Chapter 250: The Deception
George glanced at Wan Yaping. Her hair was streaked with gray, truly qualifying her to call herself “Little Qiao.”
This mother had an unshakable weariness and sorrow in her eyes.
She had been waiting for her son to come back.
George thought to himself and couldn’t help but say, “Maybe this time your son can come back.”
Wan Yaping’s eyes sparked with a glimmer of hope as she asked, “Really?”
George replied, “It depends on the investigation results.” If the result shows that Wan Ziqi is Jima…
But he suddenly realized that even so, it was very likely that Wan Yaping would see her for the last time before Jima was executed.
Therefore, he began to regret his earlier impulsiveness. No matter what, it was probably best not to tell her.
“It’s just a possibility; you better not get your hopes up.” George pointed to the desk, on which he could sense the target’s aura from these items, and asked, “Can I take a look?”
“Sure, but if I tell you to stop, you stop.” Wan Yaping raised her cane. “Otherwise, I’ll hit you.”
“Okay.”
George agreed and walked to the L-shaped desk placed in the corner. The desk consisted of a bookshelf and a tabletop, the white paint on the surface wrinkled with time, with quite a few patches peeling off. However, George could tell from a yellowish mark that it had been scraped by nails.
Why?
George activated his judge mode.
He fixated on the yellowish mark, which emitted a faint yellow mist. From it, he sensed boredom. He lifted his eyes to see yellowing textbooks in the bookshelf, all radiating the same faint yellow mist.
These mists were a visualization of the target’s emotions.
George pointed at the books and asked, “Can you tell me about these books?”
Wan Yaping replied, “My son could calm down and read since he was little.”
“How long did he read each day?”
“All day.” Wan Yaping fell into memories and said, “When I was busy outside, as long as I left him in the room, he could finish his papers by himself.”
Then these textbooks shouldn’t be radiating boring yellow mist.
George remained taciturn, continuing to guide Wan Yaping to talk about her son.
Perhaps because George had a high charm, or maybe because he had given Wan Yaping a glimmer of hope earlier, Wan Yaping talked endlessly, pouring out her memories and longing for Wan Ziqi in front of George.
Removing Wan Yaping’s embellishments.
George gradually sketched out Wan Ziqi’s childhood: his parents divorced when he was three, his mother loved to play and often took him to various places, staying at his cousin’s house, and found him many stepfathers, but in the end, Wan Yaping returned to being single.
George also sensed that Wan Yaping’s childhood was unhappy. When he inquired, he learned that she also came from a single-parent family; as a child, her mother had a poor background and needed better-background neighbors to accompany her for hospital visits.
Gradually, during the conversation, George felt a certain desire for control in Wan Yaping.
George was certain that Wan Ziqi was definitely not someone who liked to read; he was locked at home, having no choice but to read.
After Wan Yaping finished her monologue, she said, “I haven’t talked this much in a long time. Little Qiao, I especially love to talk with you.”
“I’m glad to help you,” George said. “Thank you.”
He had now reached a level of understanding regarding Wan Ziqi that he could activate the “Retrospect” skill. With a blink, he “revisited” Wan Ziqi’s past in situ.
The little Wan Ziqi was tall and thin, quite ordinary, with acne on his face and a lack of physical exercise, with nothing attractive about him.
Looking at his face and recalling Jima’s face.
George instinctively refused to believe that Jima was Wan Ziqi.
He suppressed this strange feeling and continued to observe.
On the desk lay a test paper that Wan Ziqi hadn’t filled out, instead boredly scratching the tabletop with his nails. Sometimes, he walked back and forth in the room out of boredom, went to drink some water, and stood by the window with anti-theft bars, gazing out at the distant scenery.
Everything was fast-forwarding.
Wan Ziqi was always scolded by his mother; the scolding lasted a long time. Most of the time, he was tormented by boredom, engaging in many time-wasting activities: rereading magazines he had already seen, picking up a pen to write and draw in his diary.
Sometimes, he would comfort himself.
He looked as if he had been castrated, with no masculine aura at all, timid, exuding an innate submissiveness.
George couldn’t find any similarities between him and Jima, nor could he find anything in common with Gima. Gima was also a man, yet he was full of masculine energy, sinister and aggressive.
George felt somewhat disappointed and said, “I’m afraid you might be disappointed.”
“Little Qiao, are you done?”
“Mm.”
When George and Wan Yaping exited the elevator and walked out of the community, Wan Yaping, filled with hope, said, “Leave me your phone number, and if there is news, be sure to call me.”
No matter who came, Wan Yaping always said this when leaving.
“Okay.”
George nodded but had no hopes.
Checking the time, it was three in the afternoon; everything was according to plan.
George called a driverless taxi to go to the funeral home to see Wan Ziqi’s body. On the way, he received decrypted information from the upper ranks, including a segment of an interview video with Jima, which was extremely valuable.
