Chapter 8: Trouble Looms! (Please Keep Reading)

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Generally, fishing bans tend to fall around the transition from spring to summer each year, as that is the season when fish breed and spawn. However, on Yanlong Island, there is a specialty fish called the “flower snakehead,” commonly nicknamed the “flower dog.” It has a bluish-green skin, tender flesh, and very few bones, making it ideal for fish fillets and fish steaks. There’s even a subspecies suited for ornamental purposes. This fish only frequents the nearby lakes and spawns in winter, so to protect it, the island’s fishing ban is set during the winter months.

This creature is quite fierce—longer than the usual blackfish. It looks dumb most of the time but can snap at you suddenly. That small wound on Zhang Shutong’s tiger mouth was, if memory serves, from getting bitten while removing a fishhook.

The island also shelters several protected animals, such as the yellow ibis. The city museum even has a specimen of it. Now almost extinct, in earlier years, it was said that foxes, bears, and wild boars could still be spotted on the mountains. But since this was only hearsay, none of the kids had ever actually seen any of those animals. Their interests were all centered on fish.

Truly, they only enjoyed the pleasure of fishing. Although the island was remote, their generation’s living standards were quite decent—not as extravagant as Gu Qiumian’s family, but they had no worries about food or clothing. Without poverty or gluttony as obstacles, they would neither sell nor eat the fish they caught. At most, they’d snap a photo of their catch before packing up, to post later as a record, then release all the fish back into the water. The one who caught the most would treat the group to soda, and together they’d ride home, laughing and chatting along the way.

That’s just how young people are. To them, eating fish was more trouble than fishing for it. Once caught, you’d have to carry the fish home, keep it alive for a few days, find a basin to raise it, and now that everyone lived in apartment buildings, there was the hassle of how to kill and cook the fish. And if they cooked too much, they’d have to eat fish for several days straight—far less carefree than just fishing.

It was much like when you buy a pet as a child, full of excitement, only for the fresh joy to last a few days before the feeding and cleaning become your parents’ responsibility.

So, even during the fishing ban, since their fishing was purely for fun and carried a spirit of release, they felt virtuous and often dared to fish secretly, never feeling guilty as long as they weren’t caught.

This was why the officer surnamed Xiong had spoken sternly but didn’t press the issue with the kids; otherwise, Zhang Shutong would have been arrested on the spot.

It was simply a coincidence that two matters overlapped—Zhang Shutong was suspected and taunted, and his explanation insulted their intelligence.

Zhang Shutong felt innocent but had to bear the consequences of past mistakes. Helpless, he took on the role of a lone ranger again and decided to check out the “restricted zone.”

Along the way, he passed by a food cart selling snacks made from the island’s specialty fish and shrimp. For example, shrimp cakes made from freshly caught lake shrimp, just a bit larger than a fingernail, unpeeled and marinated in saltwater, mixed with shredded carrots, potatoes, chopped scallions and onions, flour, water, and eggs to make a batter, then fried golden in oil. Biting into one was crispy on the outside, tender inside, and fragrant.

In fact, that was his breakfast today—eight years later, an early morning rush to the pier, no time for a proper meal, so he bought a couple of shrimp cakes on the island to stave off hunger. They used to cost ten yuan for two; now, only five.

He bought one, munching as he continued. It wasn’t because he was particularly hungry but because he wouldn’t have time for dinner and had a packet of tissues in his pocket to avoid greasy hands. Seeing them conveniently nearby, he simply bought some.

Zhang Shutong had always been low on material desires, partly due to his nature since childhood, partly because of his experiences over the years.

Several times during his time traveling back, he had chances to buy lottery tickets. Though he wouldn’t win big, earning a few thousand was possible. If he had deliberately pursued this, buying tickets multiple times, it could have been a nice income. But at the time, he thought, what use was that money? He couldn’t spend it—no traveling plans, no car to buy, gadgets like phones and computers were sufficient, and even his sole hobby, fishing, was gradually abandoned. The only major expenses left were buying a house and getting married—neither of which could be solved by a few lottery wins or were concerns for him at present.

