[Cloud City · North District · Yong'an Street, Alley 7]
Chen Wan's residence wasn't easy to find.
After exiting the metro station, they had to cut through two alleys, pass a row of illegal sheet-metal additions, then turn into a narrow lane so obscure that even Google Maps couldn't pinpoint it accurately. Garbage bags piled at the alley entrance, plastic swelling in the wind and caught on rusted drain covers. Moss grew in the wall corners, and the air carried the dampness and iron-rust smell of aging pipes.
Yin Wuwang stood at the mouth of the alley, looking at the grimy five-story apartment building ahead.
Large patches of exterior tiles had peeled away, exposing the gray-black concrete beneath. The ground floor housed a closed laundromat, its roller shutter pulled halfway down, the interior pitch black. A second-floor balcony displayed several faded garments. The rust stains on the iron railing looked like dried tear tracks.
Little Deer Assistant reported the address in his mind: "Chen Wan lived on the fifth floor, unit 504."
Yin Wuwang thought to himself: This is where that "warm and considerate late-night healing gentleman" lived?
The search warrant had been approved this morning. They'd originally planned to interview Su Xiaoqing first, but Captain Lin had called early, saying the warrant was ready—they should check the scene first. Searching the victim's residence was better done sooner rather than later; the longer they waited, the higher the risk of evidence being damaged or lost. Basic procedure.
Little Lu had come along too, carrying a black crime scene investigation kit on his back, puffing as he climbed the stairs behind them. This old apartment building had no elevator.
"Brother Jiang... this place is way too remote." Little Lu wiped sweat as he climbed. "Chen Wan worked at Night Wanderer—that's prime commercial district. Why was he living here?"
"Saving money." Xie Qingyan walked at the front, his tone flat.
Little Lu blinked. "Huh?"
Xie Qingyan didn't elaborate. Yin Wuwang understood, though, mentally completing the second half of that sentence—a person desperately saving money was either accumulating something or paying something off.
Fifth floor. Unit 504.
The lock had already been changed once. After the incident, the forensic team had collected evidence here, then resealed it. Yin Wuwang tore off the seal and unlocked the door.
The moment it swung open, air that had been sealed for days rushed out. Not a stench—just an emptiness. The smell of a place long unoccupied, where no one breathed, no one cooked, where even the dust couldn't be bothered to move.
Yin Wuwang stepped inside.
A studio apartment. One room.
Estimated at less than ten ping. A single bed pressed against the wall, its gray sheets folded neatly. A folding table served as a desk, holding an ancient laptop with some papers weighted beside it. A simple clothes rack displayed three shirts and two pairs of dress pants, all in dark colors. A small refrigerator hummed next to the kitchenette counter.
No television. No sofa. No decorations whatsoever.
The entire room was clean to the point of barrenness, like a temporary hotel room—whoever lived here had never intended to make it a home.
"Brother Jiang." Little Lu stood in the doorway, voice small. "Is this... really where a bar manager lived?"
Yin Wuwang didn't answer. His gaze fell on the small bedside table. It held only a desk lamp, an alarm clock, and a plastic cup.
No photographs.
Not a single photograph.
It wasn't just the absence of photos with a girlfriend or intimate partner—there weren't even family photos. The entire room contained not a single face, not a trace of "who Chen Wan knew, who he cared about, who he'd been connected to."
Yin Wuwang filed this detail away mentally. A thirty-year-old man with no photos of anyone in his room. Either he genuinely had no personal connections, or he'd deliberately erased all traces.
In three thousand years, he'd seen far too many people who intentionally wiped away their pasts. In the cultivation world, those rogue cultivators who'd betrayed their sects and lived under false names—their dwellings looked exactly like this. Clean, empty, ready to grab a bag and leave at any moment.
He didn't voice this thought. It was too early; they didn't have enough evidence yet.
Xie Qingyan had already put on gloves and begun searching. His movements were methodical, starting from the door and working clockwise, opening every drawer, examining every corner. Little Deer Assistant provided real-time guidance on standard crime scene procedure in his mind: photograph for evidence first, then search from outside to inside, top to bottom. But Xie Qingyan's technique was even more refined than what Little Deer taught—the Sword Sovereign's observational skills were no joke. His eyes could catch details ordinary people overlooked.
"Here."
Xie Qingyan pulled open the folding table's drawer. It was empty inside—the forensic team had already taken all removable documents.
But he didn't close it immediately. Instead, his slender fingers traced along the drawer's bottom panel, and his brow shifted slightly.
"The panel thickness is wrong."
He drew his ever-present scalpel and gently pried along the seam inside the drawer. Click—an extremely thin false panel lifted away, revealing a hidden compartment beneath.
Inside lay a neat stack of papers.
Bank statements.
A thick pile, organized by month with paper clips, each month's statement arranged in perfect order. Xie Qingyan flipped open the top one, scanned the numbers, and his brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
"Look at this." He handed the statement to Yin Wuwang.
Yin Wuwang took it.
Through character profiles and Little Deer Assistant's explanations, he'd already gained a basic understanding of modern financial systems. The numbers on the statement were clear at a glance—monthly income wasn't bad, considering he was a bar manager, but the expenditure column showed a fixed large transfer every single month without fail.
He flipped back through several pages. Income, transfer, income, transfer. Month after month, like a precision machine operating.
The final page was handwritten in neat script—apparently Chen Wan's own records. Yin Wuwang saw two numbers:
Paid: $5,602,000Remaining: $898,000
Five million six hundred thousand.
A man living in a ten-ping studio without even a television had already paid back 5.6 million over the past few years. Only 900,000 left until he was clear.
Yin Wuwang set down the statements and surveyed the empty room.
5.6 million. The rent for this place was probably a few thousand a month. The dark shirts he wore looked presentable, but the fabric felt thin to the touch—the kind bought on clearance at discount stores. Yin Wuwang had checked the refrigerator earlier: just a few bottles of water and some convenience store bento boxes.
This person had compressed his material desires to the absolute minimum, converting all the weight in his life into those cold numbers on bank statements.
At the bar, he'd smiled warmly, bought drinks for customers, appeared generous and carefree—then returned to this room to eat convenience store bento and count how much debt remained.
Yin Wuwang thought: This wasn't a person living. This was a debt-repaying machine.
"Photograph for evidence." Xie Qingyan told Little Lu. Little Lu pulled out his camera and began photographing each page of the statements.
Xie Qingyan continued searching. The wardrobe held nothing extra. The bathroom contained only the most basic toiletries—even the shampoo was the tiny hotel variety. The kitchen counter held a single mug with dried coffee residue at the bottom. The bento boxes in the refrigerator had already expired, dated two days before the incident.
Xie Qingyan finally checked under the bed. Nothing.
"The entire room has no personal belongings." Xie Qingyan stood, dusting off his gloves. "No photos, no keepsakes, no letters."
"Couldn't find his phone either." Little Lu added. "The forensic team said it wasn't at the crime scene either—might have been taken."
Xie Qingyan nodded, recording this information as well.
Yin Wuwang took one last look at the single bed. Beside the pillow was a very shallow depression—the kind formed by a head resting in the same spot over time. Only on one side.
When this person slept, there had never been a second person beside him.
They left unit 504.
[End of V2_Chapter 16]
Next: A bar in daylight, a bartender's gossip, and a shoulder that's narrower than expected.