自創小說的集合地

The Basic Education Academy. This is the first external environment everyone in this world encounters. Outdoor areas in this world are extremely dangerous, and parents almost all have to struggle for a living. Therefore, children under 5 years old grow up almost entirely within their homes or enclosed environments, and the first external environment they commonly encounter is the Basic Education Academy. Right now, I'm standing in front of the Basic Education Academy. It's completely different from the grand, imposing academy gates described in novels I read in my past life. The gate in front of me is a brightly colored archway, indistinguishable from the kindergarten gates I remember from my past life. This made me realize, five years old! What can you expect a 5-year-old child to learn? After all, although I have the body of a 5-year-old, I have the soul of nearly 40-year-old. I was too naive before, assuming everyone my age in this world was at my level. I see crying children in front of the gate, teachers struggling to maintain a smile, and parents who are troubled but have to patiently console them. And inside the archway, a pink mascot with twin tails is handing out balloons. This gives me a sense of déjà vu, like the entertainment events at the entrance of kindergartens and elementary schools during the back-to-school season in my previous life. "Waaah!" (Attention!) At this moment, a voice drew everyone's attention. The crying children gradually calmed down.

Chen Mo's heart lurched. That expression. The same one Zhang Zhenyu had when he died. A serene ecstasy. And the final look on the hostage's face just before their throat was slit during that negotiation three years ago— He suddenly realized something. These three expressions were stored in the same 'room' in his palace of memories. His hand had unconsciously categorized them together, but he'd never pondered why. Because they were so similar. Three different faces, three different ways of dying, yet they displayed the same emotion in the final second. It wasn't fear. It was... relief? "Chen Mo?" Old Zhou's voice pulled him back. "Your face looks off." "It's nothing," Chen Mo said, but his right hand was trembling slightly. He slipped it into his pocket, not wanting anyone to see. His palace of memories had always been his greatest weapon. He could dissect any scene into thousands of details, zoom in, rotate, compare, and find clues others missed. But now, a terrifying thought struck him: What if the palace of memories itself was flawed? What if those 'memories' weren't real from the start, but implanted by someone? He recalled the last few minutes of that negotiation three years ago. The perpetrator's demand was simple: Chen Mo was to enter the room alone, close the door, unarmed and without any listening devices. Chen Mo complied. After he entered, the perpetrator locked the door and said one thing to him. (To be continued)

Unless— "Unless what she recorded wasn't the case," Old Zhou chimed in, "but something else." "Like, the 'reactions' of others at the scene. Who screamed first, who ran down first, whose expression was off. She was observing us too." Fang Guodong had been listening in silence. Now he spoke, "So now, any one of us could be the killer, and everyone is suspecting each other. In this situation, the most dangerous thing isn't the killer, it's panic." "You have experience?" Chen Mo asked. Fang Guodong glanced at him. The firelight carved deep shadows on his face. He wasn't old, but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the lines around his mouth suggested he had been through far more than he should have. "During the raid three years ago," Fang Guodong said, his voice even, as if recounting someone else's story, "when I ordered the assault, the suspect had two hostages. My intel indicated he only had one handgun with five rounds, and had already fired three. But the reality was—he had two guns, one hidden behind a hostage. As my team stormed in, he fired the first shot, hitting my second-in-command's bulletproof vest. Then he fired the second shot, hitting the hostage in the head." He paused. "The post-mortem investigation said I 'made a poor decision' because I hadn't confirmed the intel about the second gun. But that wasn't the reason I retired." He looked up. "It was the hostage's eyes. He looked at me in the final second, that expression... I can never forget it. Not fear, not anger. Disappointment. He felt I should have saved him, but I didn't." (To be continued)

