Chapter 119: Punishment at Eight PM

North County’s temperatures ran a few degrees warmer than Meisi’s, but deep winter had still settled in. In households across the city, virtual fireplaces flickered on screens, their roaring flames producing the same cozy effect as real wood fires and doubling the indoor warmth.

Yue Mu shopped at the produce market for fresh ingredients just like always. Over the past few days, she had even wandered through stores, selecting decorations and snacks to prepare thoroughly for the coming New Year.

No matter the occasion or weather, she always dressed impeccably and elegantly—coordinating colors perfectly, accessorized with a handbag. In summer, she carried a lightweight lace parasol; now in winter, she bundled up in a cashmere scarf, pulled on fleece-lined gloves, and strode into the winter wind with her chin held high.

She carried two large bags home and spotted flyers crammed into the mailbox. Freeing one hand, she pulled them out without a close look, stuffed them into a bag at random, and stepped inside.

But before she could sort the other items upon entering, she quickly scanned the windows to ensure every curtain was drawn tight and the infrared alarm at the door was fully operational. Then she opened the flyers alongside her codebook and began decoding the numerical cipher printed on them.

Contacting the liaison station could be done in many ways. The safest was face-to-face communication, but frequency limits made that impractical, so auxiliary methods filled the gap: online private messages, platform notifications, and deliveries of advertisements or flyers.

Flyers arrived infrequently, only on significant dates. With New Year’s approaching, it provided the perfect excuse.

Wen Du had created the cipher, but as her assistant, Yue Mu had handled more encrypted messages than Wen Du herself. She knew them inside out now. A quick scan of the dense characters let her grasp the gist, but for precision, she transcribed every character onto paper, verifying it meticulously.

In her usual habit, Yue Mu translated aloud as she went. By the time she finished the final symbol, the full meaning had crystallized in her mind.

—Contact made with Winter Arrival station to probe Security Investigation Station activity, but Guard Station defenses too tight. No feedback yet.

…

The Security Investigation Station extended impeccable hospitality. Not only had dinner been lavish for Wen Du and Ji Tingxi’s arrival, but now they enjoyed luxury dormitory quarters as well.

Though intended for night-shift operatives, the dorms saw little use. Everything inside was brand new, and after a thorough cleaning, every surface gleamed with pristine white polish.

Wen Du and Ji Tingxi’s rooms, however, were separated by a vast distance—one in the east wing, the other in the west. From the corridor, they couldn’t even glimpse each other; reaching one from the other required navigating two turns.

Ling Tuofu hoped they would appreciate his thoughtful intentions: keeping them apart to avoid awkward post-meeting tension. They need only report suspicions discreetly, free from interpersonal entanglements.

The rooms lacked individual fireplaces but featured centralized heating. Hot steam coursed through wall-embedded pipes, making each space as warm as spring.

Outdoor chill seeped in like moths to a flame, forming a hazy mist on the glass—more opaque even than the Eugen Curtains.

Knowing Wen Du’s fondness for reading, the support staff had arranged a row of social science books on her desk, their covers smoother and cleaner than the surface beneath.

On any other day, Wen Du would have been unable to resist: caressing each one before settling in with a favorite.

But now, every ounce of her energy went into maintaining a facade of calm. Her mind and chest boiled over internally, leaving no room for words on a page.

Just earlier, Ling Tuofu had laid all their evidence bare in “frank” detail, tracing every cause and effect.

Without that revelation, she might have clung to hope: insufficient proof, mere bluff to gauge reactions. Once they passed scrutiny, they could walk out the Guard Station gates.

Now she knew his aim was straightforward: identify the mole and handle her by the book.

That simplicity twisted Wen Du’s expression into complexity. The clean, comfortable surroundings offered no solace.

She scanned the room once. The four walls seemed like steel plates tightening with screws, inching inward to crush her space and steal her air.

A book lay in her hand, but she didn’t open it. She picked it up, set it down, then left the dorm to wander the grounds behind the Guard Station.

