Meng Xiangjiang was dead; the family would come to collect the body.
At the earliest, in a few hours; at the latest, by sunrise, Meng Henshui would definitely arrive. Jiang Yan had already called in advance. Plus, with the disturbance of the wall on the third-and-a-half floor, Meng Henshui would surely seek out Jiang Yan.
There would still be time to ask the truth then.
Jiang Yan explained her purpose for seeking the two: “Tomorrow I’ll probably need Shen Xiaoxiao’s help. Chunhong is unlikely to be alive, and Meng Henshui might want to know her or Su Zhiyu’s whereabouts.”
Shen Huanhuan understood: “Using Xiaoxiao’s ability in exchange for Meng Henshui telling the truth—a very reasonable deal.”
Shen Xiaoxiao had no objection, nodded quickly, “Sure, sure.”
“Then, Jiang Yan-jie, just contact my sister directly. I don’t really check my phone, might not see your message immediately.”
“Okay.”
Jiang Yan got up to leave, but before exiting, she seemed to suddenly recall something and turned back: “Does Lin Xinjiu have any special abilities? He seems to be able to see through walls.”
Shen Huanhuan was momentarily stunned, then pursed her lips a little embarrassedly: “Sorry, I thought I told you, but it seems I forgot.”
“He was born with a yin-yang eye—he’s been able to see spirits since birth. My master says Lin Xinjiu’s yin-yang eye is the most powerful kind; he can see supernatural beings through obstacles.”
“No worries, I never asked before,” Jiang Yan replied.
After leaving the second floor, Jiang Yan continued upstairs. By the time she reached the third-and-a-half floor, Lin Xinjiu was gone.
On the fourth floor, the door was half open, and Yu Renwan was squatting by the entrance putting on shoes.
When she saw Jiang Yan return, she let out a long sigh and slowly took her shoes off again.
“I was just about to go find you…” Yu Renwan said in a small voice, hugging Xiao Wa, “You were gone a long time.”
Jiang Yan: “What did you want with me?”
Yu Renwan dodged the question: “You smell really nice, like hotpot.”
Saying this, she very pointedly took a deep breath.
The little crow did as well.
Jiang Yan: “……”
She handed Yu Renwan two boxes of instant hotpot from her bag. “I’m going to bed now, go eat by yourself.”
Yu Renwan, pleasantly surprised, pointed at herself: “For me?”
Jiang Yan was honest: “Shen Xiaoxiao insisted I take them.”
Yu Renwan hugged Xiao Wa tighter, staring at the floor, mumbling, “So someone gave it to you, but you’re giving it to me…”
Jiang Yan looked down at Yu Renwan’s suddenly reddening ears and couldn’t help reaching out to pinch them.
“Pretty warm.”
Yu Renwan:!!!
Jiang Yan yawned, waved her hand, and sauntered past Yu Renwan, heading for the bedroom to sleep.
Yu Renwan stood there in a daze for a long time before finally lifting the nearly suffocating Xiao Wa in her arms.
Xiao Wa shrieked furiously, flapping its wings and kicking Yu Renwan’s face.
Yu Renwan: “I-I didn’t mean to squeeze you!”
Xiao Wa spat twice, grabbed the instant hotpot and flew to the kitchen. Yu Renwan touched her red ear tips, took out her phone, and opened her note app.
After recording the first time sharing a bed with someone, she now added the first time receiving a gift, and the first time getting cozy to her list.
All three times were because of Jiang Yan.
Yu Renwan jotted down with gratitude:
“Jiang Yan is really nice.”
“Even if Jiang Yan dies one day, I still wouldn’t let Xiao Wa dig out her eyeballs. No one can dig out Jiang Yan’s eyes.”
*
The next day, the sun was blazing.
There were hardly any clouds in the sky, and the sunlight was so harsh it nearly blinded. The ground’s temperature soared.
But Jiang Yan wasn’t woken by the sun; it was the aroma of Yu Renwan’s cooking that did it.
The scent was irresistible. Jiang Yan lazed in bed for several minutes before slowly sitting up.
Heavy curtains blocked all sunlight; the room was dark. Jiang Yan massaged her brow, and when she had mostly woken up, she got out of bed and pulled open the curtains.
Blinding sunlight flooded in, and Jiang Yan instinctively closed her eyes.
“Jiang Jiang?” came Yu Renwan’s tentative voice from behind.
Jiang Yan thought she had misheard and turned, half shielding her eyes, “What?”
