Chapter 110: Three Guard Institute Operatives Killed

Wen Du stared blankly at her phone. The call interface had already ended—the other side had hung up, or perhaps the phone was damaged.

Her throat bobbed several times. She dialed the number again, but each attempt prompted a call failure, unable to connect. It wasn’t an active hang-up; it was a passive fate—death.

Wen Du finally set the phone down. Her steps still carried her by inertia toward Olive Street not far away, but her body refused to cooperate. It stiffened, unwilling to move forward, her gait wobbling unsteadily.

From behind, she resembled one of those long waving tube men outside stores—no strength of her own, propelled entirely by the air pumping through it.

According to plan, she was supposed to head to the Creative Bazaar to buy a birthday gift. But her mind told her there was no point anymore. The gift might never be delivered, and if she bought it anyway, it would just sit uselessly at home.

Halfway there, staggering along, she finally halted. She turned in a different direction and started heading home.

The sky had already darkened. Dusk had turned to nightfall, and streetlights cast a patchwork of light and shadow beneath her feet, giving each step its own distinct shape.

But the shape of her steps wasn’t pretty—or at least, it didn’t feel that way to her.

Her feet couldn’t muster any force; they refused to form the steps she wanted.

The last time she had felt this way was on the night the Guard Institute lifted its restrictions. She had clutched a huge bouquet of fresh flowers, walking from the Taina Riverbank back to Wutong Street, her footsteps as soft and feeble as they were now.

No—this time, they were even softer. More accurately, utterly powerless, as if her spinal column had been yanked right out.

After Xia Lie’s death, she had felt weak too. But deep inside, a hard resolve had burned—to rally, to strike back. She wanted to turn Xia Lie’s death into a shield, a weapon for counterattack.

But this time, the death notice on the other end of the phone wasn’t even confirmed. Yet from the outside in, Wen Du felt utterly drained, a hollow void carved out in her heart. She drew in deep breaths, pressed her palm to her chest, but nothing could fill that gaping emptiness.

She sought out the first glows of emerging lights, but the encroaching night was like flowing water—split apart by the lamps only to swiftly converge again, enveloping her. It made her already feeble steps even harder, as if she had to slog through a thick, muddy swamp just to make it home.

…

The next day, Yue Mu was waiting at the foot of the stairs early. The moment she saw Wen Du descend, she understood what the night had brought.

“You waited up all night for news, didn’t you?”

“Mm.” Wen Du skirted the dining room and entered the bathroom.

There was a private bathroom upstairs too, but she habitually came down to wash up. It gave her more time with Yue Mu, more chances to talk. Today, though, she had no desire for much conversation.

She had spent the night half-sitting against the bed’s edge, eyes closed at times. But her overactive sympathetic nervous system refused her any real sleep.

Even with her eyes shut, it was just a black screen of burning anxiety, no moment of peace.

The all-night vigil had sapped her strength. When she rose, not only did her heart feel hollowed out—her entire chest seemed like a vacuum. The higher atmospheric pressure around her threatened to flatten her into a thin sheet.

She had thought she wouldn’t have the energy to go to work that morning. Yet when the time came, she got up on schedule, dressed, washed up, applied makeup—methodical, by the book, like a well-oiled clockwork doll that performed flawlessly when it mattered.

In the mirror, her deep brown pupils brimmed with exhaustion. Faint bloodshot veins marred the whites of her eyes. Her brow bone and nose bridge cast shadows across her cheeks. The pallid hue of her skin deepened those shadows’ outlines, sharpening her somewhat flat features, making her face look gaunt. Her five features stood out more profoundly, as if she no longer needed to pencil in her brows to perfectly mimic the deep-set look of the Homer People.

She picked up her toothbrush. Before putting it in her mouth, she lifted her lips to the mirror, practicing her work face in advance—so she wouldn’t come off too stiff when greeting people later.

Wen Du could afford to be dejected, but Director Wen could not. Neither could Giel’s undercover agent. “They” could show grief, but only within strict limits—controlled, measured, precisely calibrated to the role.

…

The Guard Institute was calm as ever, as if nothing had happened.

This fit the Guard Institute’s style perfectly. Even if Dean He dropped dead overnight, the place would hum along the next day, work completed efficiently. The office walls were plastered with thumbtacks and maps; there wasn’t even space for a portrait of the deceased.

Wen Du had contacted He De last night, reporting the anomalous call. She hoped he could reach out to the Meisi side for the latest updates.

She knew that once the explosion news broke, Ji Tingxi’s call logs would be scrutinized. Their conversation would come to light, so better to volunteer it upfront and state her intentions clearly.

He De hadn’t slept well either. Like Wen Du, he was impeccably dressed, but his eyes betrayed a hint of disarray. No teacup on his desk, no notebook, not even the desk lamp lit. His swirling thoughts were enough to cover the entire surface.

