The headstrong voice was just like the person himself—young and vigorous. The young alpha stood up and repeated himself: “I know! Listen to me.” All three pairs of eyes converged on him. Suddenly the center of attention, Xiao Zhou bore everyone’s expectant or curious gazes and said: “What if it’s a web address? Look—something with both numbers and letters. Try typing it in and see?”
After he finished, everyone who had been holding their breath let out a sigh. They’d thought he’d discovered something crucial. Shi Yuxing typed that string into the search bar, and the result was unsurprising: “404 — Page Not Found.”
“How could that be? I really thought it was a web address.” Xiao Zhou looked like a pitiful puppy with his head drooping, unconsciously inching toward Shi Yuxing’s sofa. When Shi Yuxing looked at him, he crouched down in apology. “I’m sorry. Am I useless?”
Shi Yuxing was about to reach out and pat his head when a hand shot in from out of nowhere. Gu Lingzhou’s gaze was fierce as he glared at the pathetic figure on the floor, yanking the young college student to his feet.
“I have an idea. These numbers and letters might represent coordinates—like Bz119 Planet. Break down ‘120930n’—120 Planet and 930 Planet, and ‘n’ might be a code.”
“No.” Da Ling spoke up in rebuttal, pushing up his glasses. “Your reasoning does make sense, but the Empire’s planetary designations all start with letters. There’s no logic in putting a letter after the numbers.”
Shi Yuxing pursed his lips, the upper one brushing against the tip of his pen. Suddenly, he blurted out: “What if Mom wrote it backwards?” The three alphas turned their heads, all looking at him in unison.
“What if it’s n039 and 021? If she was afraid Grandmother would discover the note first, there’s a chance she hid the real information. But…” But n039 was a planet none of them had ever even heard of.
Interstellar naming conventions hadn’t even discovered star systems starting with ‘n’. Imperial regulations dictated that capital letters ABC represented star systems, and lowercase letters represented regional sectors. If a star system had too many regional sectors, there were new notations for those as well—this was common knowledge for anyone who’d received an education.
Shi Yuxing’s lashes drooped like falling crow feathers. The two furrowed strokes of dark brow revealed his frustration. An unsolvable knot was lodged in his heart, slowly settling around that mysterious code.
The tip of his pen tapped against the paper, breaking it down meticulously: 120930n—what exactly are you trying to say? He listed out every possible interpretation, then dismissed them one by one, eventually returning to the starting point like a circle.
Today’s lunch was provided by the hospital cafeteria. Gu Lingzhou had something come up temporarily, and Shi Yuxing didn’t want to trouble the other two. He sat side by side with Lin Anran, holding chopsticks in one hand and a pen in the other. The dense scribbles of draft paper made Lin Anran steal more than a few glances. By the time Dr. Lin’s tray was completely clean—every last grain of rice gone—Shi Yuxing’s rice and dishes had barely lost a sensitive layer of skin on the surface. Lin Anran couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Let me see that.”
Shi Yuxing’s hand paused mid-writing. He whipped his head around and asked abruptly, out of nowhere: “Let me ask you—what do you think ‘120930n’ could mean?”
“Huh?” Lin Anran blinked a couple of times. “That… your internal extension number has letters in it?”
Never mind. He was an idiot.
Seeing Shi Yuxing’s gaze withdraw, Lin Anran sensed his dissatisfaction with the answer. “You suddenly rattled off a string of numbers—I thought it was a phone number. Could it be an ID number?” At this, Shi Yuxing’s back stiffened for a moment. “An ID number… that’s not impossible either.”
“What’s going on, Yuxing? You’re being so strange, suddenly giving me a riddle. I’m not as sharp as my little brother.” Lin Anran still didn’t understand. Shi Yuxing was speaking in riddles, and he had no idea why the other man had suddenly thrown out a string of numbers.
Shi Yuxing wrote down the characters “ID number.” That mention reminded him of Lin Wuyang—Lin Anran’s younger brother. That strange yet genius individual who had rejected the olive branch from the Imperial Science and Technology Research Institute, choosing instead to shut himself away at home, writing literature year-round.
“That’s right. Your brother is so smart—maybe he can crack it.”
“What?”
Shi Yuxing licked his lips and asked seriously: “Lin Anran, are you free to take me home today?” The moment the words left his mouth, Lin Anran’s jaw dropped. Thinking of the invisible but extremely intimidating presence behind Shi Yuxing, he refused sharply: “What are you talking about? You coming home with me? Your husband would beat me to death.”
The voice echoed through the large cafeteria, and quite a few people turned their heads. Shi Yuxing turned away, not wanting to continue this conversation. But then he thought of that note and had no choice but to turn back. “Keep your voice down. I’m not that kind of fickle person. Besides, I’m a looks person.”
Lin Anran clutched his chest, baring his teeth. “Ugh! Dr. Shi, that hurts. I’m not that ugly either.”
“Anyway, I’m not interested in you that way. I want to meet your brother. Maybe he can solve the riddle Gu Lingzhou’s mother left behind.” Shi Yuxing’s voice was so low that only the two of them could hear it, though there were still plenty of eyes on them.
Lin Anran lowered his hand, his gaze drifting. “You want to see my little brother…”
What was with that disappointed look?
Shi Yuxing confessed to him: “It’s complicated. I need to figure out what the riddle ‘120930n’ represents. It might be connected to a murder case. I hope you can help me… Anran, this is very important to me. If we can solve it, it won’t just be me—Gu Lingzhou will be grateful to you too.”