“I made breakfast,” Yu Renwan said, drying her hands on her apron, a bit happy, “Seafood porridge. I even fried shrimp. Tasted one, really good.”
Jiang Yan: “What did you just call me?”
Yu Renwan opened her mouth, looking flustered: “I…”
Jiang Yan stared right at Yu Renwan, watching the excitement drain from her face, replaced by panic and disappointment.
“Sorry…”
Yu Renwan fidgeted with her sleeve.
Jiang Yan: “Don’t do it again.”
“Show some respect.”
Yu Renwan watched Jiang Yan’s retreating figure, and only after the suffocating, heart-clenching feeling faded did she tilt her head in confusion: “Show some respect…?”
When Jiang Yan sat down at the table, Yu Renwan glanced at her cautiously.
“…Jiang Jiang-jie?”
Jiang Yan’s frown could have killed an ant. Without a word, she picked up a spoon, scooped a mouthful of porridge, and instantly her brow smoothed out.
“Forget it.”
She took another spoonful, muttering softly, “Forget it.”
“Forget it, not worth the fuss.”
So breakfast ended with Jiang Yan occasionally muttering, “Forget it.” Downstairs, a few intermittent horns sounded—there was no parking at this old factory, so whoever could enter now was surely Meng Xiangjiang’s relatives.
Jiang Yan wiped her mouth, then peeked out the kitchen window.
A black funeral service vehicle and a red SUV.
Even someone like Jiang Yan, largely clueless about taboos, knew red was a festive color unsuited for funerals. Yet the SUV was parked right next to the hearse, boldly marking the owner’s relationship.
A moment later, the car door opened, and a girl in a wine-red dress stepped out from the driver’s seat.
“Bang.” She slammed the door shut.
Meng Henshui greeted the funeral home staff.
The undertaker was a bit stunned, “You’re the Ms. Meng who called us?”
Meng Henshui’s presence was overwhelming; she took off her sunglasses and nodded cheerily, “That’s me.”
“Your outfit…”
“Oh, this?” Meng Henshui glanced at her red dress, “Our family isn’t superstitious. Grandfather loved seeing me wear red, so I wanted to wear this to send him off.”
The undertaker understood: “I see, well, please show us the way up.”
Meng Henshui strode up the stairs, followed by the strongman who’d carry the body, with the undertaker in the rear.
Passing the third-and-a-half floor, Meng Henshui instinctively glanced at the wall hiding the Yellow Immortal.
Now the wall paint had fallen off, the red brick glaringly obvious.
Meng Henshui froze at the landing, her face draining of color.
The strongman urged behind her, “What’s the holdup?”
She shivered, her powerful aura suddenly diminished, steadied herself on the railing, and forced herself to proceed upstairs.
Trouble was clearly brewing.
She’d expected as much from Xu Jinhua’s call yesterday—Meng Xiangjiang’s death shouldn’t have been these days; he should have died long ago. Whether it was Shang Demin, Li Ronghai, or Meng Xiangjiang, they all should have died! But that strange woman’s voice left her unsettled all night; she knew something was wrong, but not how bad.
Now she understood.
She’d realized the world was more mystical than she thought when she first met the weasel spirit—ordinary things had the police, but this sort of thing must be handled by special people. She was ready to take responsibility and prepared to be found.
But not today.
Not today.
She had to get home today. She couldn’t die, nor be arrested. Everything had to end today.
Her steps quickened; in seconds, she reached the fourth floor. The door was half-open. Meng Henshui glanced through the gap.
Behind it stood an extraordinarily beautiful woman—beauty that simply didn’t belong here.
Meng Henshui guessed her identity, closed her eyes with a touch of bitterness, but the woman said nothing, just looked upstairs, indicating she could go.
“You…”
Jiang Yan shut the door, cutting her off.
Right now, Meng Henshui wasn’t in the mood to talk, and Jiang Yan didn’t want to listen; she had already revealed herself—when the time came, Meng Henshui would come to her.
Meng Henshui stared at the closed door, turned, gave a polite smile to the two behind her, and continued to the fifth floor.
Yesterday, she had Xu Jinhua move Meng Xiangjiang’s body back home. Sure enough, when she entered, she saw Meng Xiangjiang face down on the living room floor.
The blood had been wiped clean. His face, abdomen, and knees were a deep purplish-red from pooled blood, and several areas showed rigor mortis, eyes wide open as if decrying the agony of death.
The funeral worker spoke softly: “Please close his eyes.”
