I quietly watched the white chrysanthemums arranged on the nightstand in Hugh Thompson's son's room. The flowers looked fresh, and there were many bouquets. They didn’t seem store-bought, but rather picked from outside.
I glanced around. On the wall hung a picture drawn with colored pencils: a man, a woman, and a child beneath a blue sky and a sun.
“My son drew this before he died.”
Helen Shen explained, and at that moment, I saw a trace of sorrow on her face. My lips moved slightly as I pondered. I didn’t understand why Helen Shen refused to believe Hugh Thompson’s claim that their son was killed by a ghost. Rachel Lan seemed to understand me and wanted to say something.
“Miss Shen, after all these years, why can’t you forgive Hugh Thompson?”
Helen Shen shook her head, then for a moment her expression became utterly sorrowful.
“Thompson never admits his son is gone. He always says there’s a way to bring him back. I don’t know why he’s like this. The boy is dead—why does he keep clinging to hope?”
Suddenly, Helen Shen broke down, crying with a heart-wrenching anguish she could no longer suppress. She collapsed onto her son’s bed, sobbing uncontrollably.
After a long time, Helen Shen finally stopped crying. During that time, Rachel Lan kept comforting her.
I stood quietly to the side, staring at the flowers. I really didn’t know what to say. Then I decided to release the ghost web. Black ghost threads stretched from my hand toward the chrysanthemums, and the moment they touched the flowers, memories began to surface in my mind.
In my memory, Hugh Thompson entered the room quietly, carrying fresh chrysanthemums. He handled them with gentle care, arranging them into a vase. Then he sat on the bed, his face suffused with a tender sadness as he gazed at the crayon drawing on the wall. Removing his glasses, his eyes grew mournful, the weight of sorrow pressing down in the dim room.
At that moment, I noticed the clock on the wall—it was 1:38. There was absolutely no way Hugh Thompson could have gone to the North District, committed the crime, found Xu Li, killed Liam Chen, and completed all those acts. The timeline simply didn’t add up—the suspense gnawed at me.
I watched Hugh Thompson, sitting motionless in the room, as if waiting for someone. After a long, silent interval, I saw him open his mouth wide and begin to sob—a sound I’d never heard from him before. Big, crystalline tears rolled down his cheeks, falling like a broken string of pearls, each drop echoing the depth of his grief.
Hugh Thompson’s whole body trembled as he sobbed softly. Then he collapsed onto the bed, his face twisted in agony. The suffering seemed endless, stretching on and on in the oppressive silence. Only when the clock struck two did Hugh Thompson finally rise and leave, his pain lingering in the air.
This memory was not an isolated event. Nearly every month, Hugh Thompson would repeat this ritual—picking fresh flowers outdoors, coming to this room, and lingering for hours. He always did it when Helen Shen was away, the secrecy and sorrow woven into every repetition.
“Ethan, Ethan…”
Rachel Lan’s gentle voice called me back to reality. At that moment, Helen Shen slowly rose to her feet.
“Hugh could never be a killer. You’re his colleagues, aren’t you? If you see him, please tell him: If he still insists his son isn’t dead, I will never forgive him for the rest of my life.”
My heart lurched as I looked at Helen Shen, her eyes filled with tears. I nodded in silent understanding.
When Rachel Lan and I left Helen Shen’s house, it was already past eight. I took out my phone, ready to call Old Eccentric and tell him directly: Hugh Thompson did not kill Liam Chen.
But Old Stone’s phone was turned off. I tried calling Li Guohao and several other Ghost Burial Squad members, but either no one answered, they were on another call, or they were out of service.
It was strange, and I started to grow anxious. Rachel Lan grabbed my arm.
"Ethan, let’s go check on Xiaoling and Xiaoqing first. They’re probably alone at a hotel in the North District right now."
I nodded. Right now, what I should worry about are the Ghost Burial Squad members still in the North District. As for Hugh Thompson, I trust Old Stone will come to his own conclusion—they won’t try to force a confession or anything like that. The only thing I could think of was that the squad members who now know the truth must be feeling very low.
We reached a rooftop. It was night, so there was no need to worry about being seen. I held Rachel Lan in my arms and spread my wings, flying quickly toward the North District.
"Ethan, I’m a little worried about Xiaoqing."
Rachel Lan spoke suddenly. I understood her worry—so did I. Zhang Qing was just a child, and the more she learned about the truth, the angrier she’d become over her father’s death. She wasn’t equipped to handle all of this.
