The rain had held off for over half a month, but it returned and showed signs of intensifying.
At dusk that day, news came from downstream—in the raging, flood-swollen river, a body had become lodged beneath a bridge pier, where it was discovered by several cleanup workers seeking shelter from the rain. Two of the younger workers mustered their courage to walk onto the bridge and, working together, used a net to pull the body ashore.
This was already the fourth body recovered in recent days. The deceased was a burly man; he looked unfamiliar and was clearly not from the town. The body had not yet begun to decompose; it was caked in mud and sand, tangled with several strands of aquatic plants, and bore the same signs of abuse—including bindings and knife cuts—as the previous victims.
An atmosphere of anxiety hung over the emergency investigation team at the small-town police station. While everyone was busy with the forensic examination, Benson Yang maintained a detached air that stood in stark contrast to those around him. Leaning against the police car, he let the rain soak his black stand-up collar trench coat, shielding his face with one hand while holding a half-smoked cigarette butt in the other—reluctant to toss it even as it burned down to the filter.
Facing his superior’s face, flushed red with rage, and the skeptical stares of his colleagues, he lazily exhaled a ring of smoke, blowing it directly into his superior’s face.
“Cough, cough, cough!” His superior coughed furiously while roaring, “Yang, what kind of attitude is that? Remember, the Central Police Station has issued an ultimatum: if we don’t catch ‘The Nightstalker,’ we’re all out of a job! Stop slacking off—take your squad and go question the nearby residents again right now! Yang, are you even listening?”
“Why does it sound like a mosquito buzzing in my ear? Ugh, the rain’s too heavy, and my ears aren’t what they used to be—I can’t hear you clearly.” Benson Yang flicked the ash off his cigarette, then turned and walked off in the opposite direction, leaving the stunned crowd behind.
“You, you, you… This is ridiculous! I’ve had it with the downtown precinct. How could they send such a lunatic over here?” His superior roared furiously from behind, “Your performance review is ruined. Don’t even think about returning to downtown for the rest of your life!”
Benson Yang couldn’t care less. Instead of pushing his way into the scene downstream—crowded with people and filled with camera flashes—he chose to go against the flow. His keen intuition told him that the body appearing downstream was merely an accident caused by the flood; the source must be upstream.
Besides, he was curious about the sunflower field Dorian Yun had mentioned; he had to go look for it.
He’d already been to the small town upstream several times, wandering around after his follow-up appointments, and he was certain he hadn’t seen any sunflower fields.
Was Dorian Yun just making it up? But when he spoke of his childhood memories, he’d been so earnest—as earnest as a devout believer recounting a miracle.
Benson Yang looked out from the spot where the town met the highway. The rain obscured his view; he couldn’t see the mansion or the school Dorian Yun had mentioned, let alone any sunflower fields. Just like the previous times, all he saw was a vast expanse of gloomy marshland, completely deserted.
As dusk fell and the rain poured down, most people in the town had retreated indoors. The streets were deserted, and the shops were closed. It was only after much effort that he spotted an old man sitting under the eaves of a house, watching the rain from beyond the garden fence of a residence. He raised his voice and called out across the distance.
The old man squinted his cloudy eyes, coughed, and gazed toward the wilderness covered in black water in the distance: “Ah, all that’s long gone.”
“When did that happen? How did it all disappear?”
“There used to be a grand mansion there, and a vast field of sunflowers. Over ten years ago, one night, a group of drunken passersby set it ablaze—the flames lit up half the sky. “Hey, the weird thing is, after the fire, the town seemed to be cursed. Every summer, torrential rains would strike, the river would overflow, and the fields would flood into swamps. People moved away from the outskirts, and naturally, the school disappeared too.”
“So, did anyone from the mansion survive? Did you know them?”
“The couple had moved here from out of town. Judging by their surname, they were from the same hometown as you, my friend. Was it… Yu? Pan? Wen? I’m not sure. Anyway, they both burned to death. They had a child, maybe seven or eight years old at the time, who narrowly escaped and was taken in by relatives in the city center. I don’t know what became of him afterward.”
The old man rambled on for a while, then suddenly slapped his thigh. “Ah, I wouldn’t have brought it up if I hadn’t. Now that I mention it, I remember a handsome young man dressed smartly asking the exact same question a few years ago. After I finished telling him, he looked strange and stood there dumbfounded for half a minute before walking away… Do you think that young master might have come back?”