The night air outside was frigid, her face growing numb from the cold. She sniffed involuntarily, shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets as she pressed on.

A perimeter wall enclosed the rear yard, topped with sentry lights. Even at night, they illuminated the spiked tops clearly and the seamless bricks below. Like the main building, the design prioritized function over ornamentation, exuding stark austerity.

Wen Du’s thick-soled leather boots had anti-slip treads, yet she still felt the ground’s slickness.

Ice had formed in the flowerbeds and at the wall’s base, sparkling coldly under the lamps. She looked up at the lampposts; the illuminated air remained dust-free, but farther up, heavy clouds smothered the sky, blotting out every star.

—All signs pointed to snow soon, though no one knew exactly when it would fall.

…

Ji Tingxi’s dorm in the west wing matched the east in its careful preparation. Her shelves held books mostly on weaponry and mechanics.

A dartboard hung on the wall with three darts embedded, anticipating her boredom and providing entertainment.

Ji Tingxi flipped through a few books, found them all much the same, and lost interest. She removed the darts, stepped back a meter—not far enough to challenge her. Each hit dead center.

Bored quickly, she targeted other marks: the dividing lines on the board’s segments, nailing one after another.

Victories piled up, but no thrill lit her brain’s reward centers. Instead, thick anxiety smothered them; any pleasure was negligible.

From Ganteming to North County, she had weathered many impasses and faced crises head-on. Yet she had to admit this one was uniquely tangled.

If only she were alone, escape would be feasible. But Wen Du was involved; they were jointly ensnared, their relationship teetering on delicate terms.

Wen Du’s presence complicated things: Ji Tingxi must protect herself and Wen Du. Yet it also simplified them brutally—sacrifice Wen Du, and she could stroll out freely.

One dart flew wide, missing the upper-left line and landing in the bullseye instead. She had faltered.

Ji Tingxi left the other two on the table, appetite gone. She glanced west, tempted to seek Wen Du for discussion, but hesitated.

No one-on-one interrogations—just freedom to roam. Hardly from hospitality. The vast station brimmed with surveillance and bugs; every move and word became evidence for judgment.

Under such tight watch, she needed preparation—and time for Wen Du too.

…

December 23, the second day at the Security Investigation Station.

Time didn’t slow from confinement, but confinement soured it.

The previous night, Wen Du had strolled the rear yard, gazing at the walls and sky for any glimmer of light.

Within Giel, light signals abounded: fireworks, building lamps, drones. Wen Du had once used home lights to signal comrades.

But last night, perimeter lamps blazed while the sky brooded under oppressive clouds—no stars, no distant glows.

The Security Investigation Station sat more remote than the Guard Institute, guarded more stringently.

All her electronics had been surrendered; even public comms were restricted.

The organization must have tried reaching her, but so far, nothing.

In North County, odds would improve. Crisis protocols were prepped: escape routes via underground pipes, abundant Giel members embedded across institutions. Risks aside, contact and extraction were viable.

Winter Arrival’s station differed: the Northern District’s pinnacle, harder to infiltrate or flee. With scant Giel resources in the city, entering its copper gates trapped Wen Du like a prison on an island. External signals died at security, never nearing her.

This Winter Arrival trip blindsided her—and Giel.

For three years, Wen Du first felt her organizational ties severed so cleanly. No borrowed strength; only herself remained.

That morning, after breakfast and some reading, she resumed wandering the building.

Circling the conference room where Ling Tuofu had met them, she seemed hesitant, on the verge of speaking—but really, she observed staff and functional areas.

She had never heard of Giel moles here, yet clung to faint hope: an dormant “dark line,” or another faction’s infiltrator making contact.

She desperately needed to send a message outward: top-level danger alert. Her abrupt North County departure and Guard Station entry signaled anomaly, but not severity enough to halt operations.

—The gravest threat wasn’t her, but Sern kin on border-crossing routes. She must warn: abort the Border Crossing Transfer Plan immediately, release sheltered Sern people into normalcy as unremarkable civilians—for any survival chance!