Not that he had no women in his heart. Fishing was a natural god.

In high school, his social life was decent, though he wasn’t sure why the girls seemed interested or whether it counted as romantic luck. He had received a few love letters—not many, because by then, confessing love in writing wasn’t popular.

Everyone had class groups online. Sometimes, after “acting bravely” during a time travel event, he’d come home to find screenshots from classmates asking if he was the boy mentioned on a school bulletin board.

He remembered such things happening often—not necessarily frequently, but his memories, influenced by time travel, often replayed the same events multiple times. Asked how it felt to be confessed to, he only felt exhausted by the temporal confusion.

One reason he thought he was popular was because sometimes, when he checked his social media, strangers sent gifts, and on his birthday, unknown classmates sent wishes, which he earnestly replied to. He felt happy, thinking, "In middle school I only had three close friends, but now in high school, my friends are everywhere. Clearly, I’ve stepped up my social game."

Later, someone angrily told him, “Bullshit! Those are all girls! Girls, damn it! You can’t use them? Can you introduce a few to me?”

Zhang Shutong was confused.

Take Du Kang’s affection for Lu Qinglian, for example—he could understand that. Regardless of their relationship, at least they grew up on the island, attended the same elementary and middle schools. Imagine a beautiful girl frequently around you, exchanging a few words, seeing her smile, her long hair, her scent. It’s only natural to like her. But what about these “girls” from classmates? They didn’t even know each other. He just couldn’t understand.

Since he couldn’t understand, he had no way to respond. Later, he locked his social media and changed his birthday. Unfortunately, he dropped out in the second year of high school, so it was never put to use.

Throughout high school, he only ever liked one girl.

She was a senior in the same club, pursued by many. To be honest, Zhang Shutong was a little nervous. Using popular terms, she was a school beauty—no reason to favor an ordinary boy like him. Though “ordinary” here should be in quotes; he spent his days roaming the school and nearby, righting wrongs, thinking he was cool. But that didn’t help when chasing girls.

It’s not like he could say, “Hey, here’s a secret—I have superpowers,” and have the girl swoon over him. Even Peter Parker had a hard time winning Mary Jane.

Later, he transferred to a school far away. The girl even took a bus to visit him once.

That day, they found a bench in the park. Under the night’s dim light, they couldn’t see each other’s expressions clearly. They talked casually, she looking down at her shoes, he gazing up at the moon. She whispered about the future, but he said nothing, unable to picture what lay ahead.

The moon was solitary. The bench cold. Her vision of the future was beautiful but felt distant.

After that, he suddenly realized he wasn’t suited for love.

What does one do in love? Perhaps dates, movies, meals, moonlit walks hand-in-hand, romantic kisses. But as long as time travel existed, he could never return to a normal life.

They say everyone is born with a mission. Zhang Shutong’s mission was to fight this cursed power until death—and only then rest.

Unexpectedly, just hours ago, he had truly fought to the “death,” and only then did he rest.

Since returning to student days, an entire afternoon had passed.

Environment greatly affects a person. Though the time was short, he gradually felt his mindset lighten. So, if he were to recount the result in a relaxed tone, he could simply say:

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“I always thought I had only one ability: time travel.”

“But I didn’t expect a second one—being a prophet.”

Thinking this, Zhang Shutong almost smiled. He felt he still had some humor, though others might not agree. It was like how Gu Qiumian never thought she was making a funny face; everyone just amused themselves in their own minds.

—As for that “restricted zone” of water, even he wasn’t sure what was really going on. He could only be very cautious, and try to think of a joke to keep his mind sharp.

After pondering various thoughts, the sun was slowly setting as the “great prophet” reached the lake where he had fallen.

He remembered Du Kang’s words before time travel: fishermen had seen someone near the restricted zone before the incident.

Gu Qiumian was murdered on December 10th; today was December 5th—just five days left. Surely some clues could be found.

In theory, he should deduce the killer’s motive, but Zhang Shutong was no professional detective. He barely knew Gu Qiumian, didn’t even know she had drawn a sheep on glass. It was hard to guess.