Benson Yang’s heart sank. He pressed the old man for the young man’s name and physical description, and even showed him a copy of Dorian Yun’s ID, but he couldn’t elicit any new information.
Something else, however, caught his attention—Dorian Yun’s Ford, sitting all alone at the end of the muddy road leading to the swamp. He walked around the car; the engine was off and the doors were locked. There was no one inside, nor were there any suspicious stains or tools.
What was Dorian Yun doing driving out here?
As soon as Benson Yang stepped into the swamp, the putrid, sour stench assaulted his nostrils. His feet sank alternately into river water and mud, occasionally submerging his ankles or even his calves, emitting an unsettling squelching sound.
He silently noted the direction and distance, trudging forward through the gradually darkening sky, his feet sinking deep into the mud at times and skimming the surface at others. He passed a pile of crumbling ruins—he guessed they were the remains of a school—and after walking another half-mile, he unexpectedly caught sight of a figure standing out starkly against the surroundings.
It was Dorian Yun.
Dorian Yun was wearing a doctor’s coat, covered by a semi-transparent plastic raincoat. Though washed by the rain, splotches of mud could still be seen splattered across it. He was kneeling beneath a dead, crooked tree, facing the twisted, meandering fork in the marsh’s waterways. His hands were clasped together, and he was murmuring something under his breath, as if reciting a prayer or something similar.
“Holy and merciful Lord, … save and accept the soul of this sinner. … May he rest in peace and enjoy the bliss of heaven … for all eternity. Holy and merciful Lord…”
“Dr. Yun?” Benson Yang approached cautiously. “Dr. Yun, what are you doing here?”
Dorian Yun seemed not to hear him. Benson Yang called out three or four times before he finally lifted his head in a daze, staring blankly ahead. The light in his eyes was dim and shattered; his expression was neither a smile nor a frown, neither a cry nor a laugh. His face was pale yet tinged with a sickly flush.
To Benson Yang, Dorian Yun’s expression was utterly eerie, as if he’d been bewitched by a shaman from a primitive tribe.
His suspicions, which had been eighty percent certain, now wavered slightly: If Dorian Yun were truly “The Nightstalker” who had skillfully hunted down at least eight people, would he ignore the police’s high-profile investigation, recklessly venture out to return to the crime scene, and expose himself to such danger?
Even if he were arrogant to the extreme, he would have stayed at the scene to savor the moment; upon seeing anyone, he would have fled or attacked immediately. But what was he doing now… mourning? Praying?
He stepped forward and patted Dorian Yun on the shoulder, calling out to him again: “Yun? Dorian?”
Dorian Yun’s whole body jolted, and his gaze finally met Benson Yang’s. The strange expression on his face vanished instantly, replaced by exhaustion and terror.
“Yang, you’re just in time. I thought I was going to die here… I—I had just finished a house call for an elderly patient with limited mobility and stopped by on my way back, but I’m feeling a bit unwell, and a pack of stray dogs chased me all the way here. I’ve got no strength left…”
Before he could finish, his body swayed, and he collapsed straight to the ground.
Benson Yang reacted quickly, rushing forward almost simultaneously and catching him just in time. Looking down, he saw that Dorian Yun’s eyes were tightly shut, his breathing was labored, and his cheeks were flushed, yet his lips were completely bloodless. His head rested against Benson Yang’s arm, and his scorching body heat instantly seeped through the skin.
He could tell at a glance that Dorian Yun had a high fever—it was definitely not an act.
Just as he was pondering how to handle the situation, misfortune struck again: three wild dogs slowly emerged from the shadows of the swamp. They were abnormally massive, with sparse fur covered in festering sores; their eyes glowed with a bloodthirsty green light, and drool dripped from between their fangs as they stared greedily at the two men.
Benson Yang wasn’t armed, but even if he had been, he had no intention of breaking his vow to use a gun. With one hand supporting Dorian Yun from behind, he reached into his windbreaker pocket with the other and pulled out a tactical flashlight. As he flipped the switch, a blinding beam of light erupted, causing the three wild dogs to recoil in fear.
Benson Yang held the tactical flashlight aloft, waved it twice, and shouted a few times to continue intimidating the wild dogs.
However, these dogs were accustomed to running rampant in the marshes. Faced with the blinding light, they paused only briefly; their fear quickly turned to fury. They barked furiously into the glare, then pounced one after another!
