The Novelist Forced to Become Famous

Chapter 175

"The more inconspicuous the identity, the more concealed it is to him," she analyzed. "A romantic partner is absolutely not a good choice. No woman would keep quiet about something like this."

Ji Feng: "Is that so?"

"Of course. Not telling your family about a relationship is one thing, but you'd definitely tell your friends." Jian Jing said with certainty. "He took a risk, so there must be a special reason."

Ji Feng picked up a photo of Guo Yifang and compared it to the person in front of him. He deliberated, "But Teacher Jian, you and Ms. Guo are completely different. Aesthetic tastes can change that much in two years?"

Guo Yifang in the photo was thirty years old, with delicate features, mature and graceful, gentle yet unwavering, an image appreciated by many traditionalists.

In contrast, the fourteen-year-old Jian Jing was at most a beauty in bud, worlds away from womanhood.

"In fact, I've always suspected he has erectile dysfunction and is unable to engage in normal relations with women." Ji Feng confessed. "Otherwise it'd be hard to explain his feelings for you."

Jian Jing was 14 when she disappeared, no longer a child. It didn't seem right to identify the Scarred Man as a pedophile. Especially since in the Cai family murder case on Mid-Autumn Festival, their daughter was only 10, more fitting for such criminals.

Yet the Scarred Man did not harm that little girl.

"It's possible he's not actually a pedophile, but someone forced to settle for less, choosing weaker targets as substitutes." He said. "Unable to interact with normal adult women, he could only turn to more vulnerable options."

Jian Jing asked in response, "If so, why did he come looking for me now? I'm not a child anymore."

"That's true, but he still feels he has control over you." Ji Feng looked at her and said slowly, "Absolute mental influence."

Jian Jing fell silent for a moment.

The case studies etched into her mind unfolded page by page, turning into masses of dark clouds, surging in from all sides and weighing heavily on her heart.

Her emotions spiraled out of control, and her chest tightened with suffocation.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before she felt a little better. She said solemnly, "Is it possible that he doesn't actually like women like Guo Yifang, but mothers like her?"

Not women, but mothers?

Ji Feng looked thoughtful. "You mean Guo Yifang's unconditional devotion to her eldest son was what moved him?"

The families the Scarred Man chose all had a child. That "child" was likely his object of projection. And the "happiness" he craved must be closely related to his own past.

"His mother failed in her maternal duties and abandoned him, or at least failed to protect him." He tried to guess. "He was disappointed in his mother, while Guo Yifang represented the mother figure he approved of. Weak by nature yet strong as a mother, so he pursued her out of character―what was he trying to obtain?"

Jian Jing said, "He saw a reflection of himself in Guo Yifang's eldest son. He was trying to compensate his past self and achieve a sense of fulfillment."

After a pause, she asked again, "Could it be that each previous case had something he wanted?"

Ji Feng pondered briefly then shook his head. "Doesn't seem that way. I have an idea now, you told me his philosophy on life is that living is painful, and death in an illusory moment of happiness is liberation. Correct?"

"Yes."

"That should be his criteria for selecting victims." He said. "Every family seems happy to outsiders, but has flaws to varying degrees."

"The Zeng family lost their son and daughter-in-law. Guo's family has no father, and the child is intellectually disabled. What about the Cai family?" Jian Jing asked.

Ji Feng was extremely familiar with the cases. He immediately replied, "The Cai couple are both disabled. The husband is deaf and the wife mute. Only their child is normal."

She sighed, "Each has its misfortunes."

"So this fits perfectly with his theory: things may be happy now but unhappiness could come. Stopping at this moment is most perfect." Ji Feng stroked his chin, excitement flashing through his eyes. "But the Guo case really is special. He came to complete their happiness himself."

He immediately decided, "We should look closely into Guo Yifang's case. There may be a pleasant surprise."

That night at the hotel.

Jian Jing received a call from Kang Mu Cheng: "It's been a week, did you run into some trouble?"

Though unable to see him, she could imagine his furrowed brows. Jian Jing quickly said, "No, the case is just more complicated so I had to visit more places."

"You didn't run into any danger, right?" Kang Mu Cheng was still suspicious.

She laughed drily, "Director Kang, I only went to the victims' families to ask about the situation. What danger could there be?"

"Still, be careful." As expected, Kang Mu Cheng refused to listen. "Finish up quickly and come back."

Jian Jing was puzzled, "Did something happen?"

"Good news." Kang Mu Cheng said. "The Meng Bi Award nominations began this year, and Rose Gold was nominated. I'm certain it'll win something, so hurry back and wrap things up. Busy days are ahead."

This astonished Jian Jing.

Currently, there were a dozen or so major and minor literature prizes in China, but only three carried real weight. The Meng Bi Award was one, with prizes in six genres: romance, history, martial arts, sci-fi, mystery, and realism; plus the Grand Prize for Writer of the Year.

Without a doubt, the six winning books were the cream of the crop in that genre for the year.

And the Writer of the Year prize went without saying―the author would be prestigious in literary circles, usually a master of history or realist fiction.

Occasionally, a martial arts or sci-fi writer would win, and their work was sure to be a genre-transcending masterpiece, wildly popular among Chinese readers globally.

Each genre had five nominations, and Rose, Assassin and Gold was nominated for Best Mystery Novel alongside four other books.

