In the hospital, Chu Miaomiao had fallen asleep.
By all accounts, Chu Lintian could have been discharged by now, but the doctors thought it best to keep her under observation a little longer. Given the complexity of the situation, who knew if there might be hidden injuries?
So Chu Lintian stayed in the hospital. The tests would have to wait until the next morning.
Lin Mo checked the time on his phone and said directly, "Sister Chu, I’ll head home first. Call me if anything comes up."
Chu Lintian seemed to remember something and pulled out a protective talisman from her pocket.
"By the way, this turned..."
She had been about to say the talisman had turned to ash, but when she took it out, it was completely intact.
"Huh? What’s going on? The talisman is fine? Maybe it really worked. Keep it close to you, Sister Chu."
After a few more words of advice, Lin Mo turned and left.
Chu Lintian was left alone, staring at the talisman in confusion.
"But it was..."
...
Lin Mo hadn’t expected Chu Lintian to actually notice something was off.
When he saw her, he knew the talisman had done its job, so he had casually swapped it out.
But he hadn’t realized she had already seen the one that had turned to ash.
Lin Mo picked up the ashen remains of the talisman.
The semi-truck had slammed into her with such force that the talisman had been reduced to dust.
That truck had been aiming to send its target straight to the afterlife.
Stepping out of the hospital, the night was deep. Lin Mo walked into a patch of shadows and vanished on the spot.
The accident scene wasn’t hard to find.
Standing by the roadside greenery, Lin Mo scanned the flow of traffic.
Using spiritual energy as a guide, his mind began reconstructing the events that had unfolded here.
Like a surveillance feed, he could replay the scene at will.
Though there were no precise visuals, the lingering traces of spiritual energy told him everything he needed to know.
No skid marks from the semi-truck—it had rammed from the side, hadn’t it?
And it had even accelerated.
Lin Mo soared into the air, following the path the truck had taken.
Was this a hitman?
Or just an ordinary truck driver?
...
Traffic Control Bureau.
"That semi-truck headed straight out of the city. Probably trying to flee the province after realizing it hit someone."
"We need to track it down. A hit-and-run truck like that is dangerous."
"The worst part is, the license plate was covered. You don’t see semis doing that often—usually just dump trucks hiding their plates with mud."
"So what are you saying? That the truck deliberately rammed into her? Tried to kill her?"
"It’s not impossible."
"Let’s shelve that theory for now. We won’t know until we find the driver."
"Got it. The truck’s gone into a village. Hiding out?"
"Good. Notify the local police."
...
Lin Mo arrived before the police.
The village entrance was pitch black, but to Lin Mo’s eyes, it was as bright as day.
Entering the village made things easier—there was a clear trail of tire marks on the ground.
Lin Mo followed them to an empty lot where the semi-truck sat abandoned.
The vehicle was stone cold, long since cooled down.
No one was inside.
Following the faint traces of spiritual energy, Lin Mo walked deeper into the village.
Most of the houses were dark, but one three-story building stood out—completely unlit except for a single man sitting in the living room, a bottle of baijiu in hand.
He took a bite of roasted chicken, then a swig from the bottle.
This was his ritual after a job.
It helped suppress the rising urge to kill again.
That little car must be scrap metal by now.
The chances of anyone inside surviving were next to zero.
The thought made him chuckle darkly.
He’d seen the target’s photo—pretty, with a killer figure.
Opportunities had been scarce, and time was tight, so he’d had to act fast. Otherwise, he might’ve taken his time with her.
He grabbed an offering basin and tossed all the documents related to the job inside. Splashing half the bottle of baijiu over them, he struck a match.
A flicker, then flames erupted.
He tossed the match into the basin, and the fire roared to life.
But then—
The flames twisted unnaturally, surging toward a shadowed corner of the room.
The sudden blaze illuminated the entire hall.
And there, standing in the corner, was a man—absorbing every lick of fire.
"Who—who are you?!"
Terror gripped him, but instinct drove his hand toward the knife hidden beneath the table.
"Your truck reeked of roasted chicken. And here you are, eating it. Did you shower first? Quite the ritual."
Lin Mo bent down to pick up the unburned documents in the basin.
The man lunged, knife flashing toward Lin Mo’s throat.
But the blade stopped—three centimeters short.
Not by choice.
His entire body was frozen.
Not a finger could twitch.
Fear, true and absolute, took hold.
"Question and answer? No, let’s just search your soul. Judging by your aura, you’ve got plenty of blood on your hands."
Lin Mo raised a hand, delving into the man’s memories.
What he found was worse than Long Jiaolian’s filth.
Hard to even put into words.
But he did see one thing clearly: this man had been paid to kill Chu Lintian.
Yet he had no idea who had hired him.
Everything went through middlemen.
Pure black-market dealings.
The intermediaries were likely overseas, assigning hits through encrypted networks.
"System, when are you going to get me a technique to track people through the internet?"
[Host, quiet down. You want a 'punch-through-the-screen' spell? Let me raid—er, borrow one from the cyber world. Just wait.]
With that, the system vanished again.
No matter how Lin Mo called, it didn’t respond. Probably off on its mission.
Still, this system wasn’t bad. It showed up when needed and delivered on requests.
So who was really the puppet here?
Definitely not him.
"Since that’s the case, you can die now."
Lin Mo raised his hand, then paused.
This man had too many unsolved murders tied to him. Better to let the police handle it—maybe they could dig up some cold cases.
So instead, Lin Mo used soul control, compelling the man to turn himself in and confess everything.
Maybe the police could trace the middlemen platform and find the mastermind behind the hit.
Still, the whole thing felt absurd.
Did real-life hitmen even exist?
Then again, it made sense.
This man was utterly ordinary—the perfect cover for a killer.
Those dashing, bald-headed assassins from movies? Pure fiction.
Lin Mo tidied up, planted the necessary commands in the man’s mind, and left.
Soon enough, the killer would return to the truck and wait for the police.
As for Lin Mo? He headed home.
With the trail cold, he might as well focus on cultivation.