Investigations

From childhood, Lin Qingcai copied case files and transcribed testimonies in her father Lin Huaizhang’s study, yet she was always kept hidden behind the Lin Family’s spotless reputation. By chance, she discovered a confession in a secret compartment that had been forged to match her handwriting, and learned that her father, elder brother, and mother were preparing to make her take the blame for the Luo Family’s old case.

She was afraid of dying, and long since afraid of being cast out by her family. So before they could speak first, she beat the drum and brought her accusation before the court, charging her father and brother with falsifying testimony and shifting the blame onto her. Using the copied case records she had secretly preserved over the years, along with witness leads and fragments from the old case, she gradually exposed the truth in the prefectural yamen: the Lin Family and Duke An’s Mansion had colluded to alter statements, take silver, and frame innocent people.

Her father was exiled, her brother was stripped of his status, and her mother finally came to see the rift her favoritism had created. Lin Qingcai left the clan and opened Qingcai Writing Service in West Lane, turning the pen she had once used to help others conceal evidence of their crimes into one that wrote the truth for the weak.

On the eve of my wedding, my biological father, stepmother, and fiancé conspired to commit me to a mental asylum.

My crime? Being so “insane” that I attacked someone with a knife.

Three years later, I was discharged with a ten-billion-dollar inheritance that requires only my signature to claim.

Everyone expects me to still be a lunatic, but this time, I’m going to make them pay.

While I am at my most lucid, I will reclaim the lives, the money, and the truth they owe me, one debt at a time.

The neighbor’s kid jumped off the building after being bullied.

She landed directly on my brand-new car, her head lolling, hanging off the windshield.

She died, and her mother lost her mind.

When the neighbors held the funeral, several of the bullies actually showed up at the scene.

They mocked the mother relentlessly: “Your family line is completely dead now. You don’t even have a single relative left, do you?”

They were making too much noise.

I slowly pushed open my door to teach them a lesson: “A near neighbor is better than a distant relative.”

Besides, her neighbor might just be insane.

I can see the final moments of the deceased through their eyes, a gift that has helped the government solve countless cases.

Everything changed when the body of a drowned man was brought in.

Looking into his eyes, I saw him strangling me just before he died.

And on those hands, he was wearing the Jade Bracelet that had been buried with me.

My cousin is dead.

His hands were tied to a ceiling beam, and he was wearing a red dress over a swimsuit-a swimsuit that was still dripping wet.

The police report claimed it was a suicide.

But I know he didn’t kill himself. And I know who’s next.

It’s me. There is no escape.

A bloody, brutal murder had shaken the city.

The prostitute Yuanyang was found dead and naked on her embroidered bed, her body slashed again and again, drenched in blood.

The authorities proved utterly useless at catching the killer. They could not find so much as a single suspect.

Just as rumors were flying everywhere, a young victim came to my stall.

With the only five copper coins she had, she begged me to find Yuanyang’s murderer.

Me: “?”

But I was only a fortune-teller.

My best friend stumbled into a suicide game, and it shattered her worldview.

Talk one person into killing themselves, and you were guaranteed at least ten thousand yuan.

Sell “suicide merchandise,” and you earned a twenty-percent cut.

The merchandise included death-scene photos, bloodstained clothes, ongoing reports on the victim’s family, and more.

My righteous best friend worked tirelessly for a month…

and managed to talk eight of the game’s chat groups into disbanding.

The people behind it lost their minds. “Wasn’t she diagnosed as an extremely rare antisocial personality during testing? How did she turn into a saint?”

Had it ever occurred to them that she wasn’t the one who took the test?

I was.

And as someone with that exceedingly rare antisocial personality, I preferred making my own rules.