Chapter 38: The Third Exhaustion

Perhaps due to the rain, some shops had closed earlier today. The commercial street ran north to south, and they stopped the car at the northern entrance.

Along the way, the atmosphere shifted—from the initial tension of noticing clues, to the intense speculation about the van, then gradually easing. Occasionally, they chatted about school matters, sharing light laughter, though both knew this was merely a way to ease their anxiety.

As the car entered the city, the surrounding light grew brighter, yet the small vehicle seemed to plunge into deeper darkness. Lao Song lit cigarette after cigarette, rarely taking full drags, often just holding them between his fingers. At this moment, he paid no mind to ash falling onto his legs, coughing once and sighing irritably.

Zhang Shutong sometimes lowered the window slightly, but the cold wind rushing in prompted him to raise it again. The air conditioning circulated the smoke throughout the car, blurring their vision, and in the almost stagnant cabin air, both fell silent simultaneously.

Occasionally, Zhang Shutong would recall more details and discuss them briefly with Song Nanshan—just a few words exchanged, but the clues were too scant to reach any definitive conclusion.

Everyone knew the greatest challenge was still ahead.

They nearly rushed out of the car together. Lao Song reminded him to open his umbrella, then led the way into the rain.

Zhang Shutong opened the door, and as his foot hit the ground, splashes of water scattered. He followed closely behind, umbrella in hand but unlifted, for strolling under an umbrella in the rain is leisurely, yet running with one becomes a cumbersome burden as the canopy flaps and the handle wobbles.

Following their recent plan, they would split up: Song Nanshan would search for the van, while Zhang Shutong would first visit the South Lake Fish Restaurant—covering both ends.

It was nearly eight o’clock.

He ran past shop after shop, casting occasional glances at the vehicles on both sides. The rain blurred his sight and added a filter to the surrounding lights—

Street lamps glowed a dim yellow, shop signs lit up in colorful hues. In the harsh winter, the dust in the air seemed frozen; compared to summer’s downpours, the atmosphere felt much cleaner.

Air, light, and rain mingled, blending the scene before him into a misty haze.

Zhang Shutong moved through the fine drizzle.

His body, just warmed by the air conditioning’s heat, instantly chilled. His shoes and pant legs were almost completely soaked. Sometimes he recalled Lao Song’s words—if you love someone, perhaps being unafraid of the cold is a blessing.

On the way, Song Nanshan kept advising him not to act rashly. They weren’t police and had no official authority; all they could do was gather some information.

Even if they found the van and then the culprit, their options were limited—nothing more than small tactics, akin to dancing with handcuffs.

For example, bluffing a few questions: if the other party confessed, that was best, allowing them to secretly record on their phones and hand evidence to the police.

But if denial was firm, there was little else to do—just issue warnings, memorize the person’s face and identity, and remind Gu Qiumian to be extra cautious.

Zhang Shutong had anticipated this. It was one of the most vexing situations they’d faced since the incident began—

It wasn’t like that time in the reeds, when the culprit’s intent was clear, the crime done, and a few people could intervene on the spot—even if force was necessary.

Nor was it like catching the students who smashed the castle, where they had deduced the time and place beforehand and only needed to wait.

Besides, the poison dog might not be alone.

Zhang Shutong recalled what Li’s mother had said. The worst scenario he could imagine was tracing the van to a shop, climbing to the second floor where a room light shone, then spying or barging in, only to find four or five men inside.

What followed wouldn’t be a battle of wits or fists—it would be helplessness.

There’s a philosophical question: if a person commits a crime in the future, can their past self be considered innocent? Zhang Shutong found it tiresome. Given the urgency, he wouldn’t hesitate to judge “guilty,” but he hoped the other truly was.

Meaning, the poison dog and the murderer of Gu Qiumian were preferably the same person.

But even if that was certain, the difficulty lay not in sentencing but in how to stop, restrain, or prevent the act.

It was like a thorny ball of yarn—dangerous and tangled.

Everything was impossible to grasp.

For instance, the South Lake Fish Restaurant before him was also shuttered.

Its gray metal rolling door was stained with water droplets.

A large raindrop fell before his eyes, exploding on the ground and splashing onto his face.

Zhang Shutong sighed silently.

He had considered calling first, though face-to-face would be better—but after trying, the call never connected.

Now, the last path was blocked.

His phone hadn't vibrated, indicating Lao Song had no news either.

He turned back and headed toward the hat shop, where he had mingled just last night, hoping for some lead.

The shop owner was an elderly woman who greeted him warmly, thinking he’d come again to support the business. Zhang had bought a scarf there yesterday — a plain red one, expensive but meant as bait — so he paid out of his own pocket.

Now, he casually picked up two raincoats and asked the key questions, phrased delicately but essentially:

What exactly was the “incident” the fish restaurant owner had mentioned?

And who were involved?

The shop owner knew nothing.

But, out of gratitude for his business over two days, she shared another piece of information.

Quite a few people knew about the castle-smashing incident.

At first, Zhang was surprised, then pieced it together:

Li Yipeng and his mother had returned to the commercial street that afternoon.

Li’s father was usually away on the island; only Li’s mother stayed to run the supermarket.

So after leaving school at noon, she had brought her son to the store.

The woman was naturally outspoken; moreover, the target was Gu Qiumian. Instead of seeing it as a scandal, she cursed loudly and didn’t hesitate to spread the word.

Nearly all shopkeepers and neighbors on the commercial street, when free, enjoyed the spectacle.

Li’s mother’s goal was achieved—many sympathized and shared her resentment.

The news of Li Yipeng’s revenge against Gu Qiumian at school spread this way.

Zhang learned who had been the most vocally abusive at the scene.

Now, the merchants on the street split into three factions:

One faction was the hat shop owner, perhaps holding some grudge against Gu’s family business, but only mild resentment. She was elderly, with a working husband and son, and planned to settle down with a relocation payout.

Another faction was Li Yipeng’s family and the fish restaurant couple, who bore strong resentment toward the Gu family, often cursing them behind their backs—but for various reasons, they avoided a complete break, remaining merely “enemies.”

The last faction was the poison dog group, or rather, the murderers. As Lao Song said, driven to desperation, they moved from “enemies” to “revenge,” willing to fight to the death.

The good news: this last faction was a minority.

The bad news: no one on the street truly knew who they were. They hid beneath the surface, careful not to let the secret slip. No one openly declared, “I’ll take revenge on the entire Gu family,” instead disguising themselves as belonging to the second faction.

Zhang thanked the woman and stepped back into the rain.

His raincoat wrapped him tightly, the cheap plastic scent filling his nostrils. He’d hoped the raincoat would help, but his whole body was already soaked; the plastic clung to his skin, and the rain hammered down, making the chill worse.

He wiped water from his face, about to meet Lao Song—

Then his phone suddenly rang.