Yiu Ho On pointed at the stack of magazines and newspapers piled high on the coffee table, his tone cold and hard: “Over the past two days, we’ve bought every magazine and newspaper that covered this case from the nearby newsstands. Today, when we went, there were even more new ones.”
“Those unscrupulous reporters — just to grab attention and boost sales — maliciously fabricated rumors about a lecherous ghost claiming lives. Our father was a teacher his whole life, an upright man with a spotless reputation. Now that he’s gone, he’s being slandered like this!”
“They say the dead should be respected — but Dad’s gone, and even his last bit of dignity is being torn away… They call it an evil ghost claiming lives — I say these rumormongers are more vicious than any ghost!” Yiu Ho Sun picked up a magazine, flipped through a few pages, and slammed it onto the sofa. “We’ve already hired a lawyer. We’re going to sue them all the way — make them pay till they’re bankrupt and issue a public apology!”
Fang Zhishan’s gaze fell on the magazine’s inside pages — a glaring, vicious headline jumped out at her:
“Tutoring King Claimed by Lecherous Ghost — A Life of Lewdness Ends in Bloody Death at Home!”
The article was filled with baseless, malicious speculation about the victim.
Fang Zhishan scanned the accompanying photos — most were candid shots taken by paparazzi who had climbed onto flower beds or trees across the street to snap pictures through the window. There were also a few blurry photos of the exterior of the private residence on Prince Edward Road.
Her gaze stopped on a corner of one photo.
“This looks like it was taken on the day of the incident, when Sir Pan was surrounded by reporters.” Fang Zhishan brought the magazine closer to her eyes, then looked up: “Senior, did you bring a magnifying glass?”
Lin Jiacong shook his head: “I just came out to take a statement — why would I carry a toolkit?”
Upon hearing this, Yiu Ho Sun walked into the study and came back with an old pair of reading glasses.
“My father had strong presbyopia — these should work well enough for magnifying.”
Fang Zhishan quickly thanked him and took the glasses, holding them up to the magazine photo to examine it carefully.
The two brothers stood by, watching the old reading glasses — a pang of bitterness in their hearts.
The frames and lenses both showed signs of wear and tear, yet their father had kept them, never replacing them. While going through his belongings, Yiu Ho Sun had also found his father’s bank passbook in the bedside drawer. Though his income as a top tutor far exceeded what he’d earned as a secondary school teacher, the only indulgence he allowed himself were those few watches. Most of his income had been saved — all to support his two sons abroad.
Fang Zhishan put down the reading glasses and turned to Lin Jiacong: “Senior, we need to report this to Madam. Is she at the station?”
“I spoke to Madam on the phone just before we came upstairs,” Lin Jiacong replied. “She’s taken a team to the TV station’s live broadcast — apparently that Feng Shui master Ku Cheung Fung is involved.”
…
Li Heng gripped the steering wheel as the police car moved forward, the street scenery rushing past outside the window.
Her thoughts were equally restless.
During the case analysis meeting, when a colleague mentioned a Feng Shui master profiting off ghost stories, Li Heng had glanced at Ku Cheung Fung’s photo but hadn’t thought much of it. Later, the composite sketch created from Wong Sai Mui’s description didn’t quite match the slightly distorted photo of Ku in the magazine — she’d found it vaguely familiar, but couldn’t place it.
It wasn’t until the sketch was restored that all the clues finally connected.
Before leaving the station, Li Heng had looked up Ku Cheung Fung’s background.
Ng Mei Yan was killed on the night of the 14th of the seventh lunar month, around 11 PM. At 1 AM on the 15th, Ku Cheung Fung — brought in as a last-minute filler guest — appeared on a hastily added supernatural live show, timed to match the Ghost Festival atmosphere.
The TV station had bet on the wrong horse. The show had very few viewers. Ku had come at the first invite, whether paid or not — just for exposure. And it was precisely on this show that he mentioned the heavy yin energy on the 14th of the seventh month, the gates of hell wide open, and spirits claiming lives. Then, the two murders that followed brought this obscure show back into the spotlight. This nobody fortune-teller was elevated to the much-discussed “Master Ku” across the city — long queues formed outside his Feng Shui shop, his “blessed” jade pendants sold out, and he rode the wave of public attention to a massive fortune.
