Xie Qingyan spoke up.
He hadn't said a word since entering, just quietly observing. But when he did speak, his voice was as flat as reading a weather report—yet He Jinsong instinctively turned to look at him. Because that flatness carried a kind of pressure.
A sword cultivator's pressure. Unobtrusive sharpness.
"Mr. He," Xie Qingyan said, "where did you go after you left the back alley?"
"Went home."
"Straight home?"
"Straight home." He Jinsong paused. "No—first I stopped at the convenience store at the intersection to buy a pack of cigarettes."
"What time?"
"Around... 10:40?"
"Do you have a receipt?"
He Jinsong froze for a moment, then stood and rummaged through a cardboard box beside the coffee table, pulling out a crumpled plastic bag. Inside were several receipts.
He picked one out and handed it to Xie Qingyan.
Xie Qingyan took it and glanced at it. The date and time were clearly printed—the night of the incident, 10:42 PM, the FamilyMart at the East District intersection.
"The convenience store has surveillance." Xie Qingyan said.
He Jinsong shrugged. "Go check if you want."
Yin Wuwang sat on the couch, chin propped on his hand, eyes half-lidded as he watched He Jinsong.
Little Deer Assistant 9527's voice sounded in his mind, normal mode, tone steady: "The convenience store is approximately a seven-minute walk from the bar. If he left the back alley at 10:35 and appeared at the convenience store at 10:42, the timing fits."
Yin Wuwang didn't respond to Little Deer Assistant.
He was thinking about something else.
He Jinsong had motive—a five-hundred-thousand-dollar equity dispute. Had opportunity—was present on the night of the incident. Had a record—got physical over a business dispute three years ago.
Motive, opportunity, record. All three boxes checked.
In the cultivation world, if someone simultaneously possessed the motive, timing, and means to assassinate someone, and also happened to appear at the scene—then that person was either the real killer, or a scapegoat pushed forward as a chess piece.
Because real killers didn't expose themselves this thoroughly.
Yin Wuwang's instinct kept whispering the same thing: Too obvious.
Like someone placed him there deliberately.
"Mr. He," Yin Wuwang shifted his approach, "you assaulted someone three years ago."
He didn't phrase it as a question. A direct statement.
He Jinsong's expression darkened slightly.
"That incident..." He took a breath. "It was after Chen Wan mortgaged the bar. I went to confront him. We shoved each other a few times, and I accidentally pushed him into a wall. He hit his head, split it open. He called the police; I got seven days administrative detention."
"The person you pushed was Chen Wan?"
"Yes." He Jinsong's voice dropped. "I was really furious at the time. Five hundred thousand was all my savings."
"And now?" Yin Wuwang asked. "Do you still hate him?"
He Jinsong was silent for a long while.
Then he raised his head and met Yin Wuwang's eyes.
"What's the point of hating?" He said. "The man's dead."
Yin Wuwang studied his pupils.
Deep beneath those words, there was regret. Tiny, almost buried under weariness and bitterness. But regret nonetheless.
Did He Jinsong hate Chen Wan? He had. But that hatred hadn't grown large enough to require killing. The five-hundred-thousand loss hurt him badly, but it wasn't the kind of pain that made life unlivable. He had his repair shop, his work, his beer to drink. He wasn't someone pushed to the edge.
Yin Wuwang's judgment grew clearer.
This man wasn't the killer. Little Deer Assistant's intel was correct—he was a half-developed suspect. He had settings, had motive, but in his bones, there was no killing intent.
However, Yin Wuwang wanted to verify something else.
"How's business at the repair shop?" He suddenly changed direction, tone casual as if making small talk. "How many employees do you have?"
He Jinsong opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
That pause lasted about three seconds. Not recalling, not hesitating—blank. Like a playing video had suddenly frozen, all sound and motion locked in place. His eyes went slightly unfocused, the muscles in his jaw slackened, and for those three seconds he wasn't a person thinking of an answer—he was a system encountering an error it didn't know how to handle.
"It's... you know, whatever." He Jinsong finally said, tone vague, gaze drifting to the side. His hand reached for the beer can again, but the motion was mechanical, like someone going through familiar motions to buy time while their brain rebooted.
Yin Wuwang inconspicuously glanced at Xie Qingyan.
Xie Qingyan gave a slight nod. He'd seen it too. Three thousand years of reading people on battlefields and in court politics—they both recognized what they'd just witnessed.
When asked about the five-hundred-thousand debt, Chen Wan's bar, his whereabouts on the night of the incident—He Jinsong answered fluently, emotions on point, even his self-deprecating timing was precise. But the moment he was asked about something "outside the script," he was like someone who'd had their power cord pulled.
A character only half-developed. Just as suspected.
Yin Wuwang suppressed these thoughts, not revealing them in front of He Jinsong.
"One last question." Yin Wuwang said. "When you left the back alley, did you see anyone else?"
He Jinsong thought about it.
"Yes."
Yin Wuwang's body didn't move, but his focus instantly sharpened.
"Near the alley entrance, there seemed to be someone standing in the deep shadows." He Jinsong frowned, recalling. "I couldn't see clearly—half the lights in the alley were broken. But there was a figure. Not tall."
"Male or female?"
"Couldn't tell." He Jinsong shook his head. "Just a shadow. I was in a hurry to leave. Didn't pay attention."
Yin Wuwang and Xie Qingyan exchanged another look.
The figure in the shadows of the back alley. The same person as the woman who appeared at 11:18 in the surveillance.
She was already there before He Jinsong even left. She'd been waiting there all along.
[End of V2_Chapter 27]
Next: A half-written character, a puppet without strings, and a third suspect that doesn't even have a name.