Because she’d stayed up all night, as soon as Le Yi finished her sentence, she hugged her pillow and fell into a deep sleep.
Jiang Yan, beside her, clenched her teeth with a smile.
[I bet Jiang Yan’s considering whether a forced confession might work.]
[I think so too. She has the information but won’t share it—her fists must be itching.]
[That’s perfectly normal. They’ve only just met—how could Le Yi possibly tell Jiang Yan everything?]
Jiang Yan was indeed thinking about the possibility of using force for a confession.
But since Le Yi had been here for a relatively long time and was very familiar with the sanatorium, Jiang Yan knew she’d likely need her help soon and didn’t want to close off that option.
So she let out a breath, then lay back down to catch up on her sleep.
The two of them, one to the left and one to the right, slept soundly in the hospital room. By the time Jiang Yan woke up, it was already noon.
Yu Renwan messaged her on WeChat, asking why she hadn’t come to eat, and even sent her a photo of braised ribs.
Jiang Yan rubbed her eyes, got out of bed, and walked straight downstairs.
When she arrived at the cafeteria, nearly every seat was taken. All the patients were eating with eyes brimming with tears, each plate piled with two or three bones that had been gnawed clean.
When Jiang Yan finally arrived, Yu Renwan glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention, then quickly ladled two generous spoonfuls of ribs into her bowl.
Her bowl was immediately piled high.
To cover up this blatant favoritism, Yu Renwan heaped a thick layer of rice over the ribs.
“Go quietly to the side, and eat quickly…”
Yu Renwan explained in a low voice, “The head nurse limits everyone to three pieces at most. She’s really stingy.”
Jiang Yan nodded, carrying her now heavy bowl to a table.
Midway through her meal, more than half the people in the cafeteria had already left. Yu Renwan brought her own bowl over and sat down.
She started sharing the information she’d gathered that morning:
“There’s a market halfway up the mountain—I tried asking questions there, but as soon as I arrived, a gust of wind scattered all the stalls…” Yu Renwan said guiltily. “So only one vendor was willing to say a few words to me.”
Jiang Yan: “It’s fine.”
Yu Renwan nodded dispiritedly.
“There’s not much—mostly just history… The guy said Baishan sanatorium was built twenty years ago. At the time, it was the only sanatorium in Baishan Town, so there was no competition. It was in a great spot, beautiful scenery, so it attracted lots of patients.”
“The patients back then were all from wealthy families. They came to enjoy themselves, but later things changed.”
Jiang Yan listened intently as she spat out bones.
Yu Renwan recalled, “He said the turning point came six years ago. That’s when Baishan sanatorium’s first director died of illness. The place was sold off—officially it’s called Baishan sanatorium, but it’s not run by the town, it’s privately owned, so they could sell it as they pleased.”
“The second director wasn’t much of a manager, and around then Baishan Town started to develop, with more sanatoriums cropping up. Baishan sanatorium couldn’t keep up, and its reputation plummeted, but even then, it was still middle-tier—could pull in patients from decent families.”
“But two years ago, it changed hands again. The third director couldn’t even match the second, and Baishan sanatorium completely declined.”
At this point, Yu Renwan instinctively lowered her voice. “The vendor said the patients here now are all people their families have abandoned. They’re sent in and left—no one pays their bills, and when they die, no one comes to collect the bodies. Calls to their families go unanswered, so the bodies are just cremated and buried—no gravestones, nothing.”
Jiang Yan had told her about how someone died every weekend—either a patient or a staff member—but word of mass deaths at Baishan sanatorium had never gotten out.
“That’s probably why. If the families don’t care, nobody else will either. When a patient dies, they’re just buried, and outsiders probably don’t even know how many patients there are… The latest headcount was only done a few days ago when the Bureau sent someone over specifically to check.”
Jiang Yan lowered her gaze.
This information seemed almost useless—surface level, at best.
Yu Renwan pushed her rice around, then suddenly went, “Ah!”
“There’s something I forgot—it’s about the third director!”
Jiang Yan: “About what?”
“About her previous… job?”
Yu Renwan said, “Before buying Baishan sanatorium, the third director used to be the head of a circus.”
*
After lunch, Jiang Yan returned to the ward.
She’d packed some ribs for Le Yi, who took them without ceremony and asked, “Were these made by the new kitchen staff?”
Jiang Yan nodded.
Le Yi didn’t say anything more, just took her lunchbox to the window, admiring the view as she focused on the ribs.
Jiang Yan lay back down.
She opened her chat with Shen Xiaoxiao: “Are you free this afternoon?”
Shen Xiaoxiao replied instantly: “After three!”
“I’ve realized nobody’s actually supervising us here—there’s no discipline or decorum. I just bribed the doctor with several thousand yuan, and he finally agreed to cast my sister’s leg. He says it’ll be done by three.”
Jiang Yan: “Okay.”
“After three, I plan to go through the archive room here. Cover for me, will you?”
Shen Xiaoxiao: “Okk!”
She continued, “Jiang Yan-jie, the private detective I mentioned—he said he’s found something ‘good’ and will send it over soon.”
Jiang Yan: “Good stuff?”
Shen Xiaoxiao nodded, “That’s what he said. Maybe it’ll help! Can’t wait!”
Jiang Yan smiled.
Money really did talk in a place like this.
Two o’clock in the afternoon.
Shen Xiaoxiao sent over a file, which Jiang Yan opened directly.
Inside were historical records of Baishan sanatorium since its founding—nearly 10,000 words, well-organized, clear and concise.
Jiang Yan sped through it.
The document recorded the sanatorium’s development through three directors, each taking the place further downhill. Nothing much differed from what Yu Renwan had learned, only here the timeline and logic were more complete.