Jian Jing asked, "When's the award ceremony?"

"November." Kang Mu Cheng replied.

Though an annual award, it couldn't be handed out at the end of the year or early next. So the Meng Bi Award covered books published October last year to September this year. October was deliberation period, and the ceremony was in November―come December, publishers would begin hyping books for the new year.

Jian Jing quickly calculated and found there was still time. "I'll definitely be back by then."

She thought too soon. Kang Mu Cheng laid down the law: "Paris Fashion Week in October, you're coming with me."

"I have no interest in fashion." Jian Jing declined.

Kang Mu Cheng said evenly, "You need to buy dresses."

Haute couture gowns were hand-tailored, requiring hundreds of hours of labor. They weren't ready-to-wear items you could just purchase on demand. From order to delivery, they needed time to make it.

Jian Jing: "...I guess not." Dresses costing tens of thousands were already good enough. Haute couture costing hundreds of thousands per outfit was a bit extravagant.

"I'm not asking your opinion." As the boss, Kang Mu Cheng could be ruthless when needed. "Get back in 10 days to work."

Jian Jing had no choice but to promise, "I'll try my best."

Satisfied with her word, Kang Mu Cheng promptly hung up.

Jian Jing sighed and collapsed onto the hotel's big bed. The thrill of being nominated swirled in her heart, but was soon quashed by the sword hanging over her head.

Guo Yifang, the intellectually disabled child, the Scarred Man.

Rose, diary, death worship.

The jumbled thoughts spun round and round in her mind like a carousel, flickering shadows stretching into dazzling, confusing streaks of light, turning into the hypnotic bars of a lullaby's sheet music.

Exhausted after days of rushing around, even sitting in cars made her back ache. She drifted into sleep...

And began to dream―

It opened on a strange lamp, brightness neither high nor low, not cold or warm, close to natural white light with a huge halo.

The rest of the view was very dark, not pure black but shadowy darkness where she could vaguely make out some shapes yet couldn't see clearly.

She blinked in the dream, trying to see what kind of place this was, and what was hiding in the shadows.

Just then, she heard someone say, "You're awake? It's time to eat."

Then she slowly sat up to see a roll and carton of milk on the bedside table.

She picked up the milk. The words on the packaging finally came into focus.

It turned out that it wasn't because her mind was muddled and she couldn't see clearly, but because she wasn't wearing her nearsighted glasses, so she couldn't see the other person's appearance clearly.

She squinted her eyes. The light suddenly became brighter, dazzling her eyes. Her eyes were irritated and involuntarily secreted tears, blurring her vision.

"Seize the time," he said gently but brooking no dissent, "you still have an arduous task today."

She quickly finished eating.

Of course, because it was a dream, she felt neither hungry nor full.

Then the scene jumped, and a large whiteboard suddenly appeared before her eyes, just like the kind teachers often use in university classrooms. Many photos were posted on it with magnets, blurred with mosaics.

There were a few outline points written next to it:

The essence of the worship of death?

What is death?

"In ancient times, people were ignorant and had too many imaginations about the world after death, making up a series of depictions of the afterlife," he began unhurriedly, like a professor giving a lecture. "But this 'death' is essentially another kind of 'life', still differentiated between good and evil, right and wrong, reward and punishment, completely distorting the meaning of 'death.'"

He looked at her: "If death is the same as life, then both death and life lose their value."

She asked, "Do you think life has value too?"

"Of course, life is painful but also has value, and that value lies in making us realize how precious death is," he said. "The preciousness of death lies in its equality. This is very straightforward. You should understand."

She said, "Because when people are alive, there is richness and poverty, happiness and unhappiness, but everyone will die, and all become the same."

"That's right," he said approvingly. "So if someone thinks death is the beginning of another new journey, they have completely misunderstood the meaning of death. Death is just death, no heaven or hell."

She asked, "Are you an atheist?"

"So-called deities are just human fantasies," he said. "Death inherently exists, it won't disappear because of human fear, nor will it change because of worship."

She asked, "Since everyone has to die, why do you kill people?"

"My dear, I'm a doctor," he said gently.

"When people get sick they want to see a doctor, even if the illness isn't life-threatening. It's the same logic. I'm alleviating their pain for them. Pain has no meaning, it's people who assign meaning to pain, which is actually a lie."

"A lie?"

"Yes, take mothers for example. We all have mothers. Mothers toil and endure, feeding their babies with their own blood, so people eulogize their greatness, to make them willingly give everything. But is that really the case?"

He continued rhetorically, "No, enduring pain doesn't make anyone great, does it confer immunity from illness or invulnerability to blades and fire and water? It doesn't. Suffering has no meaning, it's a thorough scam."

Dream Jian Jing was very perceptive, but incautious. She blurted out, "Did your mother make sacrifices for you?"

His expression suddenly turned gloomy, his gaze like icy daggers, his fingers like iron pincers, clamping her face tightly.

"You understand nothing."

"You don't understand."

"Are you going to kill me?" she said with difficulty. "If death is praise, and you punish me with death, you go against your own principles. If I'm right, then you're wrong."

Crack. The dream shattered.

Jian Jing jerked upright. Her phone alarm kept ringing as there was an unread message.

"Wake up, we're going to the crime scene today."