The top floor of Hongsheng Center on Shanghai's Bund was lit up as bright as day tonight.
The glass curtain walls gleamed, offering a clear view of the lights along both banks of the Huangpu River — to the left, the European-style buildings of the Old Bund with their warm, yellow string lights wrapped around pointed roofs; to the right, the skyscrapers of Lujiazui, where LED screens flashed with various advertisements. The contrast of cool and warm hues painted the river like flowing silk. But no one had the mood to admire the scenery. The banquet hall was packed with men in tailored suits, holding champagne glasses, the clinks crisp like glass beads colliding—but no one was truly relaxed.
Tonight marked the 60th birthday banquet of Hong Zhendong, the boss of the Hongsheng Group. This old man was a formidable figure in the international energy sector, having gone from drilling the first oil well to developing photovoltaic power stations, never once stumbling in decades. Everyone in the industry called him "Boss Hong." By all accounts, this should have been a joyous celebration, yet there was an undeniable tension in the air—not the effervescence of champagne, but something far more sinister: unease.
Liu Yuan stood in a corner of the banquet hall, his back against the wall, his eyes scanning the crowd like a high-resolution scanner. At twenty-seven or -eight, he was the Chief Security Officer of Hongsheng Group, towering nearly to the ceiling, dressed in a black tactical suit with sleeves rolled up to reveal a nondescript wristwatch—no brand, just a dark gray dial displaying not just the time but also magnetic fields, temperature, and even ambient sound frequencies. It was a military-grade custom piece, three times more sensitive than the best commercial security tech on the market.
He was uneasy. Boss Hong had told him that morning that he would announce the succession of the group at tonight's banquet, handing the reins to his only son, Liu Changfeng. But Liu Changfeng, who managed a large-scale photovoltaic project in Africa, was supposed to have arrived yesterday. Yet there had been no word, not even a phone call. On the surface, Boss Hong hadn't said anything, going about his evening as usual, twirling his signature crimson wooden prayer beads. But Liu Yuan had noticed the slight tremor in the old man's hand as he sipped his tea that morning—a telltale sign that something was weighing on him. Liu Yuan had seen that tremor twenty years ago, and it had never been wrong.
"It's nine o'clock sharp," a deputy security officer whispered beside him, glancing at his tablet.
Liu Yuan nodded slightly, then felt the lights flicker—just a little, subtler than a pre-blackout flicker, more like the involuntary twitch of an eyelid, lasting no more than 0.1 seconds. No one else seemed to notice, not even the waitstaff balancing trays. But his wristwatch emitted a sharp "beep," and the magnetic field reading on its display spiked instantly, the red digits flashing like an alarm.
"Damn it, something's wrong!" A chill ran down Liu Yuan's spine. He moved instantly, striding toward the "Meditation Room" on the top floor—the one place Boss Hong always retreated to for ten minutes before any major event, a rule no one dared break. That room wasn't ordinary. Its walls were made of composite armor, bulletproof and explosion-resistant, equipped with an independent life-support system and filtered air. Calling it a "fortress" was an understatement—it was practically a miniature safe room.
As he approached, something felt off—the blast-proof door, which was usually sealed shut, was slightly ajar, leaving a narrow gap.
A strange smell wafted through the crack—not blood, but a mix of ozone and scorched plastic, reminiscent of the odor after a summer lightning strike frying power lines. Liu Yuan pushed the door open—and his every hair stood on end.
Boss Hong lay supine on a Persian carpet, one he had brought back from Iran last year, rumored to be worth a small fortune. Now, a large patch of dark brown stained the rug, soaking through the red Tang suit he wore. The collar was neatly arranged, but there was a charred, blackened hole over his heart. The edges were smooth, as if sliced with a blade, and the surrounding fabric hadn't caught fire—instead, it looked brittle, like overheated plastic.