On the Road to the Underworld, I promised Boss Zhang I’d take care of his daughter. Thinking of this, I sped up even more. Suddenly, Rachel Lan started to tremble, and I quickly slowed down.
"It’s fine, Ethan. Get there as soon as you can—I can handle it."
I shook my head and began flying at a steady pace. Lost in thought, I remembered that day—the anger that erupted in me, the darkness inside, threatening to swallow me whole.
If Suzaku hadn’t transformed into Rachel Lan in time and snapped me out of it, I might have killed He Tongjun myself—even though he died anyway.
"I killed him."
I muttered, and Rachel Lan nodded, then shook her head.
"Ethan, you don’t need to blame yourself. Everyone has bottomless darkness inside them—some ignore it, some compromise, and some choose to face it. Ethan, what about you...?"
I stared blankly at Rachel Lan. She wore a faint smile.
[Irrelevant system prompt skipped.]
"By the way, Ethan, when all this is over, let’s go visit your parents together."
I nodded gratefully.
At ten o’clock, we arrived at a small hotel called Moonlight on Sifang Street in North City. Though small, it was in a bustling area, with reasonable facilities and prices. Rachel Lan had chosen it earlier for Zhang Qing and Qian Ling as a safe place to stay.
After reaching the Moonlight Hotel, we landed directly on the rooftop of the eighteen-story building. Qian Ling and the others were staying in Room 7097 on the seventh floor. We took the elevator down.
I spread out the Specter Web, probing every corner of the hotel. I called Old Stone again, but still got no answer. My anxiety grew.
Rachel Lan and I reached the room and knocked. After a long wait, Qian Ling opened the door. As soon as she saw us, she rushed into Rachel’s arms.
"Where’s Xiaoqing?"
Rachel Lan asked. Qian Ling pointed to the bathroom, and we heard the sound of running water. Rachel took out a key—it was for the adjacent Room 7080.
"Ethan, you go over first. When Xiaoqing’s done, I’ll call you."
I nodded. I was anxious—after all, I still couldn’t reach Old Stone.
Once inside Room 7080, I kept calling Old Stone, but still received no response. Helpless, I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
After thinking for a moment, I started dialing other people’s numbers. Just then, I heard a knock at the door. I jumped up, and as I opened the door, I sensed something strange—a ghostly presence. Instinctively, I dashed to the right, my body suddenly brimming with Deathbane Aura.
But just then, I felt the presence vanish in an instant. I looked around in surprise.
"It’s above."
With a rush, I burst through the ceiling and sped up to the rooftop. The moonlight cast a dark glow, and I saw a figure holding a small jar, wearing a bamboo hat, face covered by a veil, and dressed in a black cloak—a member of the Ghost Syndicate.
Without hesitation, I flew straight at the Ghost Syndicate member.
"Straight to a fight, huh, Ethan Zhang?"
Suddenly, I saw the Ghost Syndicate member raise a hand, holding the small jar, chanting an incantation. Just as I was about to get close, a female ghost in red burst out, mouth wide open, her crimson nails slashing at me.
Without hesitation, I unleashed the Wailing Ghost, who, guided by my will, grabbed the female ghost’s throat and pinned her down. I immediately darted in front of the Ghost Syndicate member, fist raised.
"Illusion, Dissolve, Mist..."
In an instant—before the Ghost Syndicate member could finish the incantation—I accelerated, closing the three or four meter gap in a flash. My hand gripped his throat, and as we landed, I slammed him hard into the ground. With a loud thud, he hit the floor.
"Speak. Why are you here?"
"Ethan Zhang, is it really wise not to go down?"
I stared at the Ghost Syndicate member in shock. Suddenly, I sensed an extremely unusual ghostly power below the hotel. My shadow appeared, and spectral energy burst forth, instantly piercing and nailing the Ghost Syndicate member’s arms and legs to the ground.
With a wail, I saw the female ghost in red writhe in pain, then with a crack, she turned to ashes. Stunned, I heard laughter echoing around me, and the Ghost Syndicate member I’d pinned vanished like a phantom, dissolving into a wisp of white smoke.
"It’s done, Ethan Zhang. Heh."
There was nothing left around me. I immediately spread my wings and flew west as fast as I could, heart pounding with anxiety. This ghostly power was far from ordinary.