April 4, 2018, noon.
Zhou Mingrui’s home.
Lin Chuan got off the taxi and stood outside Zhou Mingrui’s home.
Looking at the apartment door he had visited countless times, for a moment he didn’t know what he actually hoped to see once he knocked on it.
He didn’t think any further, for Lin Chuan already knew that the most useless things in this world were hesitation and doubt.
After two crisp knocks, the door opened, though very slowly.
First to appear was a hand, somewhat pale, as if it had just tightly clutched something.
Only then did the face follow—a similar countenance wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with a lingering redness around the eyes.
Seeing Lin Chuan, he seemed about to say something, but saw the other party nod, his voice somewhat low and raspy:
“I already know.”
After those words fell, the person at the doorway noticeably froze.
“How did you…”
The one who opened the door wasn’t Zhou Mingrui, but his elder brother who worked out of town.
With him back here, combined with the earlier loss of contact on WeChat, the situation was self-evident.
Lin Chuan closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.
He didn’t answer, turning instead to ask the other, “When did it happen?”
Probably realizing Lin Chuan was in no mood to answer his question, the brother didn’t press further: “…April 1st, evening.”
The other man’s voice was very low:
“At that time, Father went to the hospital to stay overnight with Mother, and I hadn’t made it back yet.
He was home all alone.”
He paused for a moment here.
“Afterward, we couldn’t reach him.
When we came back to check the next day, he was already gone.”
“…” Lin Chuan said nothing, appearing as if his mind were wandering in another realm.
The brother’s eyes darted away, barely daring to look at Lin Chuan.
Even though he was Zhou Mingrui’s family member, looking at his brother’s friend with such an expression gave him a strange feeling of guilt toward Lin Chuan.
“I’m sorry,” he finally spoke up, perhaps to break the oppressive atmosphere.
“If I had come back earlier, if I had returned on his birthday, maybe it wouldn’t…”
Wouldn’t have what?
Would Zhou Mingrui really have been fine if he had just come back for his brother’s birthday dinner?
“…Perhaps this is just an accident.
We never know which will come first, tomorrow or an accident.”
“Is he comforting me?” Lin Chuan felt a bit surprised.
They truly were family.
Whether it was Zhou Mingrui, or his parents and brother, they were all gentle and kind enough, indisputably “good people” in the broader sense.
But why do good people cry?
Good people should be rewarded with good fortune.
Lin Chuan suppressed the emotions in his heart, appearing unexpectedly clear-headed instead.
There were still a few things he needed to confirm right now:
“Is the diagnosis a vegetative state or sudden death?”
“Sudden death.” The brother’s voice lowered.
“The forensic doctor said there was nothing abnormal, sudden cardiac death with no external cause found.
It’s just…
so sudden.”
“He usually…
really didn’t stay up late.” As if unable to help himself, he added another sentence, unsure of who he was saying it to.
“I always thought his schedule was even more regular than mine.”
Lin Chuan didn’t respond to this statement.
“You didn’t tell Auntie.”
“Yeah.” The brother nodded.
“Fearing something might happen, we didn’t dare tell my mom.
After discussing it, we decided to keep it secret for now and tell her a while after she gets discharged.”
The other party took a step back and opened the Door wider, perhaps feeling it was impolite to talk while standing at the doorway like this:
“Let’s talk inside.”
Lin Chuan gave a quiet hum of assent.
The sound was very soft, but it seemed to pin a certain suspicion firmly in place.
“Are there any points of suspicion?” Lin Chuan agreed and followed him inside.
He noticed that the other man’s gaze kept avoiding one direction—the east.
The brother shook his head and said as he walked, “No, there’s surveillance nearby.
Aside from Mingrui, no one entered that day, and no drugs or toxic substances were found in his system.”
“No.” Lin Chuan interrupted him and said, “I don’t mean that.
I mean…
some other details.”
“What details?” The other man frowned as if suddenly recalling something.
“You’re his best friend…
but what did you mean by that question you asked earlier?”
“The one about sudden death or a vegetative state?” Lin Chuan asked, but did not answer.
He simply walked toward the room in the southeast corner.
That was Zhou Mingrui’s room, its door tightly shut, and the answer lay within.
Lin Chuan stopped in front of the door.
“After that night on April 1st, was he found on the bed?”
The air stilled for a second.
The brother’s expression changed—not into grief, but into something closer to alertness and suspicion.
Noticing his reaction, Lin Chuan gave him no chance to speak and pressed further, “What about his clothes?”
“Was he still wearing street clothes—not sure of the specifics, but anyway, he didn’t change into pajamas before going straight to bed?”
The brother’s expression changed yet again, looking like he’d seen a ghost this time: “How did you know?”
“Because I want to confirm a few things.” Lin Chuan grasped the doorknob and turned to look at him.
“May I go in and take a look?”
The brother froze for a moment, not understanding what Lin Chuan was trying to do.
However, Lin Chuan’s tone was so firm that it unconsciously commanded belief—especially since his words felt less like guesses and more like confirmations.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“…Okay.”
Lin Chuan pressed down on the handle, and the entire room appeared before his eyes.
His gaze swept over the wardrobe, fan, single bed, and writing desk, finally coming to a rest on a bookcase beside the desk.
He walked over to the bookcase and inspected the books one by one from the top down, until on the bottom row, tucked casually into a gap, he found a thread-bound book.
Lin Chuan found it difficult to describe his current mood.
Slowly reaching out a hand, he pulled out the medium-thickness book.
Turning over the plain back, the eight characters reading secret records of qin and han esoteric arts were strikingly vivid on the cover of this somewhat worn ancient volume.
He gently opened the cover, sliding his finger word by word across the text.
Zhou Mingrui was right; the vertical format really was a mood killer:
He read the contents out in a low voice:
“…One only needs to prepare four portions of the local staple food and place them in the four corners of the room—these can be on tables, cabinets, or similar surfaces—then stand in the center of the room and walk four counterclockwise steps to trace a square.
On the first step, silently chant with sincere heart ‘Celestial Worthy of Heaven and Earth for Blessings’; on the second step, chant ‘Heavenly Lord of Heaven and Earth for Blessings’; on the third step, chant ‘The Exalted Thearch of Heaven and Earth for Blessings’; on the fourth step, chant ‘Celestial Worthy of Heaven and Earth for Blessings’.
After completing the steps, close your eyes and wait in place for five minutes, and the ritual will be considered successful.”
“Is this what you were looking for?” Zhou Mingrui’s brother followed behind, asking as he watched Lin Chuan locate that book with clear purpose.
“Mm.” Lin Chuan answered softly.