Lin Jing reached out and helped her, her movements gentle but decisive. Their figures disappeared into the darkness, their footsteps fading away. Only four people remained in the hall. The logs in the fireplace crackled, sparks scattering onto the stone floor and quickly extinguishing. “Chen Mo,” Old Zhou’s voice came from the direction of the sofa, deep and hoarse, “When you said those things just now, I noticed something.” “What is it?” “When you asked Dr. Shen to lead the way, you called her ‘Dr. Shen.’ But when you addressed Professor Lin, you called her ‘Professor Lin.’” Old Zhou paused. “You’re drawing a line. You’ve classified Dr. Shen as a ‘trustworthy witness,’ but Professor Lin as ‘someone to be monitored.’ Why?” Chen Mo didn’t answer immediately. The firelight in the fireplace flickered, and his shadow danced on the wall. “Because Lin Jing sat next to Zhang Zhenyu during dinner,” Chen Mo said. “And it was Zhang Zhenyu who arranged the seating. He originally intended for Xu Ziqian to sit there, but he changed it at the last minute. Lin Jing was the only one Zhang Zhenyu ‘specially arranged’ for.” “Just because of that?” “And,” Chen Mo looked at Old Zhou, the firelight burning in his eyes, “what she wrote in her notebook, she never showed anyone from beginning to end. Not even me. A forensic psychology professor’s first priority at the scene should be observation and recording, which is reasonable. But she never shares what she records. Unless—” (To be continued)

The fire in the hearth was still burning, but without the supplemental light from the lamps, the entire hall instantly shrank to an orange circle of light centered on the flames. Beyond the circle was a thick darkness; windows, corridors, and stairwells vanished as if swallowed by something. "Don't move," Chen Mo said, his voice low but clear. "Everyone stay put, don't move." "I suggest—" Fang Guodong's voice came from the front left, steady but tense. "We should first increase the fire in the hearth. Then find candles or flashlights." "There are candles in the kitchen," Shen Yuehua's voice trembled, but she was still in control. "I saw them this afternoon when I was tidying the cabinets, in the drawer to the left of the counter." "I'll get them," Fang Guodong said. "No," Chen Mo interrupted immediately. "You're not familiar with the kitchen layout. You might knock things over in the dark, giving anyone an opportunity. Dr. Shen, you were in the kitchen this afternoon, you lead the way. Professor Lin, you go with Dr. Shen, look out for each other. Old Zhou, you stay here with me." He deliberately didn't mention Xu Ziqian. Xu Ziqian was now standing on the other side of the hearth. The firelight cut his profile in half, light and shadow. He didn't speak, didn't move, just stood quietly, hands hanging naturally at his sides. Chen Mo noticed his breathing was very steady, unlike someone just accused of murder. Shen Yuehua and Lin Jing stood up and walked towards the kitchen. Shen Yuehua's steps were a little unsteady, and Lin Jing reached out to support her, a gentle but decisive movement. (To be continued)

Chen Mo zoomed in on the photo. Indeed, the last loop of the noose knot was loose, with no signs of stress. There were no ligature marks on Zhang Zhenyu's neck either. "He wasn't strangled," Xu Ziqian put down his phone. "He was poisoned. The rope knot was just for show. The killer used a drug to incapacitate him, then administered a lethal poison, and finally tied the knot to stage the scene." He looked at Chen Mo, a smile playing on his lips that was hard to decipher. "So your knot theory was wrong from the start. This isn't a copycat of the 'Noose Killer'. This is someone else—someone very smart, very calm, and who knows all of us very well—" He didn't finish. Because just then, all the lights in the hall went out. Darkness descended, the fireplace's flames the last source of light, casting everyone's distorted shadows on the wall like puppets being pulled by ropes. Chen Mo heard someone gasp in the darkness. Then, Shen Yuehua's voice came from somewhere, trembling and desperate: "...The people from Fog Valley are back for us." The wind and snow howled outside the window. And Chen Mo knew, this night had only just begun. Chapter 4: A Long Night by the Fireplace The moment the lights went out, Chen Mo instinctively took a step back, pressing his back against the wall. This was a reflex from his training—in the dark, the most dangerous thing isn't not seeing the enemy, but losing your sense of space. The wall gave him direction, letting him know where his safe back was, and where he needed to face. (To be continued)

