# 227
Chapter 227 – Surveillance
Night deepened.
The dim yellow sunlight on the horizon faded, and specks of lamplight bloomed across the city. Among the forest of high-rise apartments, the faint aroma of home-cooked food drifted in the air.
Lin Qiye, wrapped in a dark-red cloak, sat on the roof of one residential building. Two black cases rested beside him. A breeze brushed his temples as he gazed at the ocean of lights in the distance, lost in thought.
This time he had brought both cases. Not only was this a group operation, but if he used summoning magic in front of everyone, awkward questions would follow later. Better to shoulder the extra trouble now than face that.
“Everyone, report status,” Chen Muye’s voice crackled through the earpiece.
Wu Xiangnan: “Observation Point One—no activity.”
Hongying: “Observation Point Two—no activity.”
When Hongying finished, Lin Qiye flicked his earpiece open and said calmly, “Observation Point Three—no activity.”
Wen Qimo, Si Xiaonan, and Leng Xuan followed with their reports.
Lin Qiye glanced at his Rolex: 8:45 p.m. They had been staked out here for almost two hours. In that time, nothing but residents entering and leaving the complex.
Roughly seven hours remained until the ritual began.
How would the Mystery complete its final sacrifice?
Minutes crawled by. Night settled; lights winked out one by one. Apart from the faint glow of streetlamps, the area lay in darkness.
Lin Qiye checked his watch again: 12:58 a.m.
Four hours gone—still no anomaly.
At 1:00 a.m. sharp they reported again, then lapsed back into silence.
Suddenly Wen Qimo’s phone vibrated. He hesitated at the number, then answered.
“Xiao Hei, what’s up?”
“……”
“What?” Wen Qimo paused. “Got it.”
“……”
He hung up and keyed his earpiece. “Captain, we’ve got a problem.”
Chen Muye replied instantly, “What is it?”
“Remember the bar where the fourth victim worked? Xiao Hei just called—the owner booked the next flight out of Cangnan and is heading to the airport.”
“He’s leaving Cangnan?”
“Yes, and he’s rattled. Xiao Hei rang him as a cop; the guy was incoherent, but the gist is: ever since Sun Xiao died, he’s been seeing ghost-shadows around him, like he’s possessed. He thinks the death tainted the place and wants out for a while, then he’ll come back and sell the bar.”
By Night Watch protocol, anyone tied to a Mystery case can’t leave the city until it’s closed. The bar owner counts as a key person.
Chen Muye frowned. “Ghost-shadows?”
“That’s what he says.”
Their intel says the ritual only works for vengeful-ghost Mysteries, so the culprit is likely a ghost as well.
Could it have latched onto the owner instead of leaving? They’d interrogated him before and found nothing.
“He stays in Cangnan,” Chen Muye decided. “Have Xiao Hei stop him—no, Qimo, you go yourself. If you sense Mystery aura, report at once.”
“On it.”
Wen Qimo abandoned his post and sped toward the airport. His sector was temporarily added to Lin Qiye’s—no strain for him.
The bar-owner issue might involve the ghost, but tonight’s main stage was this residential compound. Losing Wen Qimo was acceptable; losing anyone else would stretch them thin.
They had to stay sharp.
……
On a silent street, a figure in a black windbreaker walked slowly. Past shuttered shops, he stopped at a bar sealed by yellow police tape.
Rats scurried away.
An Qingyu lowered his hood. Moonlight glinted off his lenses as he stared at the sign. Ignoring the tape, he stepped inside.
Tonight Night Watch’s attention lay elsewhere; the watcher here had left. The street was empty.
He crossed the threshold, pacing between tables, eyes washed with pale gray light. He was parsing.
He had studied the surveillance footage, memorized every detail. Now he compared each table’s angle, every glass’s placement, who had sat where…
At the bar he paused. The counter tilted fractionally. Where the camera had stood, a number card and photo now marked the shooting angle.
He moved past it, heading to the backyard.
Before the blood-stained wall, he hesitated, then carried a stool outside, stood on it, and pressed his back to the wall, aligning his body with the chalk outline of the victim.
From his pocket he drew a scalpel—and sliced off all five fingers of one hand.
Blood poured.
No pain crossed his face, only cold focus. He watched the drops, then shook his head.
Still wrong… Where’s the flaw?
He activated hyper-regeneration; the severed fingers stopped bleeding and regrew swiftly.
As he stepped down, his sidelong glance at the regrowing fingers jolted him.
Footage flashed in his mind…
His eyes lit up.
“So that’s it… I see.”