Chapter Thirty-Seven: Accident or Intent

For the past three days, Fang Yujia had not spoken a single word to Xiao Cheng. Every evening, she returned home to cook and eat, resuming the pattern of her former life.

Xiao Cheng paid it no mind. With experiences from both his past and present lives, his nerves had long been tempered to an extraordinary degree. If Fang Yujia chose to believe him, so be it; it seemed he had nothing to lose either way.

During these days, Fang Yujia drove herself to work every morning, and Xiao Cheng always followed discreetly behind her car. She never noticed anything unusual. Beyond “escorting” his sister-in-law, Xiao Cheng spent all his remaining time absorbing the essence of plants and trees, his dantian now overflowing with true energy to an unimaginable extent.

By rights, with such accumulation, he should have advanced to the seventh stage of Foundation Establishment long ago, but no sign of breakthrough appeared. Xiao Cheng wasn’t too concerned, attributing the anomaly to the overwhelming dominance of his immortal scripture.

Over these three days, Fang Yujia’s drives had been completely uneventful. Xiao Cheng found it odd—he distinctly remembered Fang Yujia would be in a car accident during these very days, yet nothing had happened. He felt as if he’d punched into cotton, left with a vague sense of disappointment.

It wasn’t that he wished misfortune upon his sister-in-law; rather, he was keen to know whether the accident was truly an accident or an act of man. As long as he followed her, should anything happen, Fang Yujia would not come to harm.

That morning was a rare one of gentle breeze and warm sunshine. After a night of cultivation, Xiao Cheng felt not the slightest weariness; on the contrary, he was invigorated. He grabbed a bite to eat and then drove after Fang Yujia’s deep-blue Maserati.

Fang Yujia drove with utmost steadiness, as if she were piloting an antique rather than a sports car. To make a sports car feel like a vintage sedan—this was a skill few could claim.

At a crossroads, the light turned red and all cars came to a halt. Xiao Cheng stopped his vehicle behind and to the right of the Maserati, his spiritual sense cast wide, monitoring every movement within a hundred-meter radius—nothing could escape his notice.

He wasn’t worried about being discovered. This car of his rarely left the garage and was unknown to Fang Yujia. Besides, he had always acted openly; what did it matter if she saw him? With fifty seconds left before the light turned green, Xiao Cheng saw Fang Yujia answer a call. Judging by her expression, it wasn’t a pleasant conversation—he wondered who it could be.

Unable to read lips, he could not guess what was said. At that moment, a gentle knock sounded at his window. Xiao Cheng looked up—it was a traffic officer. He was momentarily puzzled; he had, as far as he knew, broken no laws, though, admittedly, he did not have a driver’s license.

The officer, a man in his forties, wore a broad, amiable smile. When Xiao Cheng rolled down the window, the man asked, “Are you the owner of this car?”

“Sort of. Is something the matter?” Xiao Cheng replied, a little uncertain. The officer’s tone didn’t sound like he was about to issue a citation.

“To think you’re the legendary driving ace! Could I…get your autograph?” The officer looked both excited and bashful, presenting his badge with both hands as if he were offering a royal decree. He hadn’t expected the famed driver to be so young—barely twenty, if that.

Xiao Cheng was astonished—an autograph? Since when was he so famous, and how had he not known? He didn’t deny it, simply nodded and took the badge, hesitated for a moment, and returned it.

“Perhaps somewhere else would be better—your badge is all national emblems and seals; not the best place for a signature,” he said with a laugh.

The officer looked disappointed as Xiao Cheng handed back the badge, but upon hearing this, he brightened. He quickly turned around, presenting his back and offering Xiao Cheng a pen.

Xiao Cheng took the pen and signed his name on the officer’s back. Returning the pen with a smile, he teased, “You came prepared—even brought a pen!”

The officer grinned sheepishly. He truly had come prepared—otherwise, why would he have a pen ready?

