Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Where are you headed?"

"The Northwest."

Under the night sky, Fang Bingxue crouched by his car, phone to his ear, in the middle of nowhere. Weeds grew along the roadside beyond the embankment. He glanced at the smear of grease on his palm, his face twisted in distaste.

"...Did you remember to pack warm clothes?"

"And moisturizer? I remember the Gobi Desert winds are brutal—your face will chap in no time."

Fang Bingxue chuckled. "Relax, Teacher Qin. I’ve got everything."

His departure had been abrupt, leaving no time to explain to his family—let alone mention that his route through southern Gansu wouldn’t take him near the Gobi Desert. But they hadn’t asked. After all, Fang Bingxue was a criminal investigator; sudden assignments were routine. His mother offered a few more reminders before hanging up.

This was exactly the outcome Fang Bingxue had wanted.

Earlier in the year, the Ministry of Public Security had rolled out an "East-West Technical Pairing" initiative. With his experience in traditional investigative work and foundational forensic knowledge, Fang Bingxue had been selected for a targeted support mission—a year-long assignment in Lichuan County, Northwest China.

If he’d brought it up at home, it would’ve caused a fuss.

So Fang Bingxue acted now, explained later, setting off in his SUV with Dao Lang’s gravelly, sandpaper voice filling the cabin. Leaning his arm against the window, he reveled in the drive—

Until his luck ran out. Before reaching his destination, his car abruptly conked out.

Seeing no hope of fixing it, he abandoned the struggle, shutting the hood before scrubbing his hands with three tissues in quick succession.

In the distance, mountains loomed like silent waves, the wind howling around them.

A cigarette dangled from Fang Bingxue’s lips, unlit, as he leaned lazily against the guardrail, squinting.

Honestly, this trip wasn’t just about work.

The old woman who sold tofu in the night market had passed away. Fang Bingxue had handled her funeral arrangements. On her final day in the hospital, he’d held her withered hand and promised, "Don’t worry."

He’d vowed to return her ashes to her hometown in the Northwest.

But things had gone wrong from the start.

First, his eyes inexplicably reddened and teared up, as if allergic to something. Then the friend who was supposed to meet him backed out last minute: "Sorry, officer—something came up. I can’t get a tow truck out till tomorrow. You gonna be okay alone out there tonight—"

"What," Fang Bingxue raised an eyebrow, "you questioning me?"

To him, none of this was a big deal.

So when the pickup truck pulled over, he stubbed out the cigarette in his hand and put on an easy smile.

"Hey, my car broke down. Mind giving me a lift?"

He stood boldly in the middle of the road. "I’ll pay. Just need to get to the next town."

A moon-faced man peered out, eyeing him suspiciously. "You got ID on you?"

Fang Bingxue turned back toward his car—its hazards weren’t working, so he’d parked it off to the side. "Right here."

The night wind was sharp, carrying a faint whiff of gasoline. Fang Bingxue shut the door firmly and took two steps forward—only for the man to yelp, jerk his head back inside, and slam the accelerator.

Left standing alone, Fang Bingxue stared, baffled, as the gust from the speeding truck whipped past him.

He looked down at the urn clutched in his arms. "...Huh?"

Two seconds later, he smirked.

Oops. Forgot about that.

What driver wouldn’t panic seeing an urn in the middle of the night? Fang Bingxue blamed the long drive for fogging his brain.

But he couldn’t exactly hitch a ride and leave the ashes behind.

Without hesitation, he stripped off his jacket, wrapped the urn snugly, and resumed his wait by the roadside.

The northwestern night was dead quiet. Even with the wind, Fang Bingxue felt the stillness. The urn in his arms wasn’t heavy—just light, warmed by his embrace. Used to smooth sailing, he now found himself stranded in this desolate stretch, a strange camaraderie settling over him.

His eyes still stung, so he buried his face in the crook of his arm, pressing against the urn through the fabric. "Old friend, do me a solid—don’t let me freeze to death out here."