Meng Henshui knelt. As the eyelids had stiffened first, the task wasn’t simple; she almost had to peel them down like orange peels, the thin skin finally covering the eyes.
The strongman came over, effortlessly hefting the now-bloodless body—so light, its legs dangling like sticks.
“Miss Meng, will you go to the funeral home?” the undertaker asked.
“I’ll skip it.”
With others following up on the rest, Meng Henshui watched the two men leave, then turned toward the TV.
She reached her hand into the gap behind the TV and wall, felt around, and pried out a small recording device.
Next, she went to the sofa, retrieved a micro camera wedged inside.
The second camera was behind a ceramic ornament in the bedroom.
The third was on the ceiling.
Meng Henshui exhaled slowly as she looked at the three cameras in her hand.
The one on the ceiling was installed by Meng Zhaolin. Wary of linking it to his phone, it was set to record only, not transmit, so Meng Zhaolin still had no idea how Meng Xiangjiang died or that his own camera had been found.
All the other devices, Meng Henshui had set up herself—three days before Meng Zhaolin did.
So she’d recorded Meng Zhaolin setting up his camera, calling Meng Xiangjiang, steering him to buy a new mattress, then endlessly stressing “Fu Ru Donghai” as the brand, so afraid he’d buy the wrong one.
Yes, from beginning to end, the mattress-with-snakes case was her doing.
The plan lasted three years.
For three years, she kept confirming with the Yellow Immortal, searching all over Changxia for elderly people with hidden crimes. After insulating herself thoroughly, she used intermediaries and vendors to sell snake-filled mattresses to those old men.
Though aged, they could handle a couple of molting snakes. The Yellow Immortal would act after they killed the “offerings,” causing them to die by exsanguination.
Of course, such deaths did not go unnoticed.
After she killed a fourth elderly person this way, the police finally filed a case. But she had shielded herself well, and with the Yellow Immortal’s help, the authorities repeatedly found nothing.
She paused for a year.
Six months ago, she worked with the Yellow Immortal again, killing an old man who’d raped and murdered a girl years ago and escaped justice. In this case, the authorities finally noticed a pattern.
—All the elderly victims had purchased a mattress of the same brand before dying.
But those mattresses were either burned as the deceased’s belongings or collected in advance, so all the police knew was a brand, nothing more.
They searched all over the markets and found no sign of the brand.
New cases piled atop old ones; this case was shelved for six months.
Then, half a month ago, at the start of national committee nominations, the police received new reports:
There were strange deaths in the old factory, two elderly men dead one after another, their skin like paper, fluttering over bones.
The case was reopened.
Multiple officers were sent to the markets near the factory. This time, they found the Fu Ru Donghai brand mattress, but whether they cut it open or slept on it, nothing happened.
The bureau had given up on the mattress angle—when Meng Zhaolin started to scheme.
He noticed every victim was elderly, and immediately thought of his own father. It was natural for him—this was a man who’d risen on the death of his own daughter. With one daughter gone, he could use the other one, and if not her, even his own father.
So he did use Meng Xiangjiang—phoning him, making him buy the mattress, installing a camera on the bedroom ceiling while he was out.
All of it was caught by Meng Henshui’s devices, set up days earlier.
Now, she finally had enough evidence to expose her father.
For Su Zhiyu.
For Meng Chunhong.
*
After packing everything, Meng Henshui knocked on the fourth-floor door.
She’d wanted to run, but figured if that woman let her up to collect Meng Xiangjiang’s body, she would give her one more night to settle affairs.
A moment later, Jiang Yan opened the door.
Shen Xiaoxiao was already perched on the sofa in the living room. Shen Huanhuan was offering fruit like a host, Yu Renwan had dragged a chair from the bedroom and was half-peeking out, curious but nervous, always checking her distance from the others.
Shen Huanhuan patted the couch beside her: “Come, sit, come.”
Meng Henshui stood at the threshold, eyes darting over everyone, then her shoulder blades relaxed a little. Somehow, she didn’t feel threatened. None of them seemed intent on judging her—more like they just wanted to chat.
She tried to remove her shoes, but Jiang Yan stopped her: “No need. We’ll be leaving today.”
The Bureau’s job was merely to identify the cause of the energy disturbance in the factory—the Yellow Immortal in the wall. A nearly two-thousand-year-old nature spirit was not something they’d be asked to handle. The Bureau’s view: the karma between Meng Henshui and the Yellow Immortal was theirs alone; after the team left, specialists would handle the aftermath.