That was a lot of information to take in. Lin Anran straightened his back, trying to connect the dots in Shi Yuxing’s words. His expression gradually turned horrified. “This… are you two solving a case now? But we can’t get involved in this kind of thing. You should go to Officer An instead.”
“I just want to meet your brother. His mind is sharper than mine, and he’s written quite a few mystery novels. He might have a bigger breakthrough.”
“Wuyang has written some conspiracy theories and detective novels, but novels are still just novels. And now he’s switched to writing critical literature. I’m afraid he can’t handle such a great responsibility…” Shi Yuxing’s beautiful eyes looked at him, the plea practically spilling out. Lin Anran could never handle his friend’s requests, and seeing that face only made him waver in his refusal. “Fine, stop looking at me like that. I’ll ask him for you, okay?”
He scooted back, muttering that Shi Yuxing shouldn’t get so close next time. “I’ll call Wuyang and ask about his schedule. His sleep schedule is a mess—if you come back with me after work, he’ll probably be asleep.”
“Thank you, Anran. You’re the best doctor in the hospital.”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t. In terms of medical skill, I’m not as good as you. In terms of flattery, I can’t compete with others either.” Lin Anran picked up his chopsticks, trying to escape Shi Yuxing’s gaze, only to find his plate was completely empty. Awkwardly at a loss, he finally managed: “You really should go to Officer An. He’s a professional, and he seems to be friends with General Gu. If you hand it over to him, you might find clues faster.”
Lin Anran didn’t know that Gu Lingzhou had already contacted An Bao. But Shi Yuxing couldn’t afford to wait. He felt that the matter of Chu Ke didn’t just involve Gu Lingzhou’s parents’ thread—there was also Wen Lan, Tu An, and Chu Xiaoyun. There had to be more connections between them.
His sixth sense told him that when one strand of the spider’s thread was pulled, the web had already taken shape.
·
That day, Shi Yuxing happened to run into An Bao while making his rounds.
“Officer An, what are you doing here?” Through the glass, he spotted a familiar figure in a police uniform inside Tu An’s hospital room. An Bao stood up at the sound of his voice, still holding an apple he was peeling—long strips of red and yellow hanging from the tip of his knife. “Ah, I had some free time, so I came to check on the victim.”
The room was very dark, even though the sunlight was beautiful today. Shi Yuxing walked over to the window and pulled open the curtains. Blinding sunlight poured in, overpowering the harsh white light of the hospital room, and the heavy smell of disinfectant seemed to dissipate in an instant. “You really do have too much free time, coming all the way from the police station to peel an apple for someone.”
He was only making a casual remark, but Tu An on the bed hurried to explain: “Dr. Shi, I was the one who messaged Officer An.” The more he explained, the redder his face became—he might as well not have said anything.
Shi Yuxing raised an eyebrow, pulling out the pen from his chest pocket and making a few marks on his rounds sheet. “Have your wounds been hurting these past few days, or have you noticed any physical abnormalities?”
“Probably not,” An Bao said.
The hint of surprise in Shi Yuxing’s eyes was quickly replaced by interest. “You two seem to get along well. Officer An hasn’t been in this room every day, has he?” He hadn’t been on rounds the past few days, so he didn’t know what had been going on in Tu An’s room.
“How could that be? I only said that because he put away three bowls of rice today. Good appetite means nothing seriously wrong.” An Bao quickly finished peeling the rest of the apple and handed it to Tu An on the bed. Tu An took it carefully and gave a soft thank you.
Shi Yuxing watched their interaction with his own eyes, his long lashes fluttering as he looked around. There was no second officer in the room. Police usually traveled in pairs. And since when did an interrogator peel apples for a victim? Did they really take him for a fool?
Tu An took a cautious bite, the apple crunching loudly. “Thank you, Officer An. It’s very sweet.”
Ooh—very sweet.
Shi Yuxing’s gaze at the two grew even more certain. If you swapped An Bao with him and the person in the bed with Xiao Zhou, he felt even the words “Officer An” could be replaced with “Dear husband” without sounding out of place at all.
Shi Yuxing’s stare was too direct. He stood there at the edge, lips curled, for a long while. Until finally An Bao caught on. “Dr. Shi, if you have something to discuss, let’s step outside.”
The hospital room door closed, and Shi Yuxing couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “Officer An, dating someone younger isn’t so bad, you know.” Advice from someone who’d been through it—puppy-like men were pretty great.
“You’ve got it wrong.” An Bao furrowed his brows and explained seriously: “He was peeling too slowly and kept stopping to talk, so I just did it for him.” The scar beneath his eye made him look quite fierce when serious—yet somehow his hands were deft enough to peel an apple with a knife, and quite well at that.
In over twenty years, Shi Yuxing had seen plenty of people pretending. This one was the least convincing of all. He kind of wanted to ask An Bao—if the inmates in prison couldn’t peel apples either, would he as an officer peel one for each of them too? But that would be too rude. An Bao was at least a senior, probably around Da Ling’s age.
Shi Yuxing gave him an out: “Officer An really does have a kind heart. You’ll have to teach that apple-peeling technique to Gu Lingzhou sometime.”
“This is simple. If Little Brother Gu wants to learn, he’ll pick it up in no time.” An Bao suddenly smacked his forehead. “Almost forgot—the codebreakers said today or tomorrow… probably within the next few days, there should be news on that string of numbers.”
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