Shen Zhicheng sat in the passenger seat, unusually quiet throughout the ride.
The police car drove steadily toward the TV station. Li Heng glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, aware only that he’d been labeled a “jinx” as a child, plagued by little demons since birth.
But at this moment, an uneasy feeling crept over her — she sensed that there was more to this past than she knew.
“He said I was destined to kill my parents and my twin sister.” Shen Zhicheng’s voice was soft, breaking the silence in the car. “I thought he was a real master back then — didn’t expect him to disappear completely later.”
Li Heng vaguely guessed that Ku had once climbed his way up to the Shen family, only to fall into obscurity — most likely because her grandfather Shen Chongnian had suppressed him behind the scenes.
But the old man would never know that those words had already etched themselves deep into a child’s heart, becoming an unshakable knot.
“He was spouting nonsense — how could you possibly bring misfortune to your family?” Li Heng said flatly. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”
She paused, then added: “We moved into the rooftop unit, and the case immediately made a breakthrough. With all this good happening, how could you be a jinx?”
“Is this your way of comforting me? Doesn’t sound like it.” Shen Zhicheng let out a laugh. “Who says warm words in such a cold tone?”
At the intersection, the red light came on. The police car stopped steadily behind the white line.
“Don’t believe his words.” Li Heng turned to him, her gaze serious, her tone firm and resolute. “Shen Zhicheng — I think you might be a good-luck charm.”
Shen Zhicheng froze.
Such direct and sincere concern fell on his ears. He instinctively looked away.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” he said, his tone a little unnatural. “Police Sis.”
…
Li Heng and Shen Zhicheng arrived at the TV station building.
As they stepped through the studio entrance, they were stopped by Ku Cheung Fung’s assistant.
The young assistant, dressed in a suit, listened to the officers’ purpose but refused to budge: “Madam, Sir — our Master Ku is always a law-abiding citizen. If the police need his cooperation, he will certainly do his best. But this is a live broadcast — thousands of viewers across Hong Kong are watching right now, some even taking notes on Master Ku’s teachings. Please respect Master Ku’s work and the audience — do not disturb him casually.”
Li Heng looked up and asked: “How much longer is the show?”
“According to the schedule, it’s a two-hour slot,” the young assistant replied. “It’s just started.”
Li Heng looked toward the studio.
Unlike the hastily added late-night supernatural show, Ku Cheung Fung’s status had now risen considerably. He sat squarely at the center of the cameras, with staff coming up to touch up his makeup, bring him tea and water — attending to his every need.
On the guest panel, Ku held a compass in one hand, while the other hand made rapid calculations. He let out a sigh and shook his head: “The birth chart has long been set — this calamity will be very hard to escape.”
Outside the studio, Shen Zhicheng stood in the shadows, watching Ku Cheung Fung hold forth before the cameras and live audience.
Over twenty years ago, this man, not yet forty, had sat in his living room, pinching his fingers and shaking his head with feigned pity, saying that the Shen family’s young master was born with a destiny of calamity.
“Two officers.” The young assistant raised his hand in a gesture, his tone courteous but carrying a hint of arrogance. “Please don’t stand here affecting Master Ku. Kindly wait over there.”
Under police procedure, they couldn’t just arrest someone arbitrarily.
After all, with only the restored composite sketch as a lead — the evidence wasn’t solid enough, and Wong Sai Mui hadn’t formally identified him yet. At most, they could ask Ku to return to the station for questioning.
“This way, please.”
Li Heng and Shen Zhicheng were led to a waiting room.
Just then, an intern from the production team hurried over with a stack of documents and handed them back to the young assistant.
“Last-minute changes to the program flow — no time to make Master Ku’s promotional board. These credentials won’t be used for now. You can put them away.”
The assistant took them: “We wanted the audience to know that Master Ku has decades of experience in this field, so no one would say they’d never heard of him before — and we couldn’t explain it to each person individually. But it doesn’t matter — the audience has sharp eyes. Even without these credentials, they can see Master Ku’s true skill.”
The intern acknowledged and hurried back to the backstage area.