“Dean He, do you have any news?”

“Something unexpected did happen over in Meisi. It’s a major incident, so they’re still investigating and verifying. They won’t reply until everything’s crystal clear. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Try not to worry too much.”

“Understood. Thank you.” Wen Du nodded faintly. As she rose to leave, she added, “You don’t look so great yourself. Please get some rest—don’t overwork.”

He De smiled, his mustache quirking upward dramatically, washing away the fatigue from his face.

He had called her here to soothe her concerns, but she had turned it around to comfort him. Ji Tingxi was her friend and his prized subordinate. They shared the worry, yet both kept it reined in, methodical.

Just as he had anticipated, Wen Du’s mental fortitude was rock-solid. She needed no hand-holding from him.

…

He De offered no updates, and there were no whispers around the Guard Institute. But elsewhere, discussions were rampant; word spread like wildfire.

News reports stated that on the evening of September 20th at 6:38 p.m., an explosion rocked the Meisi Airport basement, killing three people. Two died on the spot; the third was found but succumbed despite rescue efforts.

All three victims were public servants, killed while on duty.

Wen Du read the report, and her mind instantly pieced together the scene: two security operatives escorting Ji Tingxi onto a flight home, driving her straight to the airport. Waiting for the elevator in the basement, they were caught in the blast. The explosives’ power was immense, the proximity too close—no survivors.

To protect herself, her emotions had erected a barrier, refusing to link this news to Ji Tingxi. But reason processed information too swiftly. Her eyes scanned, and the scene materialized, events aligning step by step with the report’s details.

The broadcast continued—airport response, follow-up measures—but Yue Mu turned down the volume, her gaze full of concern on Wen Du.

Wen Du sat on the sofa, eyes fixed on the TV. She wasn’t listening, nor did she feel like talking to Yue Mu. She just needed this stretch of relative quiet to grapple with the emotions crashing over her.

These feelings had washed over her once already, right after that phone call yesterday. Their return now wasn’t easier the second time around. On the contrary, she felt more at a loss, her senses scrambling, unsure where to put them.

The room held only the muted TV drone, underscoring the profound stillness—like sinking into darkness, everything asleep, yet missing the steady rhythm of breath.

“Still no word from Meisi?”

Yue Mu was attuned to subtleties, sensing Wen Du’s silent distress. Even her voice was softer than usual.

“There is news… but it matches the report.”

Wen Du fell silent for a moment. Then she hunched forward, hands braced on her thighs, cupped together like a basin. She buried her face in them, as if submerging in seawater.

Hearing the reply, she instinctively wanted to mask her emotions. But then she remembered: this was her most familiar place, with her most familiar person. She didn’t need to hide. She just needed to break down gently, without alarming her dear Yue Mu too much.

Yue Mu gripped the remote, fingers hovering over the buttons. She wanted to reach out and touch Wen Du’s back but hesitated, holding back.

For a moment, she felt at a loss. Why had Ji Tingxi’s death hit Wen Du so hard?

Not long ago, she had wanted to take that woman out herself!

“Ah Du, actually, we don’t have any specific info on Miss Ji. We only heard about the explosion—no confirmed victim details yet.”

Wen Du rubbed her temples a few times, then slowly straightened up. A few stray hairs had slipped over her brows; she brushed them back behind her forehead.

“Got it. Thanks for the effort.”

Wen Du leaned back into the sofa. After her words of appreciation, a more urgent matter came to mind. “Right— we’ve now fully burned bridges with the Jili Organization. Keep contacts as usual, but be extra cautious. Our plants inside them need to prioritize self-preservation. After this bombing, they’ll likely purge internals.”

“Got it. Did we slip up somehow this time? What made them suspicious?”

“Not necessarily a slip. We might’ve leaned on their power too many times; they’ve grown wary. I thought even if they spotted something off, they’d talk it out first. Never imagined they’d strike straight away…”

Wen Du closed her eyes and sighed. “Plus, Miss Ji captured Zi Wan before, then took the Zi Qin sisters. She’s been on the Jili Organization’s blacklist. So if they spotted her this time, the Jili Organization would definitely…”

Yue Mu switched off the news. The room plunged into total silence.

“Ah Du, the Guard Institute hasn’t announced anything about Miss Ji?”

“No. Dean He even called me in privately today—just to tell me face-to-face there’s no confirmed news.”

Yue Mu spotted an opening and shifted forward. “If Miss Ji really died, the Guard Institute should announce it. No reason for the news to report it while you insiders are still in the dark!”

Wen Du’s throat bobbed deeply again, swallowing a mouthful of bitterness.

Truth be told, she hadn’t fully broken down yet, in part because of this: the Wei Investigation Institute hadn’t made any official announcement. No official word meant no finality.