So this conversation with Meng Henshui was tangential, but Jiang Yan remained curious about her relationship with Chunhong—and about the real cause of Lu Jingrong and Su Zhiyu’s deaths.
At Jiang Yan’s words, Meng Henshui hesitated, hands naturally falling into fists, and asked softly: “Are you taking me away today?”
Jiang Yan looked at Shen Huanhuan; she wasn’t yet familiar with Bureau procedures.
Shen Huanhuan nodded, “Because your dealings with the Yellow Immortal caused the factory’s energy disturbance, you’ll probably have to come with us.”
“But you don’t need to worry too much,” Shen Huanhuan comforted her. “From what we can see, the people you killed weren’t good people. The Bureau is very fair and will take that into account.”
Shen Xiaoxiao chimed in: “Yeah, yeah! Maybe you’ll be out after giving your statement! The Bureau’s judgment isn’t like the police—if you have a clear conscience, there’s no need to be tense!”
Meng Henshui responded immediately: “I have a clear conscience.”
“There you go,” said Shen Xiaoxiao, crossing her legs, “Just be honest—Jiang Yan-jie will know if you’re lying.”
Meng Henshui looked around, as if trying to spot this “Jiang Yan-jie.”
“……”
Jiang Yan: “Me.”
Meng Henshui nodded knowingly—she’d guessed this woman was in charge.
She sat down in the empty space on the sofa, facing Jiang Yan across the coffee table.
Jiang Yan started them off: “Let’s talk about the 4.17 major child trafficking case—and about Chunhong, your connection to Meng Chunhong.”
Even though she knew they must already know a lot, hearing the name suddenly made Meng Henshui instinctively straighten her spine.
As if bracing for a heavy load.
“Chunhong…”
She repeated the name, then af,ter a long silence, slowly began, “Chunhong was my sister, but not by both parents. She was the child Meng Zhaolin had by his old girlfriend from his hometown, back when he was young.”
She explained to Jiang Yan: “Our family situation was complicated. My mother gave birth to me first, and then married Meng Zhaolin. So, when Meng Zhaolin’s old girlfriend was eight months pregnant, she suddenly heard about his marriage to my mother, went into early labor from shock and died of hemorrhage at a village clinic, leaving the newborn behind.”
“That year, Chunhong was just born; I was already running around.”
Meng Henshui recalled, “Chunhong grew up with another family—very few people knew of her existence. When she was about to start school, that family came to Meng Zhaolin for money. My mom overheard and, being softhearted, had Meng Zhaolin bring Chunhong home. Chunhong was registered as a distant relative’s daughter, first as Meng Jiao, later as Meng Chunhong—my mom gave her that name, to make us seem like real sisters.”
“At the time, I didn’t understand the politics of illegitimacy or why it should matter. All I knew was that I’d gained a wonderful friend. She was full of mischief and really cute; by second grade, boys were already following her around saying they’d marry her, but she punched every one of them away.”
“We grew up together in the factory. Neighbors thought she was our adopted cousin, and with my mom’s careful management, no rumor ever spread.” Here, Meng Henshui pointed up, “We lived on the fifth floor back then.”
“Me, Chunhong, my mom, Meng Zhaolin, Meng Xiangjiang.”
“The five of us squeezed into that tiny place, but we were happy. Every day was good. I shared a bed with Chunhong. Once, she whispered that she hoped life would always stay this way, that she could always be with her sister.”
“I agreed. So I couldn’t break that promise. I searched for her ever since she disappeared.”
Jiang Yan asked: “How did Meng Chunhong go missing?”
Meng Henshui pressed her lips together, clearly reluctant to revisit it, but took a deep breath and forced herself: “The day Chunhong disappeared was sunny. Changxia had just had seven consecutive missing-child cases—a few elementary schools were closed, but not hers.”
“In those days, my mom always took Chunhong to and from school. Then in early April, Meng Zhaolin suddenly said he’d do the escorting, since he was in the criminal division.”
“Though he was already in his thirties and still stuck competing with new graduates because of his lack of skill, we still had faith in cops, so we figured he could keep Chunhong safe. From then on, he walked her to school.”
“I still recall how happy Chunhong was then,” said Meng Henshui softly.
Her voice was beautiful—now soft, hoarse, and moving. “She was thirteen. The first eight years with strangers, the last five with us. Because Meng Zhaolin felt so guilty, he was always cold to her. Those days, though, she laughed more than ever—as if using up all her life’s laughter.”
