Jiang Ling opened her eyes, the tip of her nose lingering with a faint scent of ink.
This was a scent she knew all too well—the mix of old paper and ink in the archives room.
Looking around, Jiang Ling’s pupils contracted slightly.
Rows of bookshelves stood in the room, neatly lined with stacks of archive boxes. On the mottled southern wall, bold black Song-style characters declared: “Crack down on crime sternly, maintain social order.” The writing was forceful and sharp, commanding respect at a glance, and stirring a surge of strength from deep within.
On the north wall was a window with iron bars. Outside, shadows of green swayed. Beneath the window, on a small brown desk, lay a work log, a calendar, and beside them, a well-worn copy of The People’s Police Handbook.
Sealed-away memories surged into Jiang Ling’s mind like a tide.
This was, without a doubt, the place where she first worked—the archives room of the Jinwu Road Police Station.
The small desk by the door was her workstation; after years of use, the legs were a bit loose. When a work log was filled, it was swapped for a new one; the calendar changed each year, but that People’s Police Handbook had accompanied her for a full four years.
A gust of hot wind blew in from outside the window, flipping the pages of the calendar.
Jiang Ling clearly saw the black numbers on the green calendar: September 10, 1993.
Her heartbeat suddenly quickened.
She distinctly remembered—she was already dead.
During that earthquake, a riot broke out at the Provincial Capital Ninth Prison. In order to rescue a colleague, she had rushed into the swaying, on-the-verge-of-collapse archives room.
Her final memory was the moment the ceiling crashed down, and the chorus of screams in her ears.
But now, she was back in September 1993.
This year, she had just graduated from the police school and was assigned to the Jinwu Road Police Station as an ordinary policewoman, responsible for archives management and document drafting.
Jiang Ling took a deep breath to calm herself.
Was she reborn?
It was all so fantastical, shattering everything Jiang Ling, a lifelong atheist, believed in.
In her previous life, Jiang Ling had worked in the police station, Yan City Women’s Prison, and the Provincial Capital Ninth Prison, all handling archives. From 1993 to 2025, she had witnessed the rapid development of archive management in the public security system. As a key figure in advancing the construction of the Criminal Archives Information Center, she had known the joy of success—but also pain, confusion, and regret.
Why does darkness always persist beneath the light?
Why, under a bright sky, does filth still taint the human heart?
Why, no matter how hard the public security system cracks down, do vicious cases keep happening?
Even if criminals are punished by law, what about those they harmed? What about the families destroyed? The dead cannot be brought back to life. Those treated with cruelty carry lasting psychological scars. Broken families can never be made whole again…
The words in the archives are cold, but behind those words are rivers of blood and tears.
To solve cases and capture criminals, countless police officers work in silence. Some lay in wait in the wilderness for months, some travel thousands of miles, some grow exhausted and ill, some fight criminals and die heroically…
In her thirty years as a police officer, Jiang Ling had visited the Martyrs’ Cemetery countless times, standing before those silent tombstones, her heart unable to calm for a long time.
Is there any way to find the root of crime?
Can intervention come early enough to prevent it before it happens?
Behind police honor, can there be less sacrifice and fewer regrets?
Now, Jiang Ling had been reborn.
In this life, she wanted to step out of the archives room—onto the front lines—and carve out a new path.
Just then, a noisy commotion drifted over from afar.
“He’s shameless!” a teenager’s voice, low and hoarse.
“Tch, how am I shameless? Clearly you deserve a beating, serves you right!” another voice, full of mockery.
The first voice sounded familiar. Jiang Ling stepped out of the archives room.
The Jinwu Road Police Station was divided into office and logistics areas. The office area was an old two-story red brick building facing the street—first floor for reception and casework, second for offices. The logistics area included the cafeteria, dorms, and archives room, separated from the office area by a courtyard.
As Jiang Ling exited the archives room, a courtyard came into view. On the east side grew several old pagoda trees, lush and green, cicadas chirping among the leaves. On the west side was a simple bike shed, with several bicycles and two police motorcycles parked inside.
Sunlight streamed down, casting just a sliver of shadow at her feet.
She raised her head and stretched her left hand out before her eyes. Sunlight filtered through her fingers, and she squinted slightly. Her wrist was slender, bare of a watch. Judging by the position of the sun, it was around noon. The faint aroma of food from the cafeteria suggested that the twelve o’clock meal had already ended.
Who would be making a scene at the police station at this hour?
Jiang Ling crossed the back courtyard and entered through the rear door of the police service hall.
The Jinwu Road Police Station’s hall was about thirty square meters, with the service desk facing the main entrance and rows of chairs along both sides.
Behind the service desk, the words “Jinwu Road Police Station Case Handling Center” were displayed. The on-duty officer, Li Zhenliang, was seated beside the telephone taking notes. The head of the case unit, Wei Changfeng, had stepped out from behind the desk, separating the two quarreling youths and earnestly advising one of them.
“Qian Darong, you can’t keep bullying Liang Jiushan…”
Qian Darong, Liang Jiushan.
These two names were all too familiar, instantly triggering Jiang Ling’s memory—the related archive materials flashing through her mind.
Liang Jiushan, born 1978, imprisoned for murder in 1999. The victim: Qian Darong. At age fifteen, Qian Darong raped Liang Jiushan’s older sister, Liang Qiqiao, but escaped punishment due to being under sixteen and protected by his parents.
Liang Qiqiao committed suicide. Liang Jiushan dropped out of school, spent six years hunting his enemy, and finally killed him. In court, he said only five words.
