05 Old Photograph

When I knocked Bao Dafa’s head off the burial mound with a single slap, I was scared out of my wits. I froze in place, dumbfounded like a wooden chicken.

Fatty reacted even more violently than I did, as if the severed head I had knocked off belonged to him.

He let out a blood-curdling screech and stumbled back several steps, stammering as he retreated, "Holy mother of god, Chen Mu, you pack one hell of a punch! How on earth did you knock a man's head clean off with just one slap?"

I glared at him irritably and snapped, "Fatty, stop talking nonsense! I definitely didn't knock it off. It must have already been broken to begin with."

Even as I said it, I knew how absurd it sounded, because he had clearly been speaking just moments ago and begging me to save him.

While I was still reeling in disbelief, a massive gush of blood suddenly shot out from the very top of the burial mound, splashing right onto my face. It was intensely gory.

Subconsciously, I turned my head to look at the peak of the mound—precisely where Bao Dafa's head had detached. There, embedded within the earth, I could make out a reddish mass that looked like the severed end of a neck. This meant Bao Dafa hadn't merely been a stray head; his body was indeed buried inside the grave.

He had been alive earlier, but for some unknown reason, his neck had suddenly snapped. Even if my slapping his face had anything to do with it, I couldn't possibly be the primary culprit. It could only be described as a coincidence; his neck would have broken and he would have died regardless of whether I slapped him or not.

So, I immediately told Fatty, "There's something fishy about this grave. Quick, let's dig it up and take a look."

Fatty shrank his neck and said, "I don't know if that's a good idea. Digging up someone's grave just like that... Shouldn't we head back, report to the captain, and request some backup? I've got a really bad feeling about this case; it's way too eerie."

The heroic image of Fatty picking locks earlier instantly vanished from my mind. I asked him if he wanted to crack the case, if he wanted to rack up merits, and if he wanted to win the approval of his idol, Jin Ze.

Fatty said he did, so he left to fetch some digging tools from his car. I was left behind to guard the grave alone, just in case the culprit was lurking underneath or someone came along to tamper with the crime scene.

To be honest, I was quite impressed with my own nerve at the time. After stepping out from under Jin Ze's protection, I discovered that I still possessed plenty of courage and was quite capable of holding my own.

However, the moment Fatty truly departed, a gust of chilly wind swept over me, sending a shiver down my spine as fear slowly began to consume me.

I took a few deep breaths to force myself to calm down, then pulled out my phone and switched on the flashlight to pierce the gloomy, sinister atmosphere.

As the beam of light cut through the dark, I suddenly felt a desire to find out who the owner of this grave was. Given how rushed we had been earlier—plus the shock of Bao Dafa's severed head—I had completely forgotten about this detail.

This could potentially turn out to be a crucial clue. After all, Bao Dafa's head couldn't possibly have appeared on top of this tomb for no reason, and the IP address linked to Mrs. Bao also led right here. The killer and this grave were undoubtedly connected.

Gathering my courage, I shone my phone's light toward the tombstone. Unlike urban cemeteries, these rural earthen graves featured very low, crude stone markers with carved inscriptions, often surrounded by overgrown weeds. I had to bend down and peer closely to read them.

The moment I bent down, directed the light at the stone, and read the name carved upon it, the hairs all over my body stood on end, and I nearly dropped my phone in fright.

The tombstone was simply engraved with three characters: "The Grave of Chen Mu."

Although I had already laid eyes on a graveyard designated for "me" once before in City X, seeing it again didn't make me accustomed to it; instead, it felt increasingly horrifying.

Last time, that grave could at least be explained as a resting place prepared for the assassin Chen Mu. But this time, it clearly referred to me, and me alone.

Yet, here I was, alive and well. Why on earth would there be another grave belonging to me in the outskirts of this city? Was it erected after my transfer to City N, or had it been here all along?

I leaned in closer to examine it further and realized that both the grave and the tombstone were evidently quite aged—conservatively estimated to be at least a year or two old.

At that moment, my heart contracted violently. Did someone know long in advance that I would come to City N and prepare this grave ahead of time? Was there someone out there capable of completely manipulating my life?

As soon as this thought surfaced, I recalled the words Xia Tian had repeated to me over and over again: "I'm going to die, I'm going to die again." I also remembered what Huang Quan had said just before I executed him, sounding as though he were possessed by a ghost: "I am not killing him; I am killing myself. I will kill myself with my own hands."

I couldn't help shuddering. Everything felt far too bizarre. Even if it wasn't the work of ghosts or deities, it was undoubtedly an intricate and sinister trap.

Still, it wasn't long before I pinched my thigh hard and bit the tip of my tongue to force myself to regain composure.