“On April 14, Meng Zhaolin rushed home, and before he could even speak, my mom fainted at the sight of him alone. Panic everywhere. He said he’d just gone to the public bathroom, and when he came out, Chunhong was gone. We turned the city upside down. With no surveillance near the restrooms, we begged and begged the police, but nothing was found.”
“I was in my last year of junior high. I knew my sister was missing, but I kept thinking she’d suddenly reappear, so I didn’t really mourn. That night, Meng Zhaolin came home—I took his phone to play Snake, and kept getting pop-up messages. I got curious and opened one.”
“I saw a little red dot moving fast between road markers, finally stopping at the car factory. I didn’t know it was a real-time tracker, just closed it and played my game. Then Meng Zhaolin ran out and snatched the phone back.”
“He was so rough, he made me cry. My mom thought I was crying over Chunhong, but that time, I wasn’t.”
“I cried plenty over Chunhong, but only that time, it wasn’t for her.”
“It’s because Meng Zhaolin hurt me too much. I was crying for having such a cruel father.”
“You probably know the rest,” Meng Henshui said, accepting a glass of water from Shen Huanhuan, and took a sip. “Meng Zhaolin found those missing kids in a basement at the factory, but not my sister.”
“Chunhong was clever—she slipped out when the car stopped, but she didn’t come home; no one’s seen her since.”
“I think Chunhong figured out what Meng Zhaolin really was and guessed the truth about her own kidnapping. She didn’t want to come back. She’s probably very far away by now, or maybe somewhere in Changxia, all on her own.”
“She never came home, so I have no sister anymore. I should avenge her, and I should avenge myself for never hearing her call me sister again.”
She stared at her cup, water rippling in circles, then suddenly smiled. “After that came the February Bridge case.”
“The central investigators were about to arrive, but no progress had been made. The victims were always women in their twenties. That time, Meng Zhaolin turned his focus to me, as he had to Chunhong before.”
“We were just tools for him to climb higher.”
“That day, he nudged me to keep up a friendship and promised to pick me up from my friend’s house. But I had just left when he called, saying something came up at work.”
“He waited near February Bridge, just out of view of the cameras, watched me cross, watched strangers drag me into the grass—watched, saying and doing nothing.”
“I know he memorized the killer’s face. I know he wanted me dead. The dead can’t talk—could never say why they’d crossed that bridge so late.”
“Not all parents love their children. My father did not love me.”
She said this through gritted teeth, but her eyes were suddenly red, and her smile looked more painful than crying.
Anyone could see she wasn’t hoping for Meng Zhaolin’s love.
She was mourning that, as a daughter, she’d never had a father’s love.
When recovered, Meng Henshui continued: “I’d studied kickboxing. I knocked out a bunch of the killer’s teeth, then ran home. Meng Zhaolin came home, pretended he knew nothing, and said he missed me because of work. I exposed him.”
“I said I’d testify, saying the plan was all my idea—that I insisted on using myself as bait.”
“I told him I knew what he really thought. I said I’d always hated Chunhong, that I was glad she died, that my mom was gone, and he was all I had left—I’d go along with anything he wanted.”
Meng Henshui said, “He believed me.”
“If I’d told the truth, he’d have lost his job, so when he heard my statement, he believed me.”
Jiang Yan said, “You didn’t want him suspended.”
“And he had many reasons for not picking you up—in the end, all of this would be just your suspicion, no proof.”
“Yes, presumption of innocence.”
“I knew that telling would make no difference,” Meng Henshui said softly. “That wasn’t what I wanted. I only want him dead. That much, he deserves.”
Jiang Yan: “So you still think Meng Chunhong is dead?”
At this, Meng Henshui suddenly closed her eyes—the emotions she’d just forced down surged up, and she began sobbing, big tears rolling out.
Her crying was so abrupt it startled everyone.
Shen Huanhuan instinctively went for tissues. Meng Henshui bent over, shook her head, “She must be alive.”
“She must still be alive.”
Jiang Yan didn’t argue; when Meng Henshui calmed down, she asked, “What about Su Zhiyu?”
“How did Su Zhiyu die?”
Meng Henshui straightened, wiping tears away quickly: “I failed Zhiyu-jie.”
She said quietly, “Six months after the February Bridge case, there was a case in Changxia—someone brutalized women my age, ripping their tongues out. Meng Zhaolin wanted me to find a same-age girl to walk those streets as bait.”