Because George could tell from the video whether the person inside was lying.
“… You mean that dirty waste, Wan Ziqi? He’s just a sacrificial offering, an ugly caterpillar. His greatest value in life is me; that’s the most valuable thing in his pathetic life.”
In the video, Jima’s face was filled with disgust and nausea.
There was not a hint of a lie.
He turned off the tablet.
Leaning back in his chair, he exhaled slightly; it was highly probable that the tall, thin, timid boy was not Jima. He had already seen pictures of Wan Ziqi’s body and internal documents but found nothing peculiar.
Upon arriving at the funeral home and presenting his police identification, along with having made prior arrangements, George easily met Wan Ziqi’s frozen corpse.
His black-rimmed glasses were crooked on his face, and his expression still lingered with a desire for life before his death.
George gazed at him and activated “Retrospect,” effortlessly witnessing the scene of his death.
Again and again, he called Fang Shijun for money. After the last call, Wan Ziqi, desperate, jumped off the rooftop, landing with a thud on the cement ground, struggling to dial 120, dialing three numbers before losing consciousness, simultaneously a beautiful figure appeared in midair above the corpse, slowly descending.
It was Jima.
An unexpected encounter.
George felt his blood boiling, his usually calm heart starting to race; her tail was still so adorable, inciting the impulse to embrace her.
Jima still looked so beautiful, every strand of hair, every inch of skin exuding an alluring aura. Memories of intimacy with her surged in his mind—her whispers in his ear, her caresses, her laughter, her warmth.
Compared to this, Wan Ziqi’s corpse was dirty and ugly; how could he be Jima? Jima was right; Wan Ziqi was merely a sacrificial offering to summon Jima; the very act was a beautiful miracle.
But at the same time, George felt a pain in his back, reminding him of the past betrayal by this succubus.
He hunched his body slightly, recalling the previous simulation battle. Although his body was stirring with action, his heart remained calm; he could control the beastly impulse and accurately slice through Jima’s body, chopping her bones apart.
Jima raised her beautiful leg and kicked Wan Ziqi’s corpse, cursing, “Waste!”
The scene suddenly cut off, and through “Retrospect,” he could see that just seconds after Wan Ziqi’s death, an enormous surprise unfolded.
When Jima kicked the corpse, her face wore an utterly genuine disgust and revulsion. George frowned, sensing that Jima was truly excessive; even if Wan Ziqi was a loser, an ugly loser.
However, now he understood why Fang Shijun had been tormented for ten years; it must have been because Wan Ziqi had cursed her with resentment before his death. From a certain perspective, Fang Shijun also deserved this fate.
George pushed the ice cabinet back and left the funeral home, calling for a driverless taxi.
Just as he stepped into the vehicle, George hesitated for a moment.
Something felt off. It seemed that some force was guiding him, leading him to believe in what he was willing to believe.
He recalled Jima saying, “People always believe what they want to believe.”
He stroked his chin and thought for a moment.
Jima knew my abilities and understood that the more I investigated her, the more harm it would cause her. Given her meticulous personality, how could she not do something about this?
George immediately changed his destination and called Wan Yaping, hoping to take another look at Wan Ziqi’s room while he was alive.
Arriving at Wan Ziqi’s room and receiving Wan Yaping’s permission, George flipped through the books page by page.
This time, he carefully flipped through a book titled “Science Fiction World,” coming across a story.
The story essentially summarized:
A young man saved an elderly man, who in return fulfilled his desires for women, money, and other worldly pursuits. However, he did not expect that these wishes harmed many people, and feeling guilty, the young man committed suicide.
At the end of the article, there was a scrawled line in Chinese: “Why? If he didn’t regret it, wouldn’t it be fine?”
George shook slightly, as if he could hear Jima questioning in her melodious voice.
When she was still “young” (referring to the bald demon king draped in the skin of a little girl from three centuries ago), George had shown her many stories encouraging kindness.
Jima always questioned in this manner; it heavily resembled something she would say.
From a fable urging kindness, she could counter-question, “Does it mean that if the protagonist had no guilt and could harden his heart, he could live happily?”
This discovery pierced through the lies surrounding him like a needle.
George’s mind was no longer influenced by the power of lies; he began to identify more suspicious points. Although accepting that Wan Ziqi was Jima was somewhat difficult, it was only somewhat difficult.
“Thank you,” George said as he put down the book. “I almost overlooked a clue.”
The fire in Wan Yaping’s eyes brightened, her originally murky pupils becoming clear for a moment: “Then, can I see my son again?”
George remained silent and said, “I can’t guarantee that.”
“Okay, okay.” Wan Yaping’s eyes darkened. “Having hope is always good.”
George secretly resolved that he would definitely bring Jima to meet her parents properly.
If Jima could survive.
George left for the funeral home, eagerly wanting to see what lies Jima had used to deceive even him—what she was hiding.