Better to start with the girl’s disappearance itself.

Currently, three possibilities came to mind:

One, it was a coincidence. Although unlikely, she might have impulsively wandered there, separated from the crowd, giving the killer an opportunity.

Two, the killer had scouted the area beforehand, deliberately luring her there to strike.

Three, similarly, the killer scouted in advance, but the first crime scene wasn’t the “restricted zone.” Instead, she was kidnapped first, then brought to the restricted zone.

This place was deserted, so no wonder she was found two days after disappearing.

Zhang Shutong temporarily ruled out the first possibility. The other two couldn’t be determined, but with Du Kang’s words, the killer must have scouted the spot in advance.

It was time to test these guesses.

He parked the bike and looked around—no one in sight.

He thought the recent snowfall would leave footprints if anyone had passed by, but for some reason, the snow here had completely melted.

The only option was to approach.

The lakeside road wasn’t built yet; underfoot was just dirt. Going further in led to mud. So he left his bike a bit away and turned around, ready to flee on the bike at the first sign of trouble.

The sky was darkening; no need to cover his face. Zhang Shutong held a flashlight in his left hand and a baton in his right, exhaled a breath, and stepped lightly into the reeds.

He frowned immediately—the ground felt wrong.

He crouched and poked the soil with his finger. At first, there was ice shrapnel and muddy water, but pressing further, it was solid frozen earth.

That wasn’t the case eight years later.

He thought carefully. He remembered coming here a few hours ago; back then, the ground was all silt, making walking tough, sinking feet into mud. Now it was hard-packed ground. He didn’t recall any rain in the past eight years.

What was going on?

More memories stirred. Wait, maybe a clue:

His parents were both geological surveyors. They came to the island under Gu’s leadership to investigate a “subsidence zone.”

The island was surrounded on three sides by lake water. Since the late last century, it had been gradually developed, with more buildings erected over time. The layers of earth were compressed, and the ground slowly sank.

Gu Jianhong planned engineering projects on the island and worried that poor groundwork might cause buildings to collapse. That’s why the survey office was established.

Perhaps the “restricted zone” was within the subsidence area. Eight years ago, the ground was hard soil. Eight years later, the land had sunk and the water level risen, leaving the area muddy.

Zhang Shutong never imagined the things he did would one day connect to his parents’ profession.

But this complicated matters.

He had planned to find footprints to verify his theory, but now, with no snow and frozen ground, he had to press on blindly.

Winter nights fell early. The sun disappeared, dark clouds covered the sky, and the moon was dim.

The reeds beside him were almost as tall as he was, blocking his view completely. Silence reigned, broken only by the rustling of his body brushing through the reeds.

He kept his breathing low, turned on the flashlight, and moved forward carefully.

He saw stones...

Grass stalks...

An old instant noodle wrapper...

The wrapper was faded and buried in soil, clearly old. He glanced at it but didn’t touch.

Then Zhang Shutong spotted a blackish object.

Flipping it over, it was a dead turtle.

A dried turtle.

Yes—the “dried turtle,” almost the size of an adult’s palm, comparable to an old snapping turtle. The corpse was shriveled, nearly desiccated, resembling a mummy.

He could tell it was a local grass turtle. Finding a turtle corpse near water wasn’t strange, especially during turtle hibernation. Sometimes one could even find empty shells.

But why...

This turtle hadn’t retracted into its shell.

It held an extremely strange posture, indistinguishable from a living turtle. Its head was raised, limbs extended, as if resting on a rock.

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When Zhang Shutong found it, the turtle was lying on its back. That was what made it odd—like a grass turtle sunbathing, suddenly caught in some disaster, like Pompeii buried under volcanic ash, its body suddenly desiccated by the wind.

But how could a water turtle dry up by the shore?

He swallowed hard.

Ignoring the strange turtle for now, he shone the flashlight ahead and suddenly stepped on what felt like rubber—an elastic sensation that gave him goosebumps. He quickly moved his foot aside and looked down:

It was a strip of dark red “stone.”

