38 Decipher

The moment Jin Ze told me Liu Qinglong wanted to see me, a chill ran down my spine—was this some kind of joke? Wasn’t Liu Qinglong dead? I’d only just lost his severed head, so how could he possibly want to see me?

“Where is Liu Qinglong?” I hurriedly asked Jin Ze. “Is he still at the station? I just saw his head cut off—”

But before I could finish, Jin Ze had already hung up. It seemed things were hectic on his end.

Since Jin Ze was urging me, I knew I had to hurry over right away. First, I went to the projector, hoping to find the source file of the video just shown on the screen, since I was sure it was a crucial clue in the case. Yet after fiddling with it for a long time, I couldn’t make sense of things—it was clear the perpetrator didn’t want me to, having taken the video with them.

Left with no other choice, I quickly left the house, flagged down a nearby taxi, and headed for the police station.

On the way, I texted Jin Ze: “Number 29, Libao Village. There may be a vital lead here—send people to seal off and search the place.”

After sending the message, I closed my eyes in the back seat, pondering the message the voyeur had sent me. He told me to decipher the meaning behind the video of Liu Qinglong mutilating his own face, promising me a “gift” if I figured it out within the hour.

I wasn’t interested in his so-called gift, but I was desperate to understand what had really happened in that video. Yet no matter how much I thought about it, I couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation. Everything hinged on Liu Qinglong—whether he was alive or dead would lead to two entirely different conclusions. I’d have to wait until I reached the station and got the facts straight.

Soon I arrived at the police station. I called Jin Ze, and he came out to meet me. I asked if he’d received my message; he said Fang Qinghe had already taken a team to Libao Village. Only then did I finally relax a little.

Jin Ze led me toward the interrogation rooms. On the way, I told him about seeing Liu Qinglong’s severed head at my window, the voyeur ordering me to deliver it to number 29 in Libao Village, and the video I’d seen on the projector there.

Hearing all this, Jin Ze looked astonished. He shot me a suspicious glance and asked, “Chen Mu, is all of this true? You’re sure you weren’t dreaming or sleepwalking?”

“How could I be sleepwalking? It all really happened.”

By then, we’d reached the interrogation room. Jin Ze told me to go in. The moment I opened the door, I understood why he’d asked me if I was dreaming.

There, behind the table, sat Liu Qinglong—his head perfectly intact on his shoulders. He tilted his neck, that single eye quietly fixed on me. When he saw me enter, he flashed that same eerie smile, as if he held everything in the palm of his hand.

At first, I was terrified, but soon I forced myself to calm down. Something here didn’t add up. I had seen Liu Qinglong’s severed head on my own window; it was impossible for him to be sitting here alive. Clearly, I had missed something.

Suddenly, it struck me—Chen Mengying, who had died under the name Fang Lin before we uncovered the truth. So, could the decapitated Liu Qinglong be a fake—a double?

For someone like Liu Qinglong, the faceless man, finding a stand-in wouldn’t be as difficult as it was for Fang Lin. His face was so disfigured it was impossible to recognize his original features. As long as the shape of the head and face roughly matched, no one could tell the difference—least of all me, since I barely knew him.

With this in mind, I was much less nervous. I walked straight over and sat at the interrogation table. “You wanted to see me?”

As soon as I spoke, he let out a low, sinister laugh. “Didn’t we just see each other?”

His words sent goosebumps prickling down my arms. Remembering the faceless man’s severed head, with scars much like his, a wave of dread washed over me.

But I quickly regained my composure and slammed the table. “Don’t play games with me! I’m not easily scared. That head wasn’t yours at all. Tell me—who was it?”

Liu Qinglong’s smile faded. He looked at me seriously. “Chen Mu, you figured it out?”

Actually, I hadn’t, but I played along. “Of course I did. You think such cheap tricks would fool me? Tell me, who was that head? And why did you suddenly want to see me?”

He didn’t smile again, but replied, “You must have seen the face-slashing video too. Wasn’t I brave?”

“Cut the nonsense. Answer my question. Whose head was that?”

He replied, solemnly, “Liu Qinglong.”

His answer infuriated me. Then, just as he had during our earlier interrogation, his gaze flicked in terror behind me. He pressed a hand to his mouth and stammered, “My mission is done. My task is complete. I must go. I must go.”

His voice was filled with a strange, relieved kind of terror.

I was utterly baffled, unable to make sense of his sudden change. He kept staring at me, holding his mouth, and said, “Chen Mu, I have to go. This is all I can do for you. That really was Liu Qinglong.”

With that, he suddenly shoved his hand into his mouth, then forced his fingers down his throat. I heard a series of swallowing noises—sickening, and I felt a wave of nausea. I knew that kind of pain: in the past, when I’d eaten something bad and needed to vomit, I’d done the same thing.

What was Liu Qinglong trying to pull out?

Soon, he let out a muffled sound, as if he’d coughed something up, but he kept his mouth tightly shut, cheeks bulging, refusing to spit it out.

Then he began to chew, as though eating his own vomit. I was so revolted I nearly retched.

At that moment, hurried footsteps sounded outside. Jin Ze’s anxious shout rang out: “No, Chen Mu! Get back! Down!”

I was momentarily stunned, but my body reacted before my mind did—I stumbled backward, and before I could hit the ground, a dull explosion sounded right in front of me, like a sledgehammer smashing a ripe watermelon.

At the same time, something hot splattered across my face—thick, metallic, and reeking of blood.

I collapsed to the floor. Instinctively, I looked toward Liu Qinglong.

The sight froze my blood—every pore on my body seemed to open in terror.

Liu Qinglong’s head had been obliterated, his neck blown away, leaving only a gory, gaping hole.

Only then did I realize the stuff splattered on my face was Liu Qinglong’s flesh and blood.

How had his head suddenly exploded? I didn’t fully understand, but I could guess. He must have vomited up some advanced micro liquid bomb and detonated it. Jin Ze must have suspected as much—that’s why he warned me.

Jin Ze rushed in, froze at the sight of Liu Qinglong’s headless corpse, then hurried over to help me up.

“Chen Mu, what happened? What did he say to you before this?”

All I could think about were Liu Qinglong’s last words: that the head really was Liu Qinglong, that his mission was complete, that it was time for him to leave…

Suddenly, a realization struck me like a knife splitting open my mind—I could see everything clearly now.

Without answering Jin Ze, I grabbed my phone and texted the voyeur: “I understand now. That video wasn’t really Liu Qinglong slashing his own face. The man in the video wasn’t Liu Qinglong—he was your accomplice. He cut his own face to match Liu Qinglong’s scars; he was an impostor. The real Liu Qinglong was killed and decapitated by you. The impostor posed as Liu Qinglong, carried his ID, and even got himself arrested—all to make the police believe he was Liu Qinglong. And you did all this so you could use Liu Qinglong’s identity and the police’s resources to search for something. Liu Snake—you’re looking for Liu Snake, aren’t you?”

Almost immediately, the voyeur replied: “Chen Mu, that’s what I like about you. You’re right. Your gift is in his stomach.”