Unfortunately, the old woman hadn’t been well-liked in life, nor particularly virtuous. Fang Bingxue waited endlessly by the road before finally hearing an engine. Thrilled, he smacked the urn and tried to stand—

And failed.

Damn.

His legs had gone numb.

Wincing, he gripped the guardrail for support just as blinding high beams hit him square in the face.

Then came the squeal of brakes.

Fang Bingxue’s brow furrowed slightly as he straightened up, gaze fixed ahead.

This time, the driver stepped out of a van without so much as glancing at Fang Bingxue, heading straight for the car to pop the hood and inspect the engine.

From Fang Bingxue’s angle, the man stood at least 6’3” tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. His black T-shirt stretched over taut muscles, the lines of his shoulders and chest sharply defined. The curve from his nape to his waist was striking.

When he spoke, his voice was lazy, but his eyes carried a dangerous, cocky glint.

"Blown fuse, engine trouble."

"Undercarriage is dented too. Lucky it didn’t puncture." The man wiped the dipstick clean and snorted. "Want me to fix it?"

In the dead of night, he seemed like a lone wolf of the plains—tone offhand, posture brazen. Without waiting for a response, he’d already poked around a stranger’s car.

Fang Bingxue leaned on the guardrail with one hand, the other clutching the urn, playing dumb. "Huh?"

The man braced his hands on the car, his scrutiny blunt. "Got cash?"

Fang Bingxue replied, "Yeah... how much do you need?"

His earlier detachment vanished, his voice softening, almost timid. The wind tousled his dark hair, revealing wide, innocent eyes.

Like he was just some stranded motorist, staring helplessly at his broken-down car.

"Not much. Pay what you think’s fair."

Only then did Fang Bingxue reach into the jacket wrapped around the urn, pulling out cash. "Is a hundred enough?"

"Eighty’ll do." The man grabbed it. "But I don’t have change... how ‘bout a pack of smokes instead?"

In that brief exchange, Fang Bingxue noted the man’s massive hands—large enough to swallow his hand. His palms were dry, calloused at the thumb and fingertips, rough as sandpaper.

Fang Bingxue casually looked away and shook his head. "But... I don't smoke."

"I'll check the car for change. Should have twenty."

Despite his words, the man didn’t move an inch, making no move to get the change. Fang Bingxue stood quietly, his eyes irritated and starting to hurt again, the rims red, making him look like he'd been wronged.

After about seven or eight seconds, the man finally relented and looked down, pulled out a wallet from his pocket, and took out two ten-spots.

Fang Bingxue accepted them.

The man turned away the moment the money changed hands, fetching a toolbox from the van. Leaning against the guardrail, Fang Bingxue watched his expert motions. "Sir, you work as a mechanic?"

"Nope."

"Oh," Fang Bingxue said. "I was hoping to get your number... What’s your name?"

The man shut the hood without looking back. "Relax, I'm not scamming you."

Fang Bingxue paused, blinking innocently. "That’s not what I meant."

—Professional instincts acting up, no helping it.

But the other man didn’t respond further.

When a screw cap came rolling to his feet, Fang Bingxue bent down to pick it up. Cars weren't really his thing—drive 'em when they run, fix 'em when they don't. He didn’t know what was wrong with his own SUV that required such small parts, but he didn’t bother asking. Instead, he walked over naturally and handed it to the man.

The man took it just as naturally, his palm already smudged with grease. "Done."

Fang Bingxue said earnestly, "Alright, thanks."

"Zhou Xu. Xu like the morning sun."

"...Huh?"

In the open emptiness, by the time Fang Bingxue got into the driver’s seat, the van had already peeled off without looking back. As if fixing a stranger’s car in the dead of night was just a trivial favor, not worth mentioning trust or audacity—not even exchanging names.

A chance meeting, with an edge of danger.

Fang Bingxue tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, his face troubled.

That man, Zhou Xu, never wiped his damn hands!

Still covered in grease!

