Chapter 17 The Culprit Identified

Ji Xingyu’s experiences could only be described as a grand, ill-fated adventure—one set on the hardest mode of all. After a heated argument with his family, he ran away from home, only to be targeted by a professional trafficking ring. All it took was a moment spent helping a pregnant woman; in the blink of an eye, he was bound and savagely beaten. Worse yet, they mistook him for a woman and arranged to sell him. He finally seized an opportunity to escape, but on the road he encountered a madman wielding an axe. In a twist of fate, he ran to a passerby for help—whose first reaction was to pull out a phone and start taking pictures.

Ji Xingyu had only asked about the man who saved him to find out whether the guy had been beaten to death. After all, he owed his life to this stranger; if something had happened to him, Ji Xingyu would at least pay for his medical bills, or a burial plot if it came to that.

From Ji Xingyu’s account, Li Cangyu and Officer Tang pieced together the rough outline of events. The two dead men were traffickers, and there’d been a driver as well—presumably, after waiting in vain for his partners and discovering the bodies, he fled. As for the killer, Li Cangyu suspected he was the same perpetrator they were investigating in the string of serial murders.

When Li Cangyu found the bodies in the weeds, the faces were hacked to pieces, the hands smashed—a method chillingly similar to the way previous victims had been treated in the case. If the killer hadn’t been so intent on chasing after the hapless Ji Xingyu, he might have diced the bodies up and scattered them, just as he’d done before. This was also one of the rare instances in which the victims were male. Before, the killer had targeted women or the elderly. This time, if not for mistaking Ji Xingyu for a woman, he might never have emerged.

The thought of the murderer left a look of disgust on Ji Xingyu’s face—a detail Li Cangyu did not miss.

He asked, “Is there anything else you want to add about the man with the axe?”

Expressionless, Ji Xingyu pointed to himself. “Does groping my chest count?” The very first thing the man did after tackling him was to grope his chest—it was obvious what kind of person he was. Had Ji Xingyu not been male, and had there not been two traffickers chasing him, he would almost certainly have been raped and then killed. This, too, matched the profile of prior victims: several female victims had been sexually assaulted before death.

Li Cangyu’s understanding of the case deepened. The killer had always chosen to operate along highways, drifting into their city and lurking near a less-traveled road, waiting for a chance—until he happened upon Ji Xingyu. Now, a thorough investigation was in order. All they had to go on was a single photograph that Mo Fei had managed to capture—no name, no background, no age, no occupation.

The investigation would be difficult, but at least they had his face. That alone was a stroke of luck. This time, the killer had murdered two adult men, slashing them both to death—proof enough that he’d lost all reason in a frenzy of violence. Such a person needed to be caught and executed, or the badge they wore would be a mockery. With that determination, the entire system sprang into action; they were going to find the man in the photograph.

The new day’s light filtered through the curtains, falling across Mo Fei’s face. He frowned in his sleep, a look of barely concealed hostility on his features. The sunlight was so intrusive he couldn’t sleep; he sat up abruptly, raking his hair in frustration.

After Officer Xiao Xu had brought him home the night before, Lv Chunqiu had called to check up on him—for more than half an hour. Mo Fei was, without doubt, her most promising protégé, but trouble seemed to follow him everywhere. Morally, there was nothing wrong with rescuing someone on his way home—he might even get a commendation—but the world didn’t run on morals alone. Every day of filming was money burning. Why make movies? To make money, not out of charity.

Now, with this kind of mess, if Director Wang had been less forgiving, Mo Fei could have been sent packing on the spot. If someone held a grudge, a single word could see him banished to farming sweet potatoes back home.

After all her grumbling, Lv Chunqiu granted Mo Fei a two-day break; she’d negotiate with the film crew herself. Mo Fei had worked under her since the start of his career and knew her temperament well. She’d scold him on the phone, and then, once the call was over, she’d curse the ax-wielding bastard’s ancestors for good measure. It was just like old times: in front of the crew, she’d plead and grovel; behind their backs, she’d curse them for being talentless, heartless, shameless leeches.

That was her way—sharp-tongued but fiercely protective, with a shrewd sense of justice. In every way that mattered, Mo Fei had done nothing wrong except for his naïve idealism. Yet, in some eyes, such naiveté was already a cardinal sin.

After berating Mo Fei, she turned her ire on those money-grubbing parasites who cared for nothing but laundering cash, and then sat down to compose a lengthy message to Director Wang. Not that it would help much; he was just another employee of the investors, albeit with a bit more power.

To be fair, though Director Wang had been unnerved by the commotion at first, after a night’s sleep he felt reinvigorated. In the early days filming in Bauhinia City, it wasn’t uncommon for troublemakers to storm the set mid-shoot, threatening actors and directors alike with knives and guns. In a way, this latest project brought back memories of those days—full of twists and tension, raw and thrilling.

Mo Fei was undeniably unlucky, but he wasn’t a bad person. A simple fool, perhaps—one who looked nothing like a hero but did nothing but good deeds. Director Wang sighed and decided just to cut some of Mo Fei’s scenes rather than fire him outright. For most actors, losing screen time was a disaster; for Mo Fei, it hardly mattered. His goal was simply to live—just to survive. Lines or no lines, camera time or not, fame was not his concern.

With this troublesome fate hanging over him, Mo Fei often thought how fortunate he was not to be a government official. If he carried his disaster-prone aura into a national office, it would be hard to say who would suffer more—him or the country.

In the end, Director Wang cut his scenes, but his pay remained the same, and he even earned a two-day holiday. By any measure, Mo Fei had no reason to be angry. What left him irritable that morning was the dream he’d had the night before.

In the dream, he played the hero, rescuing a damsel in distress, and just as he was about to flirt with her, the “girl” turned and thanked him in a thick northeastern brogue: “Brother, thanks a bunch!” The shock left Mo Fei limp with dismay. It wasn’t that he had anything against cross-dressers—he’d just never encountered one before and was a little startled. As long as the person’s character was decent, he had no problem with a minor eccentricity.

He sat there, dazed for a while, and once his mind rebooted, he got up to wash and eat breakfast. With two free days ahead, it was the perfect time to patch things up.