Barring normal exit, she sought alternatives: extraordinary contact with the outside?

Feign illness?

Wandering her building, she noted a medical wing below her dorm spanning two floors, with specialists for various ailments.

Diseases she could fake? Station doctors could treat. Even a slip fracturing bones—orthopedists awaited.

Grander maladies? Hard to forge; her acting might fool, but not her body. Instruments would expose her, confirming suspicions.

Access external data?

Signals flowed freely; the Information Room linked online databases—even classified ones. Ling Tuofu could retrieve remotely.

She paced, mapping the station mentally, brainstorming schemes—writing, erasing, until one lingered at the plan’s end.

Her steps halted before Minister Ling’s office. The door stood open, lights bright—perfect for visitors.

Wen Du steadied her breath, rapped the frame, and entered.

Ling Tuofu was signing documents. Seeing her, he closed the folder, his face lighting with delight, like quarterly targets strolling in.

“Director Wen, come with good news to share?”

“Indeed. I’ve recalled something puzzling, but I need to verify.”

“How?”

“By confirming with my subordinate from the Guard Institute’s Information Room.”

His delight dimmed, profits seemingly reversed. “Director Wen, you know outbound comms are off-limits now.”

“I do. That’s why I’ve lingered near your door all morning, hesitant to enter. But my memory’s fuzzy; I must check with her to give you accurate intel.”

Ling Tuofu met her gaze steadily, eyes crowded with scrutiny. “First, tell me the doubt.”

Wen Du furrowed her brow, eyes focusing in apparent recollection.

“I recall a period when we suspected the Sern Organization used an encrypted language to evade Intelligence Collection Division filters. The Information Room tasked us with cracking it to grasp true Sern communications.

“My three subordinates and I focused on decryption. No ultimate success, but midway, an operative told me her method cracked one message—Giel-related, it seemed. Applying it elsewhere yielded gibberish.”

“So the method was shelved?”

“Yes, unusable broadly.”

“Doesn’t that mean the success was fluke, worthless for reference?”

“Not entirely… Their encryption’s complex. They might layer methods to mislead—spot a pattern, then contradict it, hiding safest in plain sight.”

“Multiple layers would confuse their own internal relays, no?”

“Markers could signal recipients… It’s technical; explaining’s tricky. Anyway, I need to confirm with my subordinate. You can monitor the call fully.”

“Communicate with a subordinate? Fine, I support it.” Ling Tuofu glanced at his electronic clock. “Her name? I’ll send for her.”

Wen Du’s face stiffened, lips pressing inward. “Fetch her here? Too much trouble?”

“No trouble. Worth it for your doubt. But she’ll take time to arrive; return to your room and wait hours.”

Wen Du paused silently.

A call for “verification” was a probe. Approval meant later using it for Yue Mu, slipping messages covertly. Denial killed the idea.

—She couldn’t drag Yue Mu in. Trapping one was burden enough.

“Her name’s Wan Lin. If Director Ling could arrange it.”

With polite thanks, Wen Du left quietly.

…

From her window, Ji Tingxi couldn’t see Wen Du’s room but spotted her downstairs.

Seated at her desk, Ji Tingxi watched Wen Du descend, head to the office building’s rear, loop back, then visit the nearby restaurant soon after.

No talks in nearly a day, yet through her silhouette, Ji Tingxi empathized—she wasn’t idle or panicked but scouting the environment diligently for any sliver of breakthrough, however slim.

During this, Ji Tingxi saw Wen Du enter Ling Tuofu’s temporary office: five minutes, maybe ten. Unknown words exchanged, but Ji Tingxi trusted unwaveringly: nothing detrimental to her; it was part of Wen Du’s scheme.

That morning, Ji Tingxi tracked Wen Du’s path. After lunch, instead of returning, she followed to Ling Tuofu’s door.

Wen Du sought openings; Ji Tingxi needed confirmation.

“Chief Ji, just finished lunch?”

“Yes. I planned to visit soon; didn’t expect you working through midday.”

