Chapter 69: The Missing Younger Brother

An Erdong never imagined he’d be cursed with overtime like this. He’d already driven all the way home, but now he had to turn around and head back to the office.

The Internal Investigation Section had come away completely empty-handed so far. Once the truth came out, they risked being shunned by the entire Guard Institute.

No matter what, he couldn’t let this drag on until tomorrow.

Bai Zhuo was still holding down the fort in his office. When he saw An Erdong, surprise flashed across his face. “Section Chief An, did you forget something?”

It wasn’t like they could take office supplies out the door anyway.

“No, Section Chief Bai. Do you have a moment to come over?”

An Erdong always wore his emotions on his sleeve, broadcasting everything for free. Bai Zhuo took one look at his expression and knew it was serious. The two men headed to the Internal Investigation Section office and pulled up the street surveillance footage they’d downloaded earlier.

“If I remember right, you’ve combed through this video seven or eight times already. Got a new angle?”

“Not sure. Just double-checking.” An Erdong didn’t want to commit. Ever since spotting Wen Du’s packaging box, his heart had felt swollen with blood, ready to burst at the slightest squeeze.

The key clue was right there in plain sight, but he couldn’t help hoping against hope that it was all a coincidence—that their earlier judgment had been spot on.

“12:38 p.m., Purple Taro dessert shop. He goes in, stays for ten minutes, comes out. Problem?”

An Erdong checked it over and over. Once the early parts checked out, he dragged the progress bar to the segment after Kuper exited the store. This time, he zoomed in on the frame, isolating the man’s upper body.

From the park to the art stalls, past the buildings to Gourmet City—Kuper acted like a wide-eyed kid from the sticks visiting the big city for the first time. His curiosity burned hot; he snapped photos of everything in sight. The camera was either tucked in his bag or clutched in his hand. When he entered the dessert shop, it was in his right hand. When he came out, it was still there in the same spot.

“Section Chief Bai, I grabbed two screenshots. See any difference?”

Bai Zhuo watched him capture one frame from before Kuper entered and another from after he left. He studied them closely but spotted nothing unusual. Still, if An Erdong was asking, there had to be something to it.

“Are you saying the camera looks different?”

An Erdong leaned in, eyes narrowing. “You spotted it?”

“Honestly? No.”

“I’ve got something.” An Erdong pointed to Kuper’s right hand. “In the first shot, his fingers wrap fully around the body to keep it from slipping. But in the second, they don’t—they’re just resting on top, like he’s dangling it by the strap.”

Bai Zhuo peered closer. “You’re right. If we’re nitpicking differences, it means the camera in the second shot feels lighter. He doesn’t need to grip as hard.”

“Exactly. Or it could mean he deliberately angled part of it into view in the second shot—to draw our eye.”

The two men hashed it out for a while, focusing on the surveillance anomaly. They held off on reporting to He De right away; he was already haggard from external pressures. Better to confirm first and avoid catching heat prematurely.

That evening, Bai Zhuo took Kati and Ke Lu to the scene themselves to recreate what happened.

The dessert shop hadn’t closed yet. Bai Zhuo wasted no words and had the staff pull up the surveillance. The street cameras caught part of the interior, but the chocolate display—tucked against the back wall—was only visible from inside the store.

Up close, the target was much clearer. Kuper had his back to the camera, meticulously selecting chocolate treats. He picked two to compare and set his camera down on an empty spot on the shelf against the wall for easier handling. He hefted both treats, chose the one on the left, and after putting the other back with his right hand, he never touched the camera again. He paid and walked straight out, matching the street footage exactly.

Following the cue, Bai Zhuo headed to the chocolate section. Sure enough, behind the display shelf, he found the camera—identical to the one onscreen, a sleek pocket collector’s edition.

The clerk rushed over with apologies. “Sorry about that, Commander. None of us noticed. You can just take it.”

Bai Zhuo’s mind reeled. He turned to her so fast his neck creaked. “This camera’s been sitting here the whole time?”

“Looks that way from the footage.”

He handed the camera to Kati, planted one hand on his hip, and jabbed a finger at the chocolate wrappers on the shelf. “When did you start using this packaging?”

“After last year’s Galette Festival. It’s our new line. If you like it, we can give you some for free.”

Like it? He was about ready to lose his mind. How the hell did this junk packaging look exactly like a camera?

“Here’s the deal. Package up all the surveillance from the last three days onto this drive—both angles.”

The clerk was fully cooperative and got right to it. Bai Zhuo instructed his two subordinates to stick around, check the surveillance system logs, and keep an eye on the shop’s activity—but stay low-key. No obvious red flags, no moves.

