126: A lawyer who dreams of becoming a detective

After the heart-pounding experience of finding a 'treasure' by the river in the morning, The boy had to force himself back into his suffocating daily 'work.'

He huddled in an inconspicuous corner of the bustling commercial district, a worn-out enamel bowl with frayed edges placed before him. He kept his head down, not daring to meet the eyes of passersby, just mechanically repeating his practiced, feeble, and indistinct begging phrases.

Occasionally, a soft-hearted passerby would hurriedly drop a coin or two. The clinking sound made his numb heart beat a little faster—not out of joy, but because it meant he might be spared a beating that night.

He carefully protected his chest, where he kept the cold, mysterious 'watch' hidden close to his skin.

Every time someone approached or someone in uniform passed by, he would unconsciously tense up, his fingers instinctively pressing against the hidden pocket on his chest.

This secret was like a red-hot piece of charcoal, both burning him with restlessness and giving him a twisted sense of his own power.

In the afternoon, as the sky began to turn gray, several children like him, as if receiving a silent command, silently converged from various corners of the city toward the moldy-smelling back door of a remote, old warehouse.

Overseeing them was a man who looked to be in his fifties, with a lean face and eyes as sharp as a vulture's. The boy didn't know his name, but he'd heard others refer to him as 'Old Knife' during conversations.

He held a cheap cigarette between his lips, squinted his eyes, and counted the 'earnings' handed over by the children one by one. Coins and scattered banknotes were tossed into a filthy cloth bag. Old Knife's fingers rubbed together, estimating the amount, his face expressionless.

The boy knew all too well what would happen if the money he handed over was too little—it wouldn't be just a simple beating.

He had seen with his own eyes those 'useless' children dragged deep into the warehouse, only to come out with their arms or legs bent at unnatural angles, or simply missing.

Old Knife and his crew called this 'processing,' saying it made them 'more pitiful, better at begging.' The heart-rending screams and the dead, despairing looks that followed were the stuff of his nightmares every night.

If only he had listened to his parents and hadn't run off, The boy thought to himself.

Soon, it was The boy's turn. Head bowed, he poured the pitifully few coins from his bowl into the bag.

Old Knife said nothing, just scanned him up and down with those murky yet shrewd eyes. Suddenly, he reached out a withered hand and pinched The boy's noticeably thinner clothes compared to the other children.

'What's that bulge on you? Hiding something?' Old Knife's voice was hoarse, carrying an undeniable pressure.

The boy's heart clenched violently, his blood seeming to freeze. He instinctively took half a step back, his hands unconsciously shielding his chest. 'N-nothing! It's... it's just bones!' he stammered in defense, his voice trembling with fear.

'Bones?' Old Knife scoffed, clearly not believing it. He stepped forward, his rough hand reaching directly for The boy's collar! 'Let me see what kind of bones are so precious!'

At that critical moment—

BANG!!!

The dilapidated wooden door of the old warehouse, already on the verge of collapse, was kicked wide open from the outside! Wood splinters flew as sunlight flooded into the dark corner, dazzling everyone's eyes.

Standing silhouetted in the doorway was a young man in a well-tailored dark suit, his posture upright. He adjusted the frameless glasses on the bridge of his nose; the gaze behind the lenses was as sharp as a scalpel, instantly locking onto Old Knife, who was about to commit violence, and the terrified children. Behind him were several stern-faced police officers who quickly assumed defensive positions.

The corners of the young man's mouth lifted into a nearly formulaic, theatrically charged smile as he declared in a clear, penetrating voice:

'In the name of law and order, this filthy 'business' built upon the blood and tears of children ends here! Old Knife, and your accomplices—you are under arrest!'

He turned slightly and made a 'please' gesture to the officers behind him, his tone still carrying that air of being immersed in a role: 'Gentlemen, please carry out the procedures of justice. As for every detail of this 'den of iniquity,' it will be the ironclad evidence that seals their fate—the 'Sherlock Holmes' of the new era will not overlook a single clue.'

Old Knife's face changed dramatically. Before he could react or resist, he was swiftly subdued by two police officers. Other accomplices hiding in the shadows were also dragged out one after another.

Amid the chaos, The boy, still clutching his chest, shrank into a corner, watching everything in shock. Soon, more police officers and social workers poured in, beginning to comfort and register the children.

Outside the warehouse, faint sounds of emotional cries and shouts could be heard—some parents who had rushed to the scene upon hearing the news were being guided by police, anxiously trying to identify and call out the names of their missing children.

Listening to those unfamiliar cries filled with pain and hope, watching the families embracing and weeping in the distance, The boy's eyes were hollow. He only held the cold 'watch' in his arms tighter. Were his parents... out there? He didn't even dare to think about it.

Just as The boy was still clutching his chest, shaken and huddled in the corner, the young man who had kicked the door open and called himself the 'Sherlock Holmes of the new era' swept his gaze, like a precise searchlight, over every cowering child in the warehouse.