“But there’s no way I could do that to someone else. So I tried to trap Meng Zhaolin and contacted Zhiyu-jie.”
“I told her I’d meet Meng Zhaolin at the factory to discuss things. He never used electronic communication with me, and always searched me to make sure I carried nothing, so I could never record his crimes.”
“That day, I had Zhiyu-jie stand on the fifth floor with a recorder and camera, ideally go live and publish everything he said. But I made a fatal error.”
“That day, Meng Xiangjiang suddenly came home.”
She pointed to the bedroom, gaze falling on its small window.
“I was in the bedroom with Meng Zhaolin when I saw Zhiyu-jie’s body fall past the window. Her dress was billowing, her long dark hair flying—I thought we made eye contact, but maybe I imagined the whole thing.”
“My mind blanked, I wanted to cry more than anything—but I couldn’t.”
“Then—bang—she hit the ground. Meng Xiangjiang slammed the door.”
“He said he’d seen a girl outside, she ran when she saw him, he chased her to the roof and saw her fall.”
“Suspicious, Meng Zhaolin feared I’d been involved. To allay his doubts, I put on gloves and searched Zhiyu-jie’s body for cameras—her hand was mangled, but I found a recording pen.”
“There was nothing on it. We left, and Meng Xiangjiang called the police.”
“Zhiyu-jie was truly an amazing person—so radiant, so confident, almost unreal. She was too dazzling not to rely on, so I told her secrets I’d never told anyone, though I had no proof for any of it and even I felt it sounded like paranoia. But she believed me.”
“She’d have been better off not believing.”
By now, Meng Henshui’s face was nearly numb:
“After that day, Meng Xiangjiang had to die as well.”
She sped up: “Three years ago, I accidentally met the weasel spirit seeking a reward. I asked why me; it said my luck was so hard and bitter, it was eager to take my chance to be human in the next life for itself.”
“It was right.”
She said, “I gave it not only my next life’s chance at humanity, but more. I probably won’t be human for many lifetimes. I gave it all my luck and fortune, more than enough for it to cultivate, and it had to carry out my wishes.”
“So I spent three years setting a trap for Meng Zhaolin. All the elderly killed by the mattresses were murderers—I have evidence: Shang Demin molested Lu Jingrong until she jumped, Li Ronghai’s refusal to pay compensation drove the Lu couple to suicide—all had blood on their hands.”
“I’d met Jingrong before,” Meng Henshui recalled softly, “She liked braided pigtails, was a bit old-fashioned, but very sweet and gentle. I kept to myself and wasn’t close with her, but I remember her grabbing my hand and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me.”
“It was magical. Can you imagine? Someone you thought didn’t know you at all remembered your birthday, prepared a surprise, and sang just for you.”
“But she died too.”
“I’ve met so many precious girls in my life. They were all pushed to their deaths by this world.”
“I avenged them. I avenged myself.”
“Now, with all but one target dead, I’ll report Meng Zhaolin under my real name. With the mattress case evidence and my revised statement about February Bridge, the police should reopen the 8.17 and February Bridge cases.”
“I guess Meng Zhaolin won’t die, but jail for many years at least—he’s not young anymore. The ending isn’t how I hoped, but it’s something I can accept.”
The room fell silent.
After a while, Shen Huanhuan asked, “Why not have the weasel just kill Meng Zhaolin? Wasn’t your original wish only for his death?”
Meng Henshui sat quietly on the sofa.
After a while, she flashed a self-mocking look, maybe mocking something more abstract.
“Because it can’t be done.”
“Because Meng Zhaolin is regarded as a great benefactor, blessed with fortune, the Yellow Immortal couldn’t harm him.”
Shen Huanhuan sighed—she understood.
Meng Henshui gave a bitter smile: “In 4.17, Meng Zhaolin saved countless families, over a hundred children.”
“Compared to them, my sister’s life was insignificant. Just one life—worthless.”
Jiang Yan: “Have you considered—what if your report gets no support—”
“Of course I have,” Meng Henshui replied.
“Saying my sister’s life paid for all those children’s lives is a heavy claim—no family will want to hear it, nor would they ever believe.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“My sister vanished from the world, unnoticed.”
She bit her lip so hard her face stiffened. Stifling a sob, she said, word by word, “If she’s alive, I hope she knows someone’s still searching for her. If she’s dead, her remains should echo wherever they fall on earth.”
“Her life should have been a thunderclap.”