On the drive back to report in, a grim feeling settled over him—like stumbling out of a dead end into sudden hope, only to discover not just no path ahead, but a sheer cliff drop.

They’d finally tracked down the camera everyone obsessed over. He De and Yesuiying rushed over upon hearing the news to inspect the footage personally.

The camera was packed with photos—amateurish from a technical standpoint. The few shots from Snake Mouth Park hadn’t been processed for tonal depth, but the simple, clear frames revealed the background plainly: water, clouds, seabirds, the red glow of sunset. No trace of the mountain.

Snake Mouth Mountain wasn’t in frame. Not even its shadow.

“Could someone have deleted it in the store?”

“I brought the store surveillance. Section Chief An can check for tampering.”

They handed off the camera and footage to the Internal Investigation Section for analysis. It was straightforward; the report came back quick. The camera’s photos were intact—no sensitive content, no deletions. The surveillance timeline was complete—no edits or alterations. The camera hadn’t moved an inch the whole time; no one touched it.

When the results came in, everyone in the room was dumbfounded.

…

June 13, 4 p.m., at the Police Bureau. Ji Tingxi made herself right at home, piling on extra work without a second thought.

Before, she’d only needed to skim the Sern death archives. Now she had City Police Division 2’s files, the funeral home’s work logs, and the physical evidence from the Luo Le case—all to review. Once through each individually, she had to cross-reference all four together.

Not only had the workload ballooned, it spanned three institutions—broader than even the city mayor’s jurisdiction in North County City.

The comparisons confirmed two things for her: First, Du Lengding and Luo Le were in cahoots, smuggling bodies together. Second, before the Swan Palace Incident, Du Lengding had accessed bodies from the funeral home.

No wonder Keqi’s squad car had modifications under the seat—sized just right for a live person. Du Lengding must have pulled those corpses as cover for smuggling someone out.

Ji Tingxi hadn’t seen the person herself, but she could picture them: lean and lithe, agile as a young snow leopard, crouched silently under the seat, waiting for the door to open and foreign sunlight to flood in.

These deductions stemmed from her own synthesis and intuition, but finding hard proof in the files to back them up? That was tricky.

Du Lengding’s methods were masterful. The files glossed over body details without breaking protocol—just focused on the case, skimping on descriptions and close-ups.

The funeral home logs, likely penned to Du Lengding’s specs, were seamless. Surveillance at least showed edit traces; these handwritten records betrayed nothing irregular.

“This is getting complicated. To push further, we’ll need those car photos from Luo Le.”

“But Captain Xian’s team already pulled fake plates from Luo Le’s place—exact matches for the photos.”

Ji Tingxi rested her hand back-up, propping her chin. “So now we’re thinking Luo Le staged it himself?”

“That’s the suspicion. The tech team’s checking Officer Du’s car.”

Ruo Xing didn’t sound optimistic. He always anticipated Ji Tingxi’s thoughts and worries, more attuned than her own heart.

“So far, though, every personal item of Officer Du’s—office, home, car—has been searched clean. Nothing suspicious.”

Ji Tingxi got his point. She paused for two seconds, then spoke without a trace of dejection.

“That’s the Sern Organization’s style. Remember the Summer Lotus Flower Shop investigation? Same result.”

“So, Director Ji, what’s our move?”

Ji Tingxi glanced at the files stacked beside her—four hefty tomes. But her mind wandered to another: the Information Room decryption logs she’d reviewed in the Guard Institute archives a few days back.

The memory made her gaze blur for a moment, a faint spark dancing in her eyes. Then it faded, settling into the calm sheen of a watch crystal.

“Let’s hold off for now.”

…

The Task Force split up again. One team handled the car inspection—bio traces in the trunk, tire residue extraction.

The other dug into Luo Le’s personal life, including his finances.

The Police Bureau had started neutral between him and Du Lengding, but mounting evidence swung toward him. The Task Force zeroed in on key suspicions, like his accounts.

“We checked his bank card. Income’s standard salary deposits, expenses everyday stuff. Other accounts under his name: just the payroll one active, plus an old payment card from his previous job—dormant, no balance.”

“Doesn’t add up,” Xian Liyang said, hand braced on the car door, gaze drifting aimlessly. “Body trafficking means dirty money inflows—big ones.”

“Guaranteed, but if he fakes surveillance and plates, he’d launder deposits too. Cash, maybe, or proxies collecting.”

“Cash… where’s he stashing it?” Xian Liyang paused, turning to the driver’s seat. “Let’s re-search Luo Le’s office and home. This time, hunt hidden spots, not just suspicious items. And pull accounts for his family and friends.”

At the funeral home, the director had a lounge—bed, bathroom, the works.