Liu Yuan knelt down. Without even touching the body, he knew the man was gone—the corpse was already cold. Boss Hong's right hand was clenched tightly, a few blackened soot particles visible between his fingers, clinging to the prayer beads. His eyes were wide open, unblinking, his expression bizarre: half shock, half as if he'd just had an epiphany, the corners of his mouth even curled upward slightly, as though he'd suddenly understood something.
There were no signs of a struggle in the room. The environmental monitoring screen on the wall was dark. It was supposed to retain logs even during a power outage, but when Liu Yuan pressed it, the screen remained unresponsive. He pulled out his mini tablet and accessed the monitoring system's backend, only to find the logs frozen at exactly nine o'clock—the moment the lights had flickered, as if someone had erased them with an eraser.
"What the hell…" Liu Yuan muttered under his breath.
"Seal the entire building!" he barked into his encrypted earpiece, his voice trembling—not from fear, but rage. He had guarded Boss Hong for twenty years, taken him in at fifteen, risen to Chief Security Officer, and never once had anything like this happened. From the earpiece came the deputy's response. Forcing himself to calm down, Liu Yuan knew he was now the highest authority here. He couldn't afford to lose his head.
Within ten minutes, several people hurried in. The first was Professor Qingsong, Boss Hong's brother-in-law, his hair snow-white, clad in a white lab coat, holding a portable scanner. He had come straight from the lab—undoubtedly the country's foremost physicist, the backbone of many of Hongsheng Group's cutting-edge energy technologies.
Next came Dr. Wugu, dressed in a gray jumpsuit, wearing black-rimmed glasses, holding a magnifying glass as she crouched by the carpet, examining the charred wound. She was a leading materials scientist, responsible for developing the group's advanced armor plating.
Then there was a man in a black trench coat—Dugu Ming, the owner of Mingkong Security, the country's top private security firm, responsible for all of Boss Hong's personal protection. He said nothing, standing silently by the door, his gaze icy as he scanned the room, his fingers tapping inside his coat pocket, lost in thought.
Finally, Dr. Liu Qing entered, a woman in a light purple suit, carrying a silver case that she opened to reveal an array of miniature instruments. She knelt beside Boss Hong, aiming a probe-like device at the wound. The instrument's screen immediately lit up with data.
"The tissue was vaporized instantly," Liu Qing said, her voice slightly shaky. "Look at the energy density—over a hundred thousand joules per square centimeter, and the area of impact is extremely localized, narrowly avoiding the ribs. Even the implanted biosensor in his chest was untouched. This kind of precision… it's akin to a focused high-energy particle beam. But current lab tech can only achieve a third of this power, and nowhere near this accuracy."
Professor Qingsong had already dismantled the monitoring system's main unit, holding a multimeter as he tested the circuits, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked like it could crush a fly. "The system wasn't physically damaged, nor was there any sign of cyber intrusion—the firewall was my design. Even the best hackers would need at least three minutes to breach it. But the logs stopped dead at nine o'clock, not even a second of delay."
He looked up at the others. "The killer… it was like a shadow, passing right through this armored wall."
No one spoke, but Liu Yuan knew what they were all thinking—the name Yun Yi.
A legend in the international intelligence world. No one had ever seen his face, no records, no nationality. He operated in the shadows. Rumor had it he specialized in "cleaning up trouble," using unconventional methods to kill, his techniques so bizarre that insiders called him the "Janitor." But no one knew who he worked for, or why he killed.
"Does he need a reason to kill?" Dr. Wugu murmured, her magnifying glass nearly touching the carpet.
"He doesn't even have a 'motive' column in his database," Dugu Ming finally said, his voice low. "I think it's more likely a rival corporation. Hongsheng's been muscling in on Southeast Asia's oil fields. Someone probably wanted to take the group down."
Just then, Liu Yuan's earpiece crackled with his deputy's urgent voice: "Liu, urgent—someone broke in through the service entrance. Breathalyzer says he's drunk, but… brainwave and behavioral analysis show he's completely sober!"
Liu Yuan shot to his feet, glaring at the entrance—this blood-soaked birthday party had only just begun.