His eyes soon settled on this boy, whose hands were tightly guarding his chest, his eyes filled with wariness and fear.

He walked over quickly, crouched down in front of The boy, and tried to make his voice sound as gentle as possible.

'Wang Yuan?' he tentatively called out the name. 'You're little brother Wang Yuan, right?'

The boy jerked his head up, his eyes widening on his dirty little face. 'You... how do you know my name?!'

Shen Mingyuan adjusted his glasses. 'Of course I know. Your parents, Mr. Wang and Ms. Li, hired me to find you. They've been looking for you, never giving up.'

'Dad... Mom...' The boy—Wang Yuan—murmured, his eyes instantly reddening. 'Really? They... they're really here?'

'Really,' Shen Mingyuan affirmed with a nod. 'They're on their way now. Until then, Wang Yuan, come with me first, okay? Let's leave this place, get something to eat, change into clean, warm clothes, and wait for them.'

Wang Yuan looked at this uncle before him, whose demeanor was a bit odd but whose eyes were clear. The fear in his heart gradually melted away. He nodded.

Shen Mingyuan took his hand and walked him out of this nightmare-filled warehouse.

The next few hours felt like a dream to Wang Yuan. He was taken to a clean, bright temporary shelter, given a hot shower, new clothes, and a hot meal. Shen Mingyuan stayed by his side the whole time. Though he didn't talk much, he patiently answered all of Wang Yuan's questions.

Wang Yuan hugged a cup of hot water, taking small sips. The warmth slowly relaxed his taut nerves. He stole a glance at Shen Mingyuan, who was sitting opposite him, reviewing some documents, and couldn't help but ask softly:

'Uncle... Brother?' He wasn't quite sure how to address this young and impressive person. 'Are... are you a Detective? I heard you say... Sherlock Holmes of the new era.'

Shen Mingyuan looked up from the documents, adjusted his glasses. The sharp, scrutinizing gaze he often wore softened slightly when facing the child. He neither denied nor fully admitted it.

'Strictly speaking,' he replied, his tone carrying a kind of earnest honesty, 'I am a lawyer. A criminal defense lawyer. However...' He paused, as if choosing his words. 'Becoming a Detective like Sherlock Holmes is indeed my... well, a dream, or rather, a working style I've always aspired to.'

'A dream?' Wang Yuan didn't quite understand. 'Then why don't you become a Detective, brother? Aren't Detectives more impressive?'

A slightly self-deprecating yet very clear smile tugged at the corner of Shen Mingyuan's mouth.

'Because times are different, Xiao Yuan.'

He patiently explained, as if untangling a logical problem. 'During the era when Mr. Sherlock Holmes was active, there weren't so many ubiquitous surveillance cameras, no advanced instruments to analyze DNA and trace evidence. Many cases truly required extraordinary observational and deductive skills to solve. But now...'

He pointed toward the faintly visible city lights and surveillance cameras outside the window. 'The police have more scientific and efficient methods to uncover the truth.

'The 'classical Detective' who relies purely on individual intellect has very little room to operate nowadays. So, I chose the path of a lawyer.

'It may not be the most romantic profession, but it allows me to also access the truth of cases. In the courtroom, using evidence and the law, I can defend those in need, or...'

His gaze behind the lenses flickered slightly, 'ensure that justice is truly served.'

Wang Yuan nodded, understanding only partially. Though he didn't fully grasp the specific meanings of words like 'courtroom' and 'defense,' he could sense the seriousness and a certain steadfastness in the words of this 'lawyer brother.' This clear, methodical explanation made him feel at ease.

Until night fell, a middle-aged couple, travel-worn, faces haggard but eyes brimming with tears, rushed into the room, led by police officers.

'Xiao Yuan! My child!'

'Mom! Dad!'

Wang Yuan threw himself into his parents' arms, crying loudly. Mr. Wang and Ms. Li tightly hugged their long-lost son, also weeping uncontrollably.

After a long while, when emotions had settled somewhat, Wang Yuan's father firmly grasped Shen Mingyuan's hand. 'Lawyer Shen, thank you so much! Truly, thank you!'

'It's what I should do,' Shen Mingyuan replied with a slight nod.

At that moment, Wang Yuan suddenly remembered something. He wriggled out of his parents' embrace, reached into the inner pocket of his new clothes, and carefully pulled out the dark silver watch with the faint blue breathing light that he had kept hidden close to his body. Holding it with both hands, he presented it to Shen Mingyuan:

'Brother Shen, this... this is what I found by the river. It's very special. I... I want to give it to you. Thank you for finding me.'

Shen Mingyuan looked into The boy's clear eyes, then down at the peculiarly shaped watch. A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes. He accepted it solemnly.

'Thank you for the gift, Wang Yuan. I will take good care of it.'