Chapter Ninety: Investigating Someone's Identity

The police station sent someone to investigate, and he was eventually found in a gambling den, thoroughly engrossed in his game. As he turned around, he was promptly apprehended by the officers.

“Who are you people? Why are you arresting me? I’m just here to try my luck, hoping to earn a couple of taels of silver—who am I offending?” he protested as he was led away.

It wasn’t until he arrived at the station that he realized something was amiss.

“Do you know Fan Sheng?”

“Yes, I do. He’s just a bookworm. I heard he went to take the provincial exam a few days ago. It’s been quite a while—I haven’t seen him,” he replied without much caution, blurting it out directly.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Sir, let me think carefully. It must have been a month or two ago. He came to say goodbye, said he was going to sit for the exam,” he recalled, confirming the story.

But why were they suddenly asking about him?

“Could it be he achieved some brilliant rank and is about to be promoted?” he mused, indulging in wishful thinking.

“Stop dreaming. The body before you is his.”

What?

Zhou Tingjun was stunned. How could that be? That bookworm spent his days with his nose in a book, never stirring up trouble.

“What happened to him? Who killed him?”

His expression darkened instantly, the nonchalant demeanor vanishing.

“You truly don’t know?”

“Sir, if I knew who killed him, I’d surely seek vengeance,” he said, his face full of resentment, not seeming to be lying.

Han Qing observed that this street tough was certainly not unskilled in martial arts—perhaps just trying to survive. But confronted with his friend’s tragic death, he was clearly shaken, even eager for revenge. This much was certain: the young ruffian was not the murderer.

But then, who was it?

“Master Chen, it’s best not to take everything this ruffian says at face value. Better to interrogate him thoroughly—then the truth will come out,” the police officer suggested.

“I believe him,” Chen replied. The ruffian truly had no knowledge of the matter, and there was no need to press him further.

Was there no respect for human rights at all? Did the local officials always resort to forced confessions to solve their cases? Innocent people might easily be wronged and turned into criminals.

“Do you know anyone else Fan Sheng was close to?”

“We met a few times, and he saved me once. Other than that, I don’t know much,” Zhou Tingjun replied calmly, though the anger in his eyes was unmistakable.

The trail had gone cold, and so the case had to be put aside for now.

Han Qing watched for a while, finding it uninteresting, and excused himself. But he sensed that this young tough was not simple, and sent someone to investigate his background.

“Brother Han, I was enjoying myself at the brothel, but you called me back so urgently—what’s the matter?”

“I’m investigating a street performer.”

“A tough? Did he cause trouble for our hotpot restaurant?”

Master Zhu could only imagine that possibility. Why else would Han Qing want to check up on a ruffian? In a place teeming with all sorts, who could tell what was real and what was fake? The investigation might even stir up bigger trouble.

“No, it’s just that he seems odd. I wonder if I could make use of him.”

Oh? Interesting.

Master Zhu nodded, quickly gleaned some information from a few young nobles, and had someone look into the ruffian’s background. The findings showed he merely earned small sums in those chaotic places and had not met with any suspicious individuals.

“This is all I found—he’s been here since his teens, but never amounted to much,” he said, handing over several sheets, all results from his inquiries.

“By the way, I heard he and the second son of the Du family don’t get along. Apparently, he cheated the young master out of money at the gambling house, got itchy fingers, and did something wrong,” Zhu added, though he didn’t think much of it.

Han Qing, however, felt there was more to it. He chose a suitable time and headed to the west side of the city, to those chaotic quarters. He expected the ruffian to be at the gambling den, but instead found him sleeping soundly.

“Wake up! If you don’t, you’ll have no money for food!” Han Qing’s words startled him, prompting an honest response.

“Aren’t you the one who helped investigate with the police last time? How do you have time to come to a place like this?” the ruffian asked, unbothered, his gaze laced with contempt—perhaps a deep-seated inferiority complex toward those who looked down on them.

“I’m not with them. That official just asked me for help.”

What?

“Brother, don’t fool me. What official randomly asks someone for help in solving cases? You must have some skill, or a high status,” the ruffian, well-versed in street life, guessed—but wrongly.

“Do you know the hotpot restaurant in the east of the city?”

“Who doesn’t? Since it opened, the crowds have been endless. My buddies have saved up for ages, planning to feast there.”

“I’ll treat you. Dare to go?”

“Ha, what’s there to be afraid of?” the ruffian replied, nodding and following along.

“Manager, are these your friends?” The waiter greeted them warmly upon their arrival, but the ruffian—so proud moments ago—was suddenly dumbfounded, realizing the hotpot restaurant belonged to Han Qing, the very place they’d longed to try.

“Yes, let them order whatever they like—it’ll all be on my tab.”

“Certainly, sirs, please come inside,” the waiter said, arranging a private room for them.

The ruffian looked thoroughly embarrassed and out of place.

“Why are you staring? Eat up, then we’ll talk.”

“Why didn’t you say you owned this place? My brothers are a bit reckless, but when we make money, we’ll definitely pay you back.”

“That’s fine, but I want to ask you something else. If you don’t mind, can you answer in front of everyone?”

The hint was clear; a clever person would understand.

Zhou Tingjun caught on immediately. After eating a bit, he went into the private room.

“Whatever you want to ask, just say it. You treated me to this meal—of course I owe you.”

“You know the second son of the Du family,” Han Qing stated, not as a question, but as a fact.

Others might find it odd that an ordinary ruffian had ties to the Du family. Clearly, something about this didn’t add up.