“Waiting on your updates. Once I have them, I rest.” Ling Tuofu turned from his screen, gesturing silently: speak.

“Last night, I processed your revelations—and my shock. I still can’t believe one of us is a mole.”

His brow arched, gaze dropping. “Doubting our judgment?”

“Not doubting—just stunned, processing. Recalling oddities around me, one stands out. I’d like to report it.”

Ji Tingxi rested her arms on the desk, shifting to formal report.

“Fourth quarter, my focus was Libo Faction. My Meisi trip coincided with student unrest—chaos enabling Zi Qin Sisters’ abduction. Meisi Platform found Pro-Libo Members among students, likely inciting the protest.

“The airport assassination, blamed on Jili Organization, but I harbor doubts. Libo Faction wants me dead. No hard evidence, so I held back. Yesterday’s Meisi mention prompts me to report.”

“Your point?”

“Libo Faction’s threat looms large. Many leads might trace to them.”

Ling Tuofu listened intently, but his gaze stayed neutral, unswayed. “You’ve thought deeply, but Libo Faction’s outside our scope. Ignore alternatives; recall comrade suspicions only. Chief Ji, does this link to Director Wen?”

Ji Tingxi shook her head, silent.

“Fine, doubt dismissed. Review thoroughly back in your room.”

Only their second meeting, but Ji Tingxi pegged him: steady, unhurried, yet emotions surfaced subtly, readable. His reaction: Libo Faction off the suspect list—for now.

Simpler than anticipated.

…

Eight PM: daily debrief. Ji Tingxi and Wen Du reentered the conference room. Ling Tuofu sat at the head as before; Mo Fei beside him, a laptop ready for tech support.

Yesterday, they’d worn polite smiles; today, pointless. They sat on wooden stools, maintaining composure.

“Station food and lodging satisfactory? Adjustments needed?”

“No, all fine. Thank you, Minister Ling, for your thoughtfulness.”

“Thoughtful, yes—but your progress lags. Twenty-four hours, nothing? Director Wen even called ‘reinforcements’—still no revelations?”

Wen Du met his scrutiny steadily. “Wan Lin was thorough, brought old drafts. We verified: pure fluke, no broader pattern. Thanks for your support, Minister Ling; it cleared my doubts.”

“Director Wen, ever the auditor—precision habitual. No overthinking; report any thoughts to my office anytime. I’ll assist fully.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

Matters addressed, courtesies exchanged, the meeting should end. But Ling Tuofu nodded to Mo Fei. She exited, returning with a group.

Security agents and civilians, but telltale: deep brown hair and eyes, pale cheeks, lean builds, worn gray clothes—Sern People. Sern Prisoners here.

Spotting them jolted Wen Du; she grasped Ling Tuofu’s “punishment.”

“See if you recognize them: from North County City, friends to one of you—or salvation targets for one. Death row inmates, we offered Labor Training Camp redemption. Now, greater utility: sharpening your focus on suspicions.”

Wen Du’s gaze swept faces she knew from North County streets. Obvious Sern features etched in memory—names, statuses, plights. She tallied endlessly: border escape paths.

Not here. They fit dim warehouses, jolting trucks, cramped crates—but not this.

A security agent selected a Sern man, gestured forward. Trembling, he reached the table’s front.

Mo Fei, fearing table stains, tilted her head. The agent yanked him aside to open space, unobstructed.

Mo Fei drew her pistol from its holster. The man gaped, too slow to react—he crumpled, final screams feeble.

“Ah… ah—”

Thinly clad, skin frost-pale, now blood loss blanched him ghastlier, reflecting harsh cold glare.

The bullet missed his heart—no instant death. Breath lingered, but strength fled; he sprawled, life’s ebb manifesting on his form.

Ji Tingxi restrained from glancing at Wen Du; Wen Du from the body. She ached to shut her eyes, blank her world—but Ling Tuofu spoke; she met his eyes.

“Day one. Numbers rise tomorrow. Keep at it, ladies.”