“You really know?”
Hearing Ye Feifei’s words, Wei Wei’s eyes lit up. This little intern had fainted upon their first eting, recognizing him despite his changed appearance—sothing even the cunning Captain Ouyang hadn’t managed. Combined with others’ comnts about her, Wei Wei felt a flicker of hope. He hadn’t dared expect much, but her answer surprised him.
“When I first joined the team, the captain wanted to train as his secretary…” Ye Feifei defended herself weakly under Wei Wei’s surprised gaze. “He gave all the files and case records to organize. I read through them while sorting—it was like horror stories, so thrilling! But after the archives caught fire twice and had power outages, he stopped letting touch them…”
Wei Wei’s interest piqued. “So you read a lot of files?”
“Quite a few,” Ye Feifei said. “But I didn’t morize much.”
Wei Wei pressed, “How much?”
“Hard to say. I only skimd most once…” She frowned. “I’m slow. Maybe… 70-80%?”
“…”
Wei Wei couldn’t tell if she was being humble or naive. After a pause, he said, “That’s enough.” He looked at her appreciatively, his gaze softening.
Ye Feifei, flustered, whispered, “I didn’t fully grasp your analysis earlier, but I know so forr Twelve Gods Church clergy. After the cult was disbanded, many joined groups like the 3A Society, Skull Biker Gang, Black Spades Fate Club, and Red Rose Dating Club…”
“Oh, and there’s Yuan Guaizi at the southern slaughterhouse. He’s an underground info broker. Uncle Gun ntioned him once—he knows everything about supernatural events here and even movents of nomadic tribes and demon clans outside the walls. Sotis even he buys intel from Yuan…”
“…”
“Yuan Guaizi?” Wei Wei exhaled. After a long silence, he smiled. “Xiao Ye…”
Ye Feifei blinked. “Huh?”
Wei Wei said earnestly, “You’re truly impressive.”
“Ah?” Her face reddened. “No one’s ever praised like this before…”
…
On the way, Ye Feifei dredged up mories about Yuan Guaizi:
Na: Yuan Cheng Age: 45 Background: A forr Black Priest of the Twelve Gods Church, influential locally. After the cult’s dissolution, most clergy left—so joined the Foundation as superhumans, others ford rogue sects in the wilderness. A few stayed, worshiping faceless idols. Yuan chose to reintegrate into society. Now, the once-ascetic priest of the God of Death had reinvented himself as a slaughterhouse owner, trading in flesh—a “respectable” career change. His side gig as an info broker leveraged old connections, keeping him “useful” to society…
Wei Wei felt a surge of anticipation. The captain had told him to “gather info”—consulting a professional surely counted.
Arriving at the slaughterhouse, the scale stunned them. The bustling compound bore no hint of its owner’s past. Concrete pens held fattened livestock. Workers—burly youths with crude tattoos of tigers, the character “love,” or “I ♥ Qianqian”—chopped poultry heads and herded pigs to electrocution chambers. Hooks carried carcasses into whirring saws.
“Hello, we’re here to see Boss Yuan. Is he in?” Wei Wei called out cheerfully.
Every worker froze. Cold, hostile eyes locked onto them. A man slit a chicken’s throat slowly, staring.
“Who wants him?”
A voice rasped from the shadowed back wall. A figure lounged at a desk, legs propped up, one fitted with a tal brace. A cigarette glowed in the dark.
“You’re Boss Yuan, right?” Wei Wei stepped forward. “Captain Ouyang sent . We need info.”
“Stop.” The man snorted. “Get lost. Tell Ouyang if he wants business, send Old Gun. I don’t deal with brats.”
“…”
Wei Wei paused, feigning awkwardness. The slaughterhouse fell silent. Workers rose, bloodied knives in hand. Ye Feifei tensed, reaching for her gun.
“Easy,” Wei Wei stopped her. “Manners first.”
He turned back, grinning. “Uncle Yuan, rules are rules. Uncle Gun’s swamped, so the captain sent —a rookie—to learn who not to cross in this city…” He patted his bulging pocket. “Let’s talk inside?”
The cigarette dimd. A pair of eyes glead in the dark. Blood hung thick in the air.
“…Co in.”
The pressure lifted. Workers resud slaughtering. Wei Wei smiled. “Wait here,” he told Ye Feifei, then followed Yuan into a tal-lined room.
Yuan limped ahead, cane clinking. “Even Old Gun feared stepping in here.”
“Did he?”
Wei Wei drew his pistol and smashed it into Yuan’s skull. The man crumpled. In one motion, Wei Wei pinned Yuan’s head to the tiled wall, gun pressed to his nape.
“Uncle Yuan,” he said politely, “I’ve got questions.”
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