Jiang Yan read at a glance ten lines at a time.
At first, nothing especially noteworthy stood out. But when she reached the section about the third and current director, she slowed down.
Two years ago, the third director—Jiang He—took over Baishan sanatorium.
But just a year after starting, Jiang He was diagnosed with liver cancer. To avoid overwork, she transferred management duties to the deputy director. Most of the time, she wasn’t even at the sanatorium, and when she was, she stayed briefly in her office and rarely appeared.
In February, the deputy director suddenly drowned, at which point Jiang He transferred half of her authority to the head nurse, Fang Miao.
The file described Jiang He’s rise in detail.
Jiang He was born in a remote mountainous village in the northwest. Her family was desperately poor. When she was little, she’d once seen a travelling circus perform in the village, which gave her a lifelong goal.
She wanted to own a circus of her own.
This was over thirty years ago. Circuses then were haphazardly run, most of their animals caught by poaching. After severe mistreatment and their wildness beaten out of them, the animals would be forced into performances.
Worse still, at the time, human body acts were all the rage.
Everyone knew it was illegal, but as long as there was a market, someone would perform. The public’s curiosity about the grotesque meant it only became more rampant: jumping through rings of fire, walking on iron nails. Countless children were trafficked into circuses—a lifetime buried inside those tents.
Jiang He did nothing to change that path. She became trapped in the cycle of circus acts she’d seen as a child. She cut ties with her family, left her village, and chased her dream, hoping to show the finest, most extraordinary human performances to the world.
The most cruel ones as well.
Seven years ago, she bought a group of children in the mountains—the oldest six or seven, the youngest three or four. This age range meant soft, pliable bones, suitable for training. Once she’d rented a training facility, she devoted herself to “cultivating” them.
This cultivation lasted three years, and she succeeded. She began seeking performance opportunities.
But by then, laws had long since banned such acts. All circuses were strictly vetted; there was no chance a troupe like Jiang He’s would ever pass. Apply for a permit, and not only would her troupe be shut down, but she herself would also go straight to jail.
But Jiang He didn’t give up. After making many inquiries, four years ago, she turned to the “underground circus.”
It was much like an underground fight club: beyond the law’s reach, devoid of humanity and discipline, a realm of surreal desires, madness, and showers of cash.
Within just two years, Jiang He tasted huge success.
She took her circus to every major underground venue, and every show sold out. Countless spectators paid large sums to witness the spectacle of human circus acts.
Jiang He made a fortune.
Once a person has money, they crave power and status. With the help of some enthusiastic fans, Jiang He gradually laundered her identity. She began openly running legitimate circus shows in the daylight.
Two years ago, while performing in a wooded village, her circus was caught in a forest fire.
The animals either escaped or perished, and every circus member was killed.
That included the children who’d made Jiang He rich.
Though she erased all traces of them for the sake of her reputation and stopped having them perform, Jiang He still treated these members as her most precious collection. Before every show, she’d place them in shipping containers, hoarding her treasures like a miser.
As the fire tore through the forest, Jiang He only cared about saving herself.
Every child in the container was burned to ashes.
The circus collapsed, never to be rebuilt. Jiang He turned instead to purchasing Baishan sanatorium, becoming its third director.
The document reached its end.
At the bottom was the private detective’s closing words:
“Photos have been sent to your email. That’s all the information you asked for. Please transfer the balance to the original account. Thank you, boss~”
“The following is bonus content.”
Jiang Yan’s fingertips paused.
Then she continued to scroll—
The private detective wrote:
“While searching for your requested information, I discovered something interesting.”
“Jiang He has a twin sister. Based on complaints posted by several Baishan sanatorium nurses on social media, Jiang He’s personality has changed dramatically in the past year. So I have a bold theory—”
“Jiang He has already died for unknown reasons, and the one now in her place is her sister, Jiang An.”
“Their relationship was always poor. If Jiang He left a will, the sanatorium would be donated or go elsewhere, never to Jiang An. So impersonating Jiang He is Jiang An’s only way to get the sanatorium.”
Jiang He is dead.
After reading the detective’s analysis, Jiang Yan inclined toward that conclusion—if it was true.
But Shen Xiaoxiao could confirm this for her; she was very skilled with computers.
With that thought, Jiang Yan exhaled.
She prepared to reread the document in case she’d missed anything.
But at that moment, her phone began to buzz repeatedly.
Shen Xiaoxiao’s messages streamed in—her chat box filled with: “?!!”
Jiang Yan left the file with a sigh and opened the chat.
“What’s wrong?”
Shen Xiaoxiao: “Jiang Yan-jie, look at the picture!!”
“No need to scroll up, I’ll send it again!”
The next moment, with a chime, Shen Xiaoxiao sent a photo.
It was from an underground circus performance.
Who knows where the private detective had found it—he really was resourceful.
Jiang Yan felt a brief surge of awe, then opened the image.
The photo was blurry, clearly taken on the sly, unfocused.
But it was enough for Jiang Yan to see clearly.
In the picture, Xiao Jia walked barefoot across glowing hot logs; the emaciated Xiao Tian lay trapped in a box, while a clown cut into him; Le Yao and Le Yi twisted their bodies beyond human imagination, clinging together on a tightrope like an eight-legged spider.
At the very center of the photo was a vase.
A beautifully crafted, slender vase.
It was set in the most prominent spot on stage, surrounded by red banknotes thrown in abundance—a testament to its popularity.
At the mouth of the vase was a strange girl’s head.
Her entire body was trapped inside a vase, not even half a meter tall, with only her head emerging to breathe fresh air. Framed by the vase, her head swelled like a balloon.
The girl gazed at the audience in confusion, her eyes numb and vacant.
As though she had no idea what they were cheering for.