She hadn’t voiced this reason aloud, because saying it would spark discussion—and discussions bred possibilities, like this one now—

“Maybe. But there’s another possibility: the incident’s too grave, involving the Defense Adjustment Systems of two regions. It needs high-level talks between leadership to clarify blame and next steps. The real news would hit us internals too hard, so no announcement until the higher-ups sort it.”

“As for the news,” Wen Du glanced at the darkened screen, “it ties into dirt on the Jili Organization. The Rui’er Terrace loves reporting that stuff to turn public opinion against them. With tensions high in Meisi City, dropping this now shifts focus, redirects public anger to the Jili Faction, builds a united front against the enemy.”

After long hesitation, Yue Mu finally reached out—not to her back, but to her hand. “You really don’t want Miss Ji to be gone, do you?”

Wen Du’s eyes reddened in an instant. She realized all the news and reports paled next to this simple statement.

“Yeah.”

“But she holds dirt on your identity—the biggest threat to you right now.”

Wen Du turned her head slightly, gaze piercing through reddened eyes. “But she’s also my ally—the most beneficial person to us right now.”

Yue Mu wanted to say more, but seeing Wen Du so stricken, she nodded solemnly instead, trying to understand.

Ji Tingxi was indeed crucial to Giel. Losing contact with her meant losing the Libo Faction link.

Not long ago, the Libo Faction and Giel weren’t enemies, but far from friends.

Now, they had buried the hatchet for two massive, high-risk, high-difficulty collaborations—all thanks to the bridge between Ji Tingxi and Wen Du. Ji Tingxi’s disappearance severed that link at the waist.

But it wasn’t just interests. Yue Mu could sense that the pain seeping from Wen Du’s eyes went beyond strategic calculus. It was emotional hurt—raw, heavier and thicker than regret over a partner or asset. Pure feeling, involuntary, inescapable.

Yue Mu said nothing, just pressed her hand more firmly over Wen Du’s.

She couldn’t fully empathize with the emotion, but she knew the most useful response: silent companionship, diluting the heavy air.

Wen Du turned to look out the window. The inner sheer curtains stayed perpetually undrawn; at night, the outer blackout ones closed too. From inside, the courtyard—and the street beyond—remained forever out of view.

“What is it?” Yue Mu turned too, her view equally blocked by the drapes.

“Nothing. Just thinking—I should’ve stayed that night when Miss Ji invited me.”

…

The Guard Institute’s silence was now Wen Du’s sole hope. As long as it wasn’t officially confirmed, a reversal was possible—slim, but possible.

But the next day, He De made a statement, limited to the Special Action Department: “For now, Deputy Director Bai will temporarily handle Special Action Department duties.”

Wen Du’s heart skipped at the news of an update for the Special Action Department. But the content brought no clarity—”temporarily handle” meant what? Would Director Ji return later, or would Deputy Director Bai ascend permanently, fully replacing Ji Tingxi?

One thing was clear: all Special Action Department authority now rested with Bai Zhuo.

To probe for intel, Wen Du made excuses to pass by the third floor or deliver materials in person.

This trip, though, her mood was exceptionally tangled. She spotted Bai Zhuo emerging from the division chief’s office and crossed paths with him directly.

Once, the figure behind that door had been her daily anticipation—even after Ji Tingxi vanished, it lingered. But starting now, no more.

“Director Wen, coming down in person to nudge us about checking messages?”

“Yep. The platform showed you hadn’t viewed them. Figured you must be swamped lately, so I thought I’d remind you face-to-face.”

Bai Zhuo smiled. When his eyes crinkled, faint lines trailed from the corners, lending him a touch of warmth. Years of management had sharpened his gaze; he softened it now, easing his aura into small-talk mode.

“You’re too thoughtful, Director Wen. I’ll have them keep a closer eye on platform notifications.”

“Hard work for you, Division Chief Bai. Bigger workload now, huh?”

The office loomed in Wen Du’s peripheral vision. The desk computer inside—accessible only to the division chief—held files for the department’s three sections, plus inter-department comms platforms. All now handed to Bai Zhuo.

Wen Du knew he wouldn’t mind the burden. This was his dream spot. With his loyalty to the Rui’er Terrace and Defense Adjustment System, handling higher-level affairs was a blessing.

“I’m managing. But you—you and Director Ji are friends. Not seeing her for days, you must miss her, right?”

Wen Du met Bai Zhuo’s eyes. Compared to Ji Tingxi, his thoughts were easier to read, more straightforward.

In those eyes now, she discerned complexity: no overt joy at the interim post, no clear reluctance either. Just his usual mild equilibrium, no big ripples.

A dream come true—why no happiness? Had he learned something deeper to sour the triumph?

“A bit, yeah. But work first.” Wen Du glanced at the office area. “And you all? Not used to things without Director Ji?”

“A little. Hope she returns soon.” Bai Zhuo left it at that.

“Mm. Me too.” Wen Du nodded thoughtfully.