Earlier, Fang Bingxue hadn’t taken his eyes off him—cop habit. He always checked people out first, mentally noting their appearance and attire. Because of this, many detectives had sharp gazes, seeing perps everywhere. But Fang Bingxue wasn’t like that. When he scoped someone out quietly, all his scrutiny was hidden behind soft eyes.

What could he do—his face was too deceptive.

Being pretty and all.

The pretty Fang Bingxue sighed helplessly and shook his head.

"Whatever, he did a decent job."

He placed the urn back in the passenger seat, adjusted the seat, and tossed a scarf over it to cushion against bumps. "Let’s keep going."

He hit the gas, Fang Bingxue’s mood improved. Minutes ago, his cop senses were tingling—Zhou Xu’s build and demeanor said 'guy who probably' had bodies in his past.

Not that he was ugly. Under the bright moonlight, Fang Bingxue had seen clearly—thick black brows, single eyelids, a high nose bridge, dark complexion, and a robust frame. A rough, wild sort of good looks.

Just kinda sketchy, almost swindling him out of twenty yuan.

"What a guy."

Fang Bingxue tsk'd half as a joke, rubbed his eyes, and kept driving. But he wasn't much better himself—he blamed the entire mishap on the old lady without shame.

Since she was gone and couldn’t jump out of the urn to scold him, Fang Bingxue would talk to her whenever he felt tired or bored.

"See? You cheated folks on weight selling tofu, no wonder the trip home's bumpy. Can’t blame me."

Her grandson was the first criminal Fang Bingxue ever arrested—barely an adult, in on taxi robberies with some guys. Fang Bingxue slapped cuffs on him himself, and only then did the kid lost it, crying that his grandmother was over seventy and in poor health, that he hadn’t meant to do it.

Fang Bingxue didn’t say much, but he got in the habit of stopping by occasionally to buy tofu. The old lady had a temper, and neither her social life nor her business thrived. Cheap as hell, she skimped on electricity, keeping her little shop dark. Several times when the lightbulb burned out, Fang Bingxue replaced it for her.

He never mentioned his job, but once, he'd forgotten to change from his uniform after work. While cutting tofu, the old lady looked up and went still seeing his badge.

Fang Bingxue stayed still, letting her look.

The old lady, still holding the knife, paused before silently resuming her work.

But from then on, whenever Fang Bingxue bought tofu from her, the portions were noticeably short.

Fang Bingxue had to laugh.

She never asked, and he never explained. He still visited now and then. Later, when she was hospitalized, she refused to see anyone—except Fang Bingxue.

From under her pillow, she pulled out a small cloth bundle containing ten thousand yuan.

Fang Bingxue was stunned.

"Take it," the old lady said, her voice just a whisper. "For the kids. My last donation... includes you."

What ate at her most in life was failing to raise her descendants right. After her grandson was imprisoned, she donated monthly to a rural school. Fang Bingxue knew this. He stood silently by her hospital bed, listening to the machines' steady beeping.

For the final donation, she added Fang Bingxue’s name as a donor.

"Look at you, always scheming. The tofu I bought wasn’t worth much."

Fang Bingxue gripped her hand tightly, smiling. "Even without this, I’d have taken you home safely."

The doctor came over, shook his head at Fang Bingxue. Amid the antiseptic smell, the old lady, who had been unconscious for a long time, suddenly opened her eyes and gazed at Fang Bingxue with joy, announcing loud and clear:

"The northwest is wonderful!"

Fang Bingxue echoed, "Yeah, the northwest is great."

"I have to go back. I have to sleep there," she began singing, her voice strong. "Over mountains and rivers we go..."

Late at night, the SUV sped down the northwestern roads, so fast even the moon couldn’t keep up.

Across countless mountains and rivers, Fang Bingxue pushed on without stopping.

Author's Note:

Set in 2004. The protagonist's profession and specific locations are fictional.

Also, this isn’t a crime procedural—everything serves the plot. Please forgive any inaccuracies. Orz