About two fingers wide and half a foot long, covered in mud. He forced down his nausea, pressed it with his hand, confirming his suspicion.

It was meat.

The surface was dried, making it hard to tell how long it had been there.

Zhang Shutong wasn’t sure whether to feel familiar or shocked—he had used meat bait for fishing before. Finding such a thing by the water was not unusual, like the instant noodle wrapper. Although few people fished here, few didn’t mean none, and it didn’t necessarily relate to the killer.

Frowning, he walked a few steps more. His last find was a mineral water bottle floating quietly at the lake’s edge. He picked it up; the production date was October 27th.

Some droplets clung inside, but with snow having just melted, he couldn’t say what caused them, nor could he determine how long the bottle had been there.

No conclusive clues.

He had thought the killer scouted in advance and that once the premise was established, he could investigate further. But now, even the premise was shaky.

Let alone identifying the killer.

His head ached.

There was no reason to stay longer today. He took pictures of the clues with his phone, unsure if they’d be useful but hoping to study them at home, especially the strange turtle, which he photographed from several angles.

Speaking of which, current phone cameras were terrible. The 2012 smartphone he had hadn’t unlocked the “night mode” skill tree. The turtle looked like a horror film monster—grotesque on screen.

The phone belonged to his mother and was likely an iPhone 4 or 4s. It used to be precious to him, but now it felt clumsy, with poor signal—probably due to the island’s few base stations. The status bar showed no bars at all.

Thinking of this, Zhang Shutong longed for the technology eight years from now. No need for him to come in person—a drone or small surveillance camera could monitor everything 24/7.

Speaking of surveillance, he suddenly had an idea for a little trap.

He had always been skilled with his hands and had learned many tricks from Qing Yi on the island, such as various knot-tying techniques and wilderness survival skills. Qing Yi was well-read and the expert in these.

He never thought they’d be useful—did the few of them expect to reenact Robinson Crusoe on the island? No one wanted to be Friday. But boys cared about looking cool, and that was enough. Today, the skills came in handy.

Returning to his bike, he opened the rear box. He had to admit his past self was a fishing professional—there were even fishing lines and scissors inside.

Zhang Shutong cut several lengths of fishing line, tied them between reeds on both sides, and made a knot in the middle.

The knot was designed to come undone with a little force. He adjusted it to shoe height and tested the tension to ensure it wouldn’t trigger by accident but would catch someone’s foot.

He tied several lines this way.

If someone walked into the restricted zone, they’d trip the “trap.” The knot would come loose easily, causing a stumble. Even if they looked down, no one would notice the fishing line—probably thinking they tripped on grass.

This way, every day after school, when he visited, he’d know at a glance if anyone had been there.

Mission accomplished. When he came to, the warmth from the shrimp cake had worn off, and he felt a chill. He sniffed and thought tomorrow would bring results. After checking around to ensure no one was nearby, he got on his bike and headed back.

He hadn’t forgotten that he had plans to fish with friends today. Suddenly remembering, he tapped his forehead in frustration—he’d delayed too long, and his buddies were probably pestering him.

He pedaled hard. When he reached a certain spot, his phone finally got a signal, buzzing with several notifications.

He opened it to find missed calls from Ruoping—she had called four times in a row. That woman was terrifying.

Zhang Shutong smiled resignedly, connected to the data, and was about to reply when QQ messages bombarded him.

Ruoping: “Something’s wrong.”

Ruoping: “Pick up, pick up, pick up!”

Ruoping: [Image]

Ruoping: “You have to come!”

What was going on?

Zhang Shutong was stunned. It was just after 6 p.m., but her last message was sent at 5:40.

A sudden chill ran down his spine.

He hurriedly opened the chat window. Shocked, he almost lost control of his bike.

The picture Ruoping sent showed the usual fishing spot. His friends had already set up their gear, everything as before. But the main figure in the photo was unexpected—

A girl in a teal robe, seen from behind.

She sat upright on a portable stool, holding a fishing rod.

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