Satisfied, the officer left. Only when he was out of Xiao Cheng’s sight did he pause, wiping sweat from his brow, relief flooding his features. Yun Hongliang slipped off his jacket and gazed at the two bold signatures with satisfaction. Now he could finally give Tingyu an answer. Were it not for his chronically ill daughter’s persistent pleas, he would never have set aside his pride—after all, he was over forty, asking a young man for an autograph.

Thinking of his daughter’s illness, his brows furrowed once more. Years of seeking medical help had yielded no improvement; some hospitals had even advised him to prepare for the worst. Now, all he could do was continue searching for a cure and fulfilling her wishes as best he could.

Had he not been a traffic officer, obtaining this autograph would have been all but impossible.

“Captain Yun, what brings you here?” another officer asked, astonished. It was rare for their busy captain to appear at such an ordinary intersection. He silently thanked his luck that nothing had gone wrong today—otherwise, he might have lost his job.

Within the department, Yun Hongliang was known as “Yama Yun”—a reputation well earned.

“Oh, it’s you, Xiao Li. I was just passing by, just passing by.”

...

Xiao Cheng thought little of the autograph incident. Once the officer had left, he maintained his vigilance, spiritual sense unwavering. He recalled that it was near these intersections where his sister-in-law’s accident was said to occur—supposedly crushed by a cement mixer—so these crossings were his focus.

Yet all was calm. There was not the slightest sign of impending disaster—not even a cement mixer in sight. Xiao Cheng muttered to himself, “Am I overthinking this?”

Just then, his spiritual sense picked up something odd—two sanitation workers behaving strangely.

The two men, clad in ordinary city maintenance uniforms, stood across the intersection about seventy meters away, apparently repairing a sewer.

At first glance, there was nothing unusual about them—utterly nondescript. An ordinary observer would notice nothing amiss; even Xiao Cheng hadn’t, as his attention had been on the vehicles, not the people.

But by chance, his spiritual sense detected that both men carried mobile phones—specifically, gold-encased iPhones. For two sanitation workers to have phones worth tens of thousands each was decidedly odd.

Granted, Shanghai was a wealthy city—beggars might own gold iPhones, so perhaps sanitation workers could afford them. Still, the odds of both men having such phones at the same time were slim. That was what made it suspicious.

Having spotted this anomaly, Xiao Cheng followed the thread and discovered that one of the men held a thin steel wire—so fine it would have been invisible to the naked eye without his spiritual sense.

Tracing the wire with his mind, he found it led into the sewer, extending to a manhole cover in the center of the street. Beneath the cover was a strange box, its purpose unclear.

Peering inside with his spiritual sense, Xiao Cheng discovered it was a compact mechanism, intricately designed. It took him a while to understand: pull the wire, and the box would spray out its contents.

So that was it. Only now did Xiao Cheng realize: the impending accident wasn’t random—it was orchestrated by this device.

He’d thought someone might have bribed a cement mixer driver to commit the act. Clearly, the mastermind’s methods were subtler than he’d imagined. Hiring a killer would have been simple, but easily traced. Xiao Cheng couldn’t help but admire the cunning—this was a scheme of remarkable ingenuity.

The plan was simple yet insidious: use the sewer to conceal a device that would sabotage a passing car. The liquid inside, he surmised, must be some corrosive agent that could damage a vehicle’s structure.

The true brilliance lay in the indirectness—who would suspect the sanitation workers, or that such a device would be used? Most importantly, its effects were delayed. The car might travel minutes or even tens of minutes before disaster struck, far from the scene.

When the accident occurred, who would connect it to an unremarkable manhole cover?

Not even Xiao Cheng—or any professional investigator—would have imagined the cause lay here. Afterwards, the device would be removed, leaving no trace.

“Who on earth would want to harm Yuer? Could it be Xiao Guowei?” Xiao Cheng’s eyes narrowed. The only one with a motive was Xiao Guowei; he couldn’t think of a second suspect.

“Very well. Excellent.” Xiao Cheng’s laugh was cold as ice.