The moment the first wild dog lunged, Benson Yang met it head-on. With a flick of his wrist, he thrust the lotus-shaped tip of the tactical flashlight deep into the dog’s eye socket, twisted it violently, and then yanked it out. The dog let out a long, agonized howl and retreated frantically, shaking its head.
The second stray dog attacked from the front almost simultaneously. Benson Yang repeated the move, but this beast had learned its lesson. It dodged the stab and, when it lunged again, changed its angle, clamping down viciously on the tactical flashlight. Benson Yang yanked at it several times but couldn’t pull it free, so he simply mustered his strength, swung the flashlight—dog and all—and hurled it far away. The stray dog flew through the air and crashed to the ground, and after a dull thud, fell silent.
Just as the second dog was airborne, a third dog launched its attack. Though he had lost his weapon, Benson Yang remained completely unflustered. He sidestepped out of the way, waiting for the moment the dog exhausted itself in its leap. Clenching his right fist, he delivered a heavy hammer blow from below, striking the dog squarely on the jaw. The impact sent the dog tumbling through the air, and it crashed into the mud, its mouth filled with blood.
It tried to get back up to fight again, but Benson Yang was already prepared. He had been gathering strength in his legs, and now he drove his foot down with all his might, striking the vulnerable spot in its abdomen. Its belly burst open on the spot, its intestines spilling out, and it fell silent.
The battle began in an instant and ended just as suddenly, faster than a flash of lightning. Unlike the wild dog’s frantic barking and biting, Benson Yang remained a silent ghost of efficiency, methodically ending what had quickly become a one-sided slaughter.
“Splash, splash…”
The torrential rain continued to pour down, the raindrops falling into the countless small puddles scattered across the marsh, reflecting a faint glow. For some reason, Benson Yang’s sixth sense told him it wasn’t over yet.
Dorian Yun stirred on his back and murmured weakly, “Yang, behind you…”
At those words, Benson Yang tensed up. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at a nearby puddle—and there was another wild dog right behind him!
The wild dog was incredibly cunning; it had been lurking in the shadows, observing them, and had only now crept up behind him to within two meters. It was poised to strike, its blood-red maw wide open, fangs bared, ready to pounce in the next second!
The distance was too close, and Benson Yang had lost the initiative. He was forced back step by step under the wild dog’s attacks. To make matters worse, this dog was far more cunning than the previous three; it had identified Dorian Yun on Benson Yang’s back as a weak point and kept circling around to attack both of them from behind.
“Yang, let me go. I have…”
“Shut up. I don’t have time for you.”
Carrying Dorian Yun on his back, Benson Yang found himself increasingly overwhelmed. Gritting his teeth, he was forced to pull the man into his arms during a dodge, rolling through the mud and taking a claw to the back. A long gash instantly split open his spine, blood pouring freely.
“Fucking beast,” he cursed under his breath. Just as he was about to roll again to block the attack, Dorian Yun reached out and gently tugged at his collar, holding a thin blade glinting coldly before his eyes.
It was the miniature switchblade Benson Yang had been keeping hidden on his person.
The tide of the battle turned instantly.
The stray dog’s throat was slit, and fresh blood splattered all over Benson Yang. He gasped for breath, taking a long while to recover. After muttering curses at the stray dog, he cursed, “Fucking damn bloody smell,” wiped the bloodstained blade on his pants, folded it up, and stashed it in his hidden pocket. He braced himself against the crooked tree to stand up, then pulled Dorian Yun to his feet as well. and the two of them managed to stand with some difficulty.
“Hand over the car keys,” Benson Yang urged, his face dark with anger. “Hurry up. You don’t want me to search you, do you?”
“Detective Benson Yang, are you arresting me and confiscating my car?” Dorian Yun glared at him with a look of grievance. “You really are… If I were a criminal, I wouldn’t have given the police a free medical checkup, and I certainly wouldn’t have returned the switchblade to you just now. Instead, I would’ve taken advantage of your momentary lapse…”
Benson Yang snapped, cutting him off: “Shut up. Why else would I take your car keys for no reason? To drive, of course. If you keep arguing, I’ll really arrest you—cuff you up and shove you in the trunk. I won’t care if you throw up or need to use the bathroom during the bumpy ride; you’ll just have to deal with it yourself.”
“You… you dare?”
“What’s there to be afraid of? I’m not afraid of anything.”
Dorian Yun fell silent, fumbling in his pocket to place the car keys in Yang’s hand. But at the same time, the corners of his mouth curled up involuntarily, clearly in high spirits.
“Detective, you’ve become quite talkative in front of me.”
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