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It was right above the wrist artery. Those weren't marks from carrying firewood. They were indentations left by the rope repeatedly rubbing against the skin during practice tying knots. "Your knot-tying technique is skilled," Chen Mo stood up, looking down at Xu Ziqian. "But you forgot to wear gloves while practicing. The skin on your left wrist is more sensitive than your right because you're left-handed. The nerve endings in your dominant hand are more concentrated, so the friction marks will be more obvious." Xu Ziqian looked up, the firelight dancing in his pupils. He was silent for a long time, then chuckled softly. "Chen Mo," he said, "you're only half right." "Which half?" "The left-handed half." Xu Ziqian slowly stood up, half a head taller than Chen Mo. "But I didn't tie the knot. I just..." He extended his right hand, turning his palm over. There was a fresh, deep cut on the inside of his right index finger, the blood already clotted into a dark red. "I only cut myself when I found the body and tried to untie the knot. I didn't tell anyone because I knew—" his eyes changed, "—once someone found the wound, I'd become the prime suspect. And all your deductions just now are overturned by one fact." "What fact?" Xu Ziqian walked to the coffee table, picked up Chen Mo's phone, and zoomed in on the knot photo. "Look closely at the final finish of the noose knot," he said. "The knot is loose. Zhang Zhenyu wasn't strangled." Chen Mo zoomed in on the photo. (To be continued)

"It wasn't me," Old Zhou said, placing his empty glass on the table. "Though I know what you're thinking. But Chen Mo—I injured the nerves in my left hand three years ago, I can't grip a rope. You just said the killer had 'not much strength but precise technique,' so it couldn't possibly be a half-crippled old man." He was telling the truth. Chen Mo had just observed Old Zhou pouring wine; he had indeed used his right hand. So, who was the left-handed person? Chen Mo scanned everyone again. Lin Jing wrote with her right hand, Fang Guodong shook hands with his right, Shen Yuehua held her teacup with her right, and Xu Ziqian operated his laptop with his right. Wait. He recalled a scene from dinner: while Xu Ziqian was using his laptop, his left hand had been under the table the whole time. He'd thought it was just a habit then, but now—Xu Ziqian's right hand was typing, but what about his left? "Mr. Xu," Chen Mo's voice was very soft, but it cut through the silent hall like a sharp blade. "Could we see your left hand?" Xu Ziqian's expression didn't change. He slowly lifted his left hand from under the table and placed it on his lap. It was a complete hand, with no abnormalities. But on the inside of his left wrist, there was a faint reddish mark—as if it had just been constricted by something. "Oh, this," Xu Ziqian looked down at it, his tone casual. "I got grazed by a rope just now while moving firewood. It's nothing." Chen Mo walked over, crouched down, and examined the mark closely. The color was uniform, there was no broken skin, the width was about 0.5 centimeters, and the position was right above the artery on his wrist. (To be continued)

Chen Mo shifted his gaze elsewhere. He was contemplating one thing: If the killer truly came for revenge, their target should be someone related to the Fog Valley incident back then. But among the seven people present, who was connected to Fog Valley? He had a guess, but it was too outlandish. He opened his phone and scrolled to the photo on the list. Zhang Zhenyu's experience field was blank, but Chen Mo noticed a detail—below that blank line, there was a faint indentation from a pen, as if someone had written something and then erased it, leaving a groove. He tilted his phone screen, letting the light from the fireplace shine across it from the side. The indentation vaguely revealed a few words: "Survivor" Zhang Zhenyu was a survivor of Fog Valley. So, was it really Zhang Zhenyu who invited them here? Or, had the real Zhang Zhenyu died long ago, and the "master" they were seeing was someone else from the very beginning? Chen Mo looked up towards the wine cellar. The image of that red knot kept replaying in his mind, each time revealing a new detail—the knot was tied in the wrong direction. The serial knot killer was right-handed, so the knot should be clockwise. But the noose around Zhang Zhenyu's neck was tied counter-clockwise. Left-handed. Among the seven people present, only one was left-handed. Chen Mo slowly turned his head and looked at Old Zhou, who was sitting in the corner, continuously swirling an empty wine glass. Old Zhou looked up, met his gaze for two seconds, then gave a wry smile. (To be continued)