“They say Master Ku came out of nowhere — but his credentials are quite thick.” Li Heng looked at the thick stack of materials. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Master Ku didn’t just appear out of thin air — our Feng Shui shop has been open for years.” The assistant glanced at her with a dismissive air. “Master Ku has held many Feng Shui lectures over the years — these are all archival materials. Help yourself.”
After handing the credentials to Li Heng, the young assistant turned and went back to the studio.
Li Heng flipped through the pages carefully.
Shen Zhicheng sat beside her in silence, keeping her company.
She turned another page: “So he’s been running cons all these years.”
Shen Zhicheng glanced at her, but didn’t respond.
The two-hour live broadcast had just begun.
Li Heng passed the time by going through the credentials. She found that Ku had held a few obscure lectures in his early years, self-published fortune-telling booklets, and opened several Feng Shui shops. Several business cards were attached to the materials, each with a more grandiose title than the last.
Li Heng flipped through them many times, her gaze finally stopping on one business card.
In the corner of the card was an Eight Trigram symbol. The way the strokes began and ended carried a distinctive personal style.
But she couldn’t confirm it with the naked eye — it would need professional analysis.
Li Heng immediately stood up and called the station: “Get me Xu Le’er from Tech — I don’t have her number.”
About three minutes later, Xu Le’er’s cheerful voice came through the receiver: “Madam — what’s up?”
…
The show dragged on, minute by minute.
Li Heng no longer wished for the broadcast to end quickly.
She wanted time to slow down — as slow as possible.
When Lin Jiacong arrived in a hurry, Li Heng and Shen Zhicheng were comparing the features of the trigram symbol on the card.
He jogged into the waiting room: “Madam — in the latest magazines collected by Yiu Chun Fai’s sons, Zhishan spotted a scene photo of Sir Pan being surrounded by reporters.”
“We tracked down the paparazzo who shot that news story and got the original image. After zooming in, we found that the suspect from Wong Sai Mui’s composite — long hair, hat, moles at the eye and mouth — matches a person who appears in that photo. He was standing in the crowd.”
“So this man didn’t just appear at the first crime scene at Ngong Shuen Chau — he was also at the second crime scene at Prince Edward Road!”
All of Li Heng’s scattered thoughts converged instantly.
At this point — beyond the talismans at both scenes — there was finally solid evidence linking the two cases.
Just as Lin Jiacong finished, Xu Le’er returned the call.
Li Heng picked up — Xu Le’er spoke rapidly: “We only received the fax of the business card — we can’t do component or cinnabar comparison. But we can confirm that the trigram symbol on the card matches the drawing style of the talisman fragments found at the crime scenes. We can lock onto the suspect!”
The chain of evidence was finally complete.
Li Heng looked up at the studio monitor — only five minutes remained until the end of the broadcast.
She didn’t wait any longer. She raised her hand to signal her team and strode toward the studio.
Inside the studio, the host held a cue card and asked respectfully: “Master Ku — two murders in a row have left the public in a panic. Everyone is worried the situation will worsen. From the perspective of fate and Feng Shui, what do you make of the current situation?”
Ku Cheung Fung spoke in a grave tone: “The rumors are not unfounded. Looking at the Feng Shui patterns, the negative energy is accumulating — there may yet be further danger.”
Li Heng walked straight in.
Lin Jiacong hurried after her: “Madam — should we clear this with our superiors first? This is a live broadcast across all of Hong Kong — the ratings are high. If you make an arrest right now and there’s a procedural slip-up, the higher-ups will hold you accountable.”
“After waiting this long, four more minutes won’t hurt,” Shen Zhicheng also reached out to stop her. “It’ll be safer to make the move once the show is over.”
At that same moment, Ku Cheung Fung’s voice, amplified through the microphone, filled the entire studio.
And landed in everyone’s ears.
“I’ve made overnight adjustments to the layout to do my best to resolve it,” Ku said, holding his compass with great solemnity. “So rest assured, citizens—”
Li Heng stepped forward directly, her clear voice cutting over his unfinished words.
“Ku Cheung Fung!”
The whole room fell silent.
Li Heng walked to the center of the studio, stood before the guest panel, and said in a deep voice: “You are suspected of involvement in two murders. Please come with us to the station immediately to assist with the investigation.”
“You have the right to remain silent. But anything you say will be used as evidence against you in court.”
