38: No. 13 Haitang Road

Chen Mo's roar was the mournful cry of a dying beast.

It tore through the deathly silence of the command center.

His eyes, bloodshot from sudden fury and frantic thought, swept over every soul in the room seized by terror.

Boom!

Zhao Dahai's mind felt as if it had been struck by an actual bomb!

He reacted instantly, grabbing the red internal phone on the desk, the one that connected to the highest level.

"Hello! This is Zhao Dahai!"

He roared into the phone, his voice shaking violently from anger and fear.

"Archives Center! Immediately! Right now! Send the case file for the No. 13, Haitang Road family massacre from twenty years ago to the command center!"

On the other end of the line.

A lazy, bureaucratic voice replied.

"Captain Zhao, what did you say? No. 13, Haitang Road?"

"That file was classified as 'Permanently Sealed' twenty years ago. Without joint approval from the Director and the city government, no one can touch it."

"To hell with your rules!"

Zhao Dahai exploded in rage, slamming the phone onto the floor, shattering it into pieces!

He turned and looked at the Director, who was slumped weakly in his chair.

"Director!"

The Director jolted violently. He looked at Chen Mo's bloodshot eyes and at Zhao Dahai's man-eating expression.

He knew he had no choice.

With trembling hands, he picked up his private phone and dialed a number.

"This is Zhou Zhengguo."

"I now order you, in the name of the Jiang City Public Security Bureau Director, to deliver the file for No. 13, Haitang Road into the hands of my men within one minute!"

"If there are any consequences, I will bear them alone!"

... Five minutes later.

A black police SUV roared out of the Municipal Bureau compound like an arrow released from a bow!

Li Hu floored the accelerator, the engine's roar seeming to tear apart the city's dawn.

In the back seat.

Chen Mo leaned against the window, his face pale as paper.

He gripped the tiny brown leather shoe tightly in his hand; the cold leather felt like a branding iron searing his palm.

Su Qingxue sat beside him, silent.

She simply pulled a high-concentration glucose syringe and a bottle of mineral water from her tactical backpack.

"Chen Mo."

For the first time, her voice carried a hint of tenderness she herself hadn't noticed.

"Drink some water."

Chen Mo didn't react.

His soul was still trapped in that rainy night twenty years ago, unable to escape.

"Team Leader Chen."

In the passenger seat, Li Ke turned his head, his expression equally grim.

"We found it."

"Twenty years ago, No. 13, Haitang Road was an upscale intellectual community, and the residents were mostly university professors and researchers."

"After the incident, the villa was completely sealed off, and the surrounding neighbors gradually moved away."

"Now, that street is known on the old maps of Jiang City as..."

He paused, his voice dry.

"Ghost Street."

Screech—!

An ear-splitting screech of brakes sounded.

The car stopped.

Li Ke didn't need to say anything more.

Chen Mo had already seen it.

Before them was a gloomy lane completely shrouded by tall sycamore trees.

On both sides of the road were abandoned Western-style houses covered in vines and moss.

The dilapidated windows, like hollow black eye sockets, silently watched the unwelcome guests in the morning light.

And at the end of the lane.

A villa, burned down to only its charred frame, stood silently there like a massive skeleton.

No. 13, Haitang Road.

They had arrived.

Chen Mo pushed open the car door.

A mix of rotting leaves, damp soil, and... a faint, lingering smell of blood instantly assaulted his nostrils.

"Ugh..."

Unable to hold it in any longer, he leaned against the car door and vomited violently.

This time, what he spat out was acidic fluid mixed with streaks of blood.

"Chen Mo!"

Su Qingxue rushed forward in a flash, gripping him tightly to support him.

"No! Your body has reached its limit! We have to go back!"

"No."

Chen Mo pushed her hand away and fiercely wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

He slowly straightened up, his eyes, bloodshot from severe pain and fury, fixed intensely on the charred villa.

"He... is inside."

He was referring to the messenger wearing the scorpion ring.

"He is... waiting for me."

Having said that, he ignored everyone else.

Like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, he walked step by step toward the hell that had buried his childhood.

Li Hu and Su Qingxue exchanged a look, immediately drew their sidearms, and guarded him on his left and right.

The three of them walked into the villa's yard.

The yard was filled with waist-high weeds.

A long-dry fountain was filled with black sludge.

Everything was exactly as it had been on that night twenty years ago.

The villa's front door was ajar.

A brittle, yellowed seal was pasted on the door.

The seal bore the police station's stamp from twenty years ago.

Chen Mo reached out, his fingertip touching the seal.

Then, he gently tore it off.

Creak—

The heavy wooden door opened inward.

A dense, suffocating stench, mixing dust, mildew, and the decay of death, rushed out.

In the living room.

All the furniture was covered in thick white sheets.

Like silent corpses.

Chen Mo's gaze pierced through the white sheets and landed on the exact center of the living room.

There, a human outline had been drawn in white chalk.

No, there were two.

A man and a woman, overlapping.

Chen Mo's breathing instantly seized up.

Just then!

"Look there!"

Su Qingxue's voice suddenly rang out, carrying a trace of uncontrollable horror!

The tactical flashlight in her hand shone toward the area next to the two white outlines!

There, they saw a... new "thing."

A man was tied to a chair.

He was wearing a black trench coat and a hood.

It was the messenger who had set up the music box in the previous illusion!

His eyes were wide open, filled with extreme terror and disbelief.

An ancient dagger was plunged into his chest.

It was identical to the one used to stab Wang Fugui.

Blood flowed down his chest, pooling at his feet into a small puddle of... fresh blood.

His left hand had been severed.

It was tossed right next to his feet.

On that hand, specifically on the ring finger, a silver scorpion-shaped ring gleamed with an eerie light under the flashlight.

The "Emperor"... He actually disposed of his own messenger without mercy.

And on the wall opposite the corpse.

A large, distorted line of text, full of mockery and provocation, was written in blood.

[Welcome Home, My 'Judge'.]

[The Game Begins Now.]