At the funeral home.
Wan Ziqi’s body still lay there, looking just as it had before, with dried bloodstains crystallized on the skin.
George’s azure eyes flickered with a pin-point brightness; the corpse, concealed by a heavy fog of lies, revealed its true face.
The fluorescent lights flickered, and Wan Ziqi’s corpse changed; a blood hole appeared in his chest, emanating the scent of blood.
At this point, George was certain that Wan Ziqi and Jima were the same person.
Power surged from the blood hole; he sensed some living being within it, previously bound and sealed by the power of lies.
George made a slicing motion with his hand, preparing the Sacred Slash.
Suddenly, black mist surged from the chest, momentarily obscuring George’s vision and piercing his eyes. He felt pain in his back; yet he forced his eyes open and saw a shadow leaping out from the corpse’s chest.
It moved swiftly, possibly trying to escape.
George stepped forward, raising his hand in preparation, but when the shadow landed and didn’t flee, he struck it down, commanding, “Stop!”
The shadow froze in place; for a moment, the black mist dispersed in the glow of George’s light.
He saw a naked little girl squatting on the ground, cradling her head, showing little reaction to George before her. Her eyes were fixed on the ground.
She looked exactly like “young” Jima.
Trying to deceive me once more?
George recognized her face, and a cold scoff formed in his heart, asking, “Who are you?”
“You are George, right?” Little Jima looked up and said, “Jima—”
“Don’t call her name directly; she will sense it. Use ‘her’.”
Little Jima paused and said, “Her mortal past has been severed; she will no longer suffer from soul injuries. I am her humanity and conscience.”
All true, but based on what he knew about Jima, she could use the truth to lie.
George suppressed a certain hope in his heart and asked, “Can you connect with her?”
Little Jima shook her head and said, “No, she has abandoned me.”
“You don’t believe me; that’s understandable. People shouldn’t trust succubi.” She paused and said, “Please kill me; I’m sorry, George.”
“Not a chance,” George said. “At least wait until I figure it out… maybe you are innocent.”
“No, I was not innocent from the moment I was born.” Little Jima lowered her head and said, “I inherited some of her memories; I know her very well. Her nature is evil, and so is mine. I shouldn’t exist in this world.”
“Everything should go by rules and regulations.” George said. “Decisions shouldn’t be made based on your or my subjective will.”
George casually found a piece of clothing and took Little Jima with him. He deliberately performed a camp detection on Little Jima, and the result was strictly neutral. After multiple confirmations, it was clear the result was correct.
George reported Little Jima’s existence, but the others could neither see nor sense her. For a moment, George doubted whether it was his soul injury acting up. Little Jima also felt light and had no solid form.
However, Little Jima told him that she simply didn’t want the others to see her. She had tried to appear visible to others to prove she wasn’t illusory.
After repeated checks, it was confirmed that Little Jima had indeed not lied; she was unable to contact Jima and had extensive knowledge of Jima’s abilities.
“The curses on these people are too minor.” Little Jima, dressed in a hospital gown, raised her hand and pointed at the people on the street. “Even if she detonated the curse, it would only make them stumble. Even if the curse was dispelled, she wouldn’t know.”
Through collective discussion and speculation, it was determined that Jima wanted to seal Little Jima; she couldn’t kill Little Jima, just as a person couldn’t kill themselves.
George looked at a row of words on the copy paper, all concerning Jima’s information, penned down by Little Jima:
“Provoking desires, reverse provoking desires, desire’s dual vision, entering dreams (twisting dreams), forced entry into dreams, dream seeds, mythical lies (making people believe lies become reality), doll substitutes, dream jumps (coming from dreams to reality), chameleon (invisibility), seduction, divination, curses (plague curses), simulation, dream palaces, illusions, enchantment halos, labyrinth techniques, profane rites…”
Below was a detailed explanation. After reading the report, George understood why Jima wanted to seal Little Jima. She also didn’t burn the corpse, likely worried about drawing everyone’s attention to it.
“I am in great pain,” Little Jima said, looking at George. “Please purify me. As a succubus, I will eventually become as evil as she is.”
After finishing the report, Little Jima attempted to commit suicide with a surgical knife, but the knife passed through her body; only George could destroy her.
Looking at Little Jima’s identical face, a spark of hope ignited in George as he said, “No, let’s give it a try. I’ll vigilantly keep an eye on you.”
Little Jima anxiously gripped the bedsheet; George’s trust, even if just a little, left her at a loss. She uncertainly said, “Do you really believe I can overcome my evil nature?”
“How will we know unless we try?”
“Then you must promise me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“If after a year and a half, I am still not a good person,” Little Jima said, “please purify me. If you don’t promise, I will try my best to shout her name, compelling you to purify me.”
“Alright,” George said. “But you must sign a contract, using your blood as a guarantee.”
Little Jima nodded.
