Case Closed

The hidden chamber was lined with pink wallpaper. At its center lay a stainless-steel gurney bearing the naked corpse of a young woman. Meticulously made up, her already striking features had been enhanced into an eerie, doll-like allure.

The funeral director gaped. "Du Jin, what the hell is this? Why hide a body here? And when was this room even built?"

Du Jin trembled, his face ashen. No words came.

Even Meng Han looked shaken, his gaze locked on Du Jin as if piecing together a grim puzzle.

Qin Huo stepped forward. "Explain yourself. What's the purpose of this?"

Huo Xuan's voice cut through the tension like ice. "There's a type of person—cowardly by nature, a perpetual loser in life. Unable to control the living, they turn to the dead."

His words, memorized long ago from a criminology article, flowed with chilling precision: "To them, corpses are perfect subjects. They never refuse, never mock. Here, they reign supreme—no fear of failure or rejection."

Xiao Zhao gasped. "Necrophilia!"

"More accurately," Huo Xuan corrected, "he's a necrophilic serial killer. A true societal menace."

Du Jin collapsed to his knees, clawing at his hair. "I didn't want to kill... I never meant to!"

Qin Huo signaled his team to restrain Du Jin, then turned to Huo Xuan in awe. "How'd you know about the hidden room?"

Huo Xuan shrugged. "The wall had a disguised door. You missed it."

"But what led you to the funeral parlor?" Qin Huo pressed.

"Psychology studies," Huo Xuan replied. "Necrophiliacs often work in mortuaries or funeral homes—constant access to their... fixations."

Qin Huo grinned. "One hour ten minutes to crack our six-month cold case. Legendary." His smirk shifted to Meng Han. "Detective Meng? A bet's a bet."

Meng Han's face twisted like he'd swallowed vinegar. He'd never imagined Huo Xuan would solve it—let alone so effortlessly. And this was textbook necrophilic homicide.

Gritting his teeth, he forced out: "I... spoke out of turn earlier. My apologies."

Losing the bet was one thing. But actually holding that banner in Tiananmen Square? Career suicide.

Huo Xuan said coldly, "I didn't hear you."

Meng Han's face flushed crimson as he shouted, "I said I was wrong! I apologize!"

Only then did Huo Xuan deign to look at him, his voice icy. "Those who insult others should always be prepared to be insulted in return. You brought this humiliation upon yourself—you deserve it."

Meng Han's expression twisted, but in the end, he couldn't muster a single retort. He had lost, and no words could change that.

"Alright, Huo Xuan," Qin Huo interjected, emphasizing each syllable, "let's not forget he's a foreign friend. Let's just drop it."

Huo Xuan chuckled darkly. "What kind of 'foreign friend' is he? Just a pathetic wannabe Westerner. But fine, out of respect for you, Captain Qin, I'll spare him the banner—on one condition."

Meng Han swallowed his pride. As long as he didn't have to go to Tiananmen Square, he could endure anything. Hoarsely, he muttered, "Name it."

"Get on the ground and bark like a dog three times," Huo Xuan said coldly. For a pretentious fraud like Meng Han, he had no mercy. Some people just needed to be put in their place.

Meng Han's face twisted in fury. "You're going too far!"

Xiao Zhao exploded. "Too far?! Who the hell started this?! Weren't you the smug bastard looking down on Chinese police? Weren't you the one acting all high and mighty? What's wrong? Scared now? Regretting it? Too fucking late!"

The other detectives roared in approval, their pent-up frustration finally released.

Meng Han wanted to refuse, but he knew he was outnumbered—this wasn't his turf. Gritting his teeth, he spat, "This isn't over!"

But despite the empty threat, he still dropped to his knees and let out three half-hearted barks—not quite convincing, but enough to send the room into laughter.

The moment he finished, Meng Han scrambled to his feet and stormed out. He couldn't bear to stay another second. Tomorrow, he'd be on the first flight back to the U.S.

Du Jin was hauled to the police station that same day. Under interrogation, the truth spilled out swiftly.

His necrophilic urges had begun at sixteen. To indulge them, he'd deliberately trained as a mortuary cosmetologist—a profession that granted him unfettered access to corpses.

To his credit, the man possessed genuine talent. Self-taught, he'd quickly gained renown in the industry. But his skill served a darker purpose: transforming corpses into objects of macabre beauty satiated his twisted desires.

As his expertise grew, so did his "standards." Ordinary female cadavers no longer sufficed; he craved the bodies of young, beautiful women.

Yet such specimens rarely entered Baode Funeral Parlor. Most arrivals were elderly or male.

So he'd taken matters into his own hands.

All four victims had lived or worked in Lantian District—ensuring their corpses would inevitably pass through his domain.

He'd gotten away with it three times. The fourth proved his undoing.

Forensics sealed his fate: semen recovered from the hidden chamber's female victim matched Du Jin's DNA. The ironclad evidence earned him a swift death sentence.

By dawn, the Capital Daily was already churning out lurid coverage, its sensationalized accounts novel-worthy. Huo Xuan's name featured prominently, catapulting him into unwitting fame.

Unaware of the media storm, Huo Xuan was currently en route to Master Su Pingnan's residence, three raw jade pieces rattling in his trunk. The reclusive carving virtuoso would transform them into fitting tributes for Lin Yue's grandfather's 77th birthday—if persuasion prevailed.