came back, he was gone. I searched everywhere, every floor—nothing. He’s nowhere.”
A sense of foreboding surged in Cao Xiaojun, but he forced himself to soothe her."Don't panic, it's fine. Maybe he just went out to play. Kids have short attention spans." He looked around frantically, searching. "Let's look around first, maybe he left a note."
Limping, he rummaged through the place in a fluster, but he already knew the outcome. That voice in his heart mocked him over and over again.
Nothing. There was nothing. There wouldn't be anything.
"Xiaojun—"
Wu Ximei suddenly gasped, her voice laced with terror.
Under the dim light, following her finger, he saw something on the table.
An old, bloodstained phone.
The very phone he had left in the parking lot.
He had come. He had found this place. He had taken Cao Tianbao—his only son.
"Ding-a-ling—"
The phone suddenly rang, its monotonous tone looping in the darkness.
"Don't—"
Wu Ximei hurriedly tried to stop him, but Cao Xiaojun walked over and motioned for her to be quiet with a "shh."
He knew that at this point, he had no other choice.
The call connected. No one spoke, only a series of strange, rustling noises.
Cao Xiaojun inwardly scoffed. This scene was just like that night when he had called him.
He gripped the phone, forcing himself not to speak, but his hand trembled uncontrollably.
Finally, the other end broke the silence.
"Xiaojun, do we count as brothers?"
It was his voice, the same line.
Cao Xiaojun clenched his teeth and stayed silent.
"Would you do me a favor?"
Cao Xiaojun remained quiet, listening to the script on the other end.
"If you trust me, just do as I say, okay?"
Exactly the same. That night, he had said the same thing. Only now, their roles were completely reversed.
"I know you're listening, Cao Xiaojun. Stop fucking pretending to be dead."
The voice on the phone raised slightly.
"If you want Cao Tianbao to come home, then deliver something for me."
"What?"
Cao Xiaojun finally spoke, intending to sound composed, but his voice came out unexpectedly hoarse.
"A corpse."
The other end chuckled lightly—a laugh that belonged to Ni Xiangdong, the real Ni Xiangdong.
Devious, cunning, triumphant after pulling off a cruel joke.
"Anyone's will do. Yours, or Wu Ximei's. Heh, you two can decide."
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