Lin Jiacong and Shen Zhicheng immediately moved up, flanking Li Heng.
Chaos erupted on the set. The host shot to his feet, turned toward the control room, and urgently asked into his earpiece: “What’s going on?”
The audience erupted as well, voices rising in heated discussion.
“The police are here? No way!”
“So he really is a fraud! I waited in line all night yesterday just to buy one of his ‘blessed’ jade pendants — cost me over three thousand!”
“I even had a friend get me a live audience ticket so I could learn more about Feng Shui — I never expected…”
“He—he… he’s connected to the murders?”
In an instant, the studio fell into complete disarray.
“Don’t do anything rash!”
“I’m in the middle of a Feng Shui formation — it can’t be interrupted!”
As Ku tried to defend himself in panic, a pair of handcuffs clicked firmly around his wrists.
The whole studio gasped. Pandemonium erupted.
“Let me go — let me go—”
Shen Zhicheng stared fixedly at Ku Cheung Fung.
Time seemed to overlap.
As a child, he’d huddled in the corner of the spiral staircase, watching this man approach step by step with his compass, bringing a fear that had sunk deep into his bones.
Now, Ku still clutched that same compass.
There was no trace of the master’s composure on his face — only panic and indignation as Li Heng personally led him away before a live audience.
Shen Zhicheng knew — the broadcast was still going.
This move was meant to tear off Ku Cheung Fung’s disguise in front of all the citizens, to stop them from believing the rumors.
And it was also her way of standing up for him — unwilling to wait even a moment longer.
…
When Team A escorted the Feng Shui master, Ku Cheung Fung, back to the station, news spread quickly through the entire West Kowloon Regional Headquarters.
In the pantry, a few officers from Team B huddled together, whispering.
“I heard Team A’s boss made the arrest right in the middle of the live broadcast — cut off a show that the whole city was watching.”
“So impulsive? I remember that Madam’s investigative style was always very steady. This was rushed — not like her at all.”
Senior Inspector Tse passed by and let out a cold snort: “Why isn’t it like her? On her very first crime scene, she went alone into a den of criminals. She’s always been this bold.”
Then he added: “But this case has too much public attention. If she’s made the wrong call, I don’t see how she’s going to clean this up.”
In the interrogation room, Ku Cheung Fung sat in the suspect’s chair.
His calm demeanor from the camera was gone, but he still tried to maintain his air of authority.
“Before my lawyer arrives, I won’t answer any questions,” he said, looking up.
Li Heng stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the table: “That’s fine — I can wait. But the evidence chain is solid. You’d better think carefully about how you’re going to explain every single thing to us.”
With that, she slammed her palm hard against the interrogation table.
The dull thud made Ku flinch, a flicker of panic flashing across his eyes.
Stepping out of the interrogation room, Li Heng instructed the officers to keep a close watch on Ku. As she turned, she frowned slightly.
She looked down and blew on her numb palm.
Never again would she slam it that hard.
…
Twenty minutes later, Shen Zhicheng walked into the Inspector’s office with some half-completed paperwork — but found it empty.
He went back to the CID room, looked around, and casually asked Fang Zhishan: “Where’s Madam?”
Fang Zhishan looked up and pointed toward the ground floor: “I went to buy coffee with Wen Jie earlier — I think I saw her chatting with a young man downstairs.”
“Young man?” Shen Zhicheng glanced toward the window. “Where’d he come from?”
Fang Zhishan shook her head: “I don’t know him either — but he was really handsome!”
“Super good-looking — he’d charm the whole neighborhood just walking down the street,” Wen Jie chimed in, poking her head up from her desk with a grin.
Without another word, Shen Zhicheng headed out of the CID room.
Running into Lin Jiacong in the hallway, he remembered the unfinished paperwork and shoved it into his hands.
“Hey, you—” Shen Zhicheng tossed over his shoulder before turning, “—take over for me.”
Lin Jiacong immediately frowned, displeasure written all over his face.
Hey, you? How arrogant could this young master be?
Shen Zhicheng had already dashed off with swagger, turning back to flash him a salute: “Thanks, Ah Chung!”
In an instant, the frown on Lin Jiacong’s face was smoothed away like an iron had passed over it.
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