—I do not regret it.
This case shocked the entire city back then.
When it happened, Jiang Ling had already left the police station, but later she saw Liang Jiushan’s file at the Provincial Capital Ninth Prison. He was sentenced to death at the first trial, but his experiences sparked wide public concern. A female lawyer volunteered to appeal for him, and eventually, his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. He served his time in the Ninth Prison.
Jiang Ling remembered him.
In prison, he had been thin, pale, and taciturn. He followed the rules and worked hard at reform. Yet even though his enemy was dead, the knot in his heart remained untied. During free time he would always lean against the high wall, staring blankly at the sky, murmuring to himself from time to time.
“My sister had excellent grades. She dreamed of becoming a primary school teacher. That year, she was a senior in high school—if nothing happened, she would have gotten into the teachers’ college and become a good teacher, but…”
“If only my sister hadn’t died.”
“If only time could turn back…”
“If I could live this life over again…”
A light flashed in Jiang Ling’s eyes.
The chance Liang Jiushan had begged for countless times was right in front of her now.
His sister died at the end of November 1993. Today was September 10. Liang Qiqiao was still alive. Everything could still be changed!
As Jiang Ling entered from the back, Li Zhenliang had just finished the statement. He set down his pen and nodded at her warmly, “Xiao Jiang, you’re here?”
Wei Changfeng glanced at her, then turned his attention back to the two boys. “Classmates should care for each other. Qian Darong, why can’t you learn your lesson? Hurry up and apologize to Liang Jiushan!”
Wei Changfeng was the team leader of the case unit. Receiving yet another report of these two fighting had given him a headache.
Liang Jiushan’s parents had died in a car accident when he was nine, leaving him and his sister to rely on each other, living off their parents’ compensation money. They were a key assistance household in the district. Poor children grow up fast; the siblings were frugal and hardworking, both top students.
But their personalities were different: the older sister, Liang Qiqiao, was honest and gentle, never causing trouble; Liang Jiushan was sensitive and sharp, never willing to suffer a loss, quick to fight.
Qian Darong came from a wealthy family—both parents were textile factory cadres, and he was their only child, thoroughly spoiled.
The opposite of Liang Jiushan, Qian Darong lacked for nothing, but was domineering and lazy, gathering a gang of “little brothers” at school with small favors, basking in popularity.
For some reason, this year Qian Darong set his sights on Liang Jiushan—at first just shoving and petty scuffles, now escalating to fights outside school and landing at the police station. Despite repeated warnings, calls to parents, and reports to teachers, Qian Darong acted like nothing could touch him. He’d promised in the station, but a few months later, it would happen all over again.
The problem was, Qian Darong was under sixteen—a minor. The station could only mediate and educate as best they could.
But did mediation and education work? No… they didn’t.
And here they were again!
Wei Changfeng jabbed at Qian Darong, who was rolling his eyes behind his back. “Liang Jiushan’s got a scraped face and a bloody nose—that’s a minor injury. If you were an adult, you’d be detained for this, you know? Apologize! Do you hear me?”
Qian Darong’s pudgy body wobbled as he looked up at Wei Changfeng with a sidelong glance. “Officer Wei, this time it was Liang Jiushan who started it. He threw the first punch!”
Liang Jiushan’s fists clenched tight, the muscles of his thin, long face taut, jaw set so hard it squared his features. He spat bloody saliva on the ground in hatred. “Pah! It was you, you said…”
Flushed with anger and humiliation, he stopped. The things Qian Darong had said were too shameless for him to repeat.
Having mediated countless times, Wei Changfeng knew Qian Darong’s character. He slapped the table and scolded harshly, “Qian Darong, when hasn’t it been you stirring up trouble? If you keep this up, I’ll send you to the Juvenile Detention Center!”
But Qian Darong wasn’t afraid of the police at all. He shrugged indifferently. “I’m a minor—even if I killed someone, I wouldn’t get the death penalty. Liang Jiushan and I are just classmates roughhousing. He’s hurt, but so am I. You don’t have the right to send me to the Juvenile Detention Center.”
Wei Changfeng was so angry he almost passed out.
As a case officer, he hated handling minor fights, domestic abuse, and family disputes most—because the boundaries were so hard to judge.
If adults in the district fought, they’d be sent straight to the holding cell, injuries assessed, and punished per public security regulations. Repeat offenders got harsher penalties—simple.
But classmates, couples, and relatives? Their relationships were tangled. Too light a punishment meant no deterrent; too heavy, and it could spark worse conflict, even tragedy.
Facing this minor who knew a bit of law, Wei Changfeng grabbed the enamel mug on the service desk and gulped down two big mouthfuls of water, trying to calm his anger. After a long pause, he told Qian Darong, “You—stand there and reflect on your behavior. We’ll wait for your parents to come handle this.”
Qian Darong nodded carelessly. With his parents always covering for him, he wasn’t worried at all.
Jiang Ling had been watching Liang Jiushan the whole time.
The boy was striking, even with a swollen forehead and bloodied lips—his features were still handsome.
He wore a faded blue short-sleeved shirt, the collar frayed, black trousers covered in dust, and old sneakers with neatly tied laces.
Liang Jiushan lowered his head and rubbed the second button of his shirt. The knuckles of his fingers were an unnatural bluish white.
Jiang Ling knew this gesture well—whenever Liang Jiushan was nervous, he would subconsciously grip his shirt button.
Back when the police had arrested him, the deep imprint of a button had been embedded in the palm lines of his blood-soaked right hand.
…
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