Deducting from a scientific perspective, I quickly arrived at a conclusion. The murderer behind this case must also know me, and this "Chen Mu Grave" probably belonged to someone who had genuinely died bearing the same name. The killer had intentionally sought out this plot to terrify or mislead me.

So, who was this killer? Could it really be White Night?

While I was deep in thought, Fatty puffed his way back, carrying two shovels. It seemed that despite being a coward, his operational efficiency was commendable.

Together, we started digging. But the moment Fatty drove his first shovel into the earth, he let out another shrill yelp.

Subconsciously, I glanced over at him, and I couldn't help shuddering myself.

Damn it, the spadeful of dirt Fatty had dug up was blood-red, as though it had been thoroughly soaked in gore.

I knew Bao Dafa's corpse was supposed to be buried inside the mound, and with his neck severed, a massive amount of blood would have gushed out. Even so, dying the entire grave's soil red to this extent felt exaggerated.

Clearly, things weren't that simple. I thrust my own shovel into the ground. When I pulled out a spadeful of the same bloody soil, a wave of panic washed over me.

This grave was far too eerie, and for a moment, I hesitated to continue.

Yet, despite his timidity, Fatty possessed real competence. He brought the bloody dirt up to his nose, sniffed it, and immediately said to me, "Chen Mu, this isn't right. This isn't blood. It looks like some kind of dye or something. There's no metallic scent of blood at all; instead, it smells like paint."

I lowered my head to sniff it as well, quickly confirming Fatty's hypothesis. The crimson mud hadn't been dyed by blood, but rather by some special chemical substance.

Upon realizing this, I shouted a single word: "Dig!"

With that, Fatty and I mustered all our strength and began excavating furiously. Although every single shovelful of dirt remained red, we were no longer panicked.

Before long, we had cleared away more than half of the earthen mound. Suddenly, a slurry of flesh and minced meat spilled out from the pile—not mud in the geological sense, but genuine human flesh puree.

It was Bao Dafa's body. His flesh and blood looked as though they had been hammered repeatedly by heavy mallets or crushed beneath heavy wheels, flattened beyond recognition as they oozed out. Soon, his bones came into view; the ribs around his chest cavity were completely crushed, presenting a sickeningly gory spectacle.

Fatty immediately blurted out, "Oh, holy crap! This is insanely twisted. I get it now! This red stuff must be some kind of expanding or contracting gel. When placed inside the dirt, it rapidly contracts and hardens. Bao Dafa's body was buried inside with only his head left exposed, so the rapidly tightening soil violently compressed his entire torso. Since his head was outside and he could still breathe, he didn't die instantly. Instead, he was forced to consciously experience his body being crushed flat. And the more he tried to breathe, the more his chest expanded, accelerating the destruction and pulverization of his torso. What a bloody artistic way to commit murder!"

Listening to Fatty's deduction, the truth finally dawned on me. This was no wild speculation; it had to be the exact reality. I had once heard of an accident where a worker fell into a pit on a construction site and was buried in sand up to his neck. Seeing that he could still breathe, his co-workers waited for the rescue team instead of digging him out immediately. When help finally arrived, he was already dead because, although his head was free to breathe, the sand had compressed his chest cavity to the point of fatal asphyxiation.

In other words, Bao Dafa had been crushed to death alive. No wonder he had begged me to save him earlier! It was just a pity that I hadn't realized it in time, and my casual slap had sent his skull rolling off. It was a truly horrifying yet brilliantly executed trap. Although I hadn't committed the murder myself, I was somewhat involved, and that realization weighed heavily on my chest.

Nevertheless, I quickly rallied my spirits. Fatty and I resumed digging into the depths of the grave until we hit the bottom and uncovered a pitch-black wooden coffin that had already begun to rot.

We pried open the coffin lid, only to find no corpse inside—just a traditional burial shroud.

Shortly after, I noticed a photograph pinned to the shroud and immediately picked it up.

It was an old photograph, somewhat aged and yellowed, though remarkably well-preserved without any tears.

It showed a group of four children posing together. However, the picture was incomplete; the last child on the end had been cleanly cut off, leaving me to see only three.

For some inexplicable reason, as I looked at the three children, an overwhelming sense of familiarity washed over me, as if I had seen them somewhere before.

Soon, I discovered that their respective names were written in black ink on the back of the photo, which finally explained why they looked so familiar.

The names of the three children were Feifei, Haohao, and Left Eye.

Feifei was undoubtedly Huang Feifei. Haohao rang a bell, but I couldn't immediately place who it was. Then, my mind gave a sharp jolt, and the memory clicked into place: Fang Lin, the transgender woman who had been my girlfriend—wasn't that her name back in the orphanage before she was adopted?

That left the question: who was "Left Eye"?