Luo Le crashed there instead of going home sometimes; it covered all needs. A full-length coat rack held several jackets. In the inner pocket of a brown leather one lurked a bank card.

The first search assumed he was too cautious to leave evidence at work. Instead, the jackpot was right there in plain sight—barely hidden, just tossed in a pocket.

Regular deposits trickled in: thousands to tens of thousands, totaling half a million. But the card wasn’t in his name—a nobody’s.

“Jabuwai? A Sern person?” Xian Liyang repeated. “What’s this guy’s link to Luo Le?”

“No connection we can find,” Emi added.

“Let’s go chat him up.”

Jabuwai ran a spice stall; even his apron reeked of it. When Xian Liyang and Emi stepped in, cumin and star anise hit them like a wall.

“This card yours?”

Jabuwai didn’t recognize it at first glance—just the last four digits jogged his memory. “Yeah, opened it seven or eight years ago.”

Emi watched his face: tense, excited, worried—a full spice rack of emotions.

“You using it the whole time?”

“Nah, I did for a bit, then passed it to my little brother.”

“Why him?”

Jabuwai hesitated but saw no point hiding from cops—just the difference between volunteering or getting pried out.

“He racked up gambling debts, did time. Enemies everywhere. Out of prison, banks wouldn’t issue him a card, so I let him use mine for daily expenses.”

Xian Liyang eyed the shop—tidy enough, but Jabuwai looked rumpled, wrinkles etching deep like grime layers, age weighing heavy.

“You topping up the card regularly?”

“No.” Jabuwai looked tempted to claim yes but stuck to the truth. “He deposited himself.”

“What’d he do?”

“No steady gig. Power-leveling, ghostwriting, ball-boying—whatever paid, he’d jump.”

Sern drifters like him, especially ex-cons, got branded “dead weight”—shoved into factories or labor camps to till fields. Plenty of work if you didn’t mind.

For this high-waste brother, Jabuwai had poured his soul. Propping up the stall hadn’t aged him, but saving kin had drained him dry.

Sern solo operators paid steep taxes already; he coughed up forty percent extra for Jilang—eighty total. Up at dawn, bed at midnight, three hundred days a year for half a bowl of rice.

“Where’s he at now?”

“No clue. Dropped off the map.” Jabuwai’s face darkened like pepper grounds.

Emi bit back the urge to ask why no police report. Big brothers usually knew shady dealings made it worse—better handle it quiet.

“You solve it yet?”

“Nope.”

“Where’d your brother live? Take us.”

Jilang’s room felt both spacious and cramped, sparse furniture in tight quarters.

Forty square meters, dotted with odds and ends straining to pass for “home”—lest anyone mistake it for a bathhouse.

Xian Liyang and Emi clocked it as cleaned—and ransacked. Surface level, nothing jumped out.

He stepped to the living room window with Jabuwai; Emi gloved up to check the computer. Mostly games and streaming apps—no red flags.

Then Emi swept the room, zeroing in on corners and crevices—missable spots in a flip.

Meanwhile, Xian Liyang’s chat served dual purpose: intel and time-kill. Standing there, even the dust on their shoe soles felt awkward.

“Those odd jobs—decent pay?”

“Pennies. That’s why he hustled everywhere.” Jabuwai answered guardedly.

“Looks like prison grew him some.” Xian Liyang pegged Jilang as a lazy gambler, spared “processing” by the bureau only thanks to his brother.

“Yeah, he’s always wanted to earn… just…”

Just when school years hit, new policies kicked in. Quotas went to Homer kids with “affirmative action” breaks. Jilang prepped for factory drudgery at a vocational mill instead.

But the kid rebelled, smashed his future to bits, quit learning altogether—went lone wolf, sword to the horizon.

“Wrong path,” Xian Liyang picked up. “Everyone dreams get-rich-quick, but quick riches ain’t legal.”

Jabuwai wiped sweat; his brown eyes stayed dry, light buried deep.

“You’re right. If we find him this time, I’ll set him straight!”

Xian Liyang shifted, legs stiff. “Before he split, any big-money talk?”

“Nope. Last six months, no handouts from me—he sent cash my way instead. Said don’t grind so hard at the shop; he’s got steady income now.”

“From what?”

Jabuwai wiped sweat again, feeling like he was snitching kin.

Emi emerged from the bedroom with a stack of papers, fished one out slickly, and passed it to the captain. Xian Liyang gloved up; one glance confirmed his hunch.

Flyers, plastered in city nooks amid legit ads. Fat pay and perks baited the hook—until victims showed and got “bait-and-switch.”

As Patrol Police Team’s veteran captain, Xian Liyang’s instincts screamed pyramid scheme. Jilang the vanishing act? More like the pusher.