Second—and it matters—this time, how many retries do I get? Or say it plain—how many times can I burn a life like a candle and die?

Ye Weibai’s worry sat cold in his chest, like frost on glass. He recalled his recent trip through the World—windmills turning like slow wings, fields rolling like green seas, forests breathing shadow, Big Ben beating Time like a brass heart. Low wooden houses flanked a green slate road, the village winding along water like a silver ribbon. It looked calm, medieval, ordinary—yet behind it pooled ink‑black cruelty that wouldn’t thin, and the lurking Monstrosity.

The same trick wouldn’t bite him twice; lightning doesn’t strike the same shack.

For him, after a fall, the first move isn’t to stand. It’s to ask why the ground slid, to feel the gravel under skin, or you’ll just fall again. The instant he stepped into this World, he watched, eyes like nets in a river, trying to catch the grit in the rice—the small discord, the thing that breaks the daily.

So far, nothing special. And the only special thing sits on the table like an open blade.

That is—Ye Weibai is a Detective.

“Detective.” Ye stroked his beard; it prickled his palm like stiff straw. “A high‑risk trade, right on a knife’s edge.”

Schemes split shadow from sun. Covert plots run like deep water currents, clouded and eerie, arriving without ripples. Overt designs march in like thunder, square and bright, colliding head‑on.

“If this is [Misfortune], then it’s the most candid sun‑scheme.” Cold light flowed in his eyes like winter river water. He murmured, “It’s laid right before me, no lane to dodge—if I dodge, I probably miss the trigger for the plot.”

Every condition—every description—has roots in the soil.

Yes. Even without clear notice, he could guess it. The first spark of every story, plot, [Misfortune] and [Unhappiness] will be set off by his trade.

Detective—case—and a case itself writes [Unhappiness] like blood on a ledger.

“Then, let’s begin.” Ye’s smile drew a lazy arc, a crescent blade under mist, his own sharpness clean as mountain air. “Let’s see what this [Misfortune] really is.”

Click.

Ye Weibai pushed the door and stepped out.

…

…

Click.

Ye Weibai pushed the door and stepped in.

“Senior! Did you fall into a pit? I almost yelled for a rescue party.”

As he entered, the girl who’d grown impatient sat cross‑legged on the chair, stretched like a cat, then hopped like a rabbit. Her foot slipped—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—”

Her face changed; her ponytail whipped like a restless rabbit tail. She pitched headfirst into Ye Weibai’s arms like a tossed bundle.

Ye didn’t blink. He set a palm, pressed Mu Ling’s forehead, and pushed.

Thud.

The chair didn’t move an inch, rooted like an old stump.

“Ow!”

She dropped back in the same pose, only her little hips took the bump like a pebble on a drum.

“Senior! I’m a bona fide beauty!”

“Sure. Then, Miss Beauty, read the materials they just delivered on the desk.” Ye lounged back on the sofa like winter sun, and flicked the file from the wooden desk like a bird from a branch.

“Oh, oh!” Hands flailing like startled sparrows, Mu Ling caught the flying folder. She read in a voice clear as a bell.

“Three months ago—”

…

…

“They’re coming out, they’re coming out!”

Snap! Snap! Snap!

Sudden flashbulbs cut bright slashes into the deep forest, lightning trapped in glass.

The policewoman carrying a naked child wrapped only in a white bath towel stepped from the black cave; light washed over her like thin frost.

Her face hardened. She shouted at reporters slithering from nowhere, “Where did you leeches come from! No photos! Do you have any bottom line?”

The older cop with whiskery stubble blanched; he strode over like a bull through scrub. He yanked off his cap and shielded the girl’s face like a cloud crossing the moon.

It was a covert operation—so why were reporters here? They were hounds drawn by the stink of rot.

He barked at several young officers to check the cave’s gut, then sent others to drive the press back like crows from a field.

Then he lowered his head. He kept his eyes polite, off the child’s bare skin, and asked the worried policewoman, “Lina, how’s the victim’s state of mind?”

“Locked up so long. She’s covered in whip marks, and… kiss marks.” Lina’s clean features were a clear stream; she shook her head and bit her lip. “When we pulled her out, her eyes were blank. She couldn’t speak anymore.”

“Animals! On a child this small!” His gaze fell on the girl’s legs exposed to the cold air—thin limbs banded with blue bruises, like countless snakes had coiled and gone.

He thought of his own child of the same age. His teeth clenched like a trap, jaw a set jawbone starved of mercy.

Lina ground her teeth too. “Shame he slipped away!”

“Don’t blame yourself. No one expected a second exit in the cave. He’s just run into Team B’s net down that way.”

“Mm! Fifth child! We have to catch him this time!”

“Alright, the car’s here. Get in first!”

…

…

“A string of molestation cases.”

With his legs crossed, Ye tapped the desk; his nails clicked on wood like small hail peppering a roof. His eyelids sank; he replayed the case Mu Ling had just read, thoughts turning like mill wheels.

Whatever the facts, a Detective has a natural rival—the Police Bureau, a river that runs beside you and against you.

That memory had just surfaced, ink rising in clear water. In this World, a Detective isn’t so mysterious. Not common, sure—but compared to his last life, it’s a recognized trade, not some paparazzi dog.

In some ways, the path has gone formal. There’s a “Detective Association” in society. Every Detective carries a graded rank, and each agency gets its own rating, stamped like seals.

The agency Ye belongs to, the one called Gluttonous Fox, is graded B.

Don’t let A and S above it fool you. For a small town like this, B is plenty, a torch bright enough for narrow streets.

Not every place hosts cases that topple nations and rewrite dynasties. The latest S‑class outfit, Fleeting Light, only rose from A after cracking a national‑security case overseas, a storm beyond the sea.

As for Bai Ye’s personal rank…

Ye stroked his beard. A strange look crossed his face, like wind shifting before rain.

“I don’t even know my own grade…” His mouth curved, amused, a flicker like sun on water. “I just checked the Association’s site for my profile. It’s—blank, a hole torn in paper.”

“Am I… really a Detective?”

“Or am I—”

…

…

Click.

It eased the door open like a rat’s paw on a latch.

Cold pooled in the entryway, air biting like iron.

A torn linen coat hung behind the door, limp as old skin.

Shoes stayed on; there was no time. As if the cold were gnawing, it shivered, kept the outer clothes, and lunged to throw on that rag of a coat that wouldn’t qualify as a dishcloth.

Only after tremor‑stiff fingers tied the cord and the linen settled did it breathe out, clutching the cloth, hugging itself like driftwood in black water.

Suddenly, remembering, it grabbed at its throat, face twisting. It pawed itself like a crazed dog, then fumbled in the bag, dragged out a collar, and snapped it around its neck. The frenzy ebbed like wind leaving reeds.

“Huu—”

It blew out a long breath. Color seeped into its pale face like wine into paper.

It lifted its head. Its body swayed without willing it. Under the shadow of a large hood, those pupils glimmered with a hungry, wrong light, fireflies trapped in tar.

“Come on…”

The voice was hoarse and rough, yet held a thin, cold clarity—like a bell crushed and ground under a boot.

It stripped off shoes and socks. Bare feet kissed a floor long unwashed, grimy as river silt.

The dim lamp flickered; shadows dragged long across the boards like nets.

It left the entry, slipped down the hall, and entered the living room to see—

A little girl bound to a chair, unable to move, terror flooding her small face like storm rain.

It licked its upper lip, a snake tasting air.

“—time for happiness.”