Chapter 48: Lin Shiyao

Jiang Yuxin stood frozen at the doorway, the room’s stench and filth clawing at her senses.
Her mysophobia screamed to obliterate the place—use Yin Qingle’s power to erase it entirely—but she restrained herself.
Clues might hide in the decay.

“Go in,” she ordered, her voice cold, like sending others into a trap.

Chen Dongyang and Yin Xiran exchanged a glance, steeling themselves before stepping inside, careful not to touch the mess.
Yin Qingle followed, her face twisted in disgust.
Jiang Yuxin entered last, each step deliberate, as if navigating a minefield.

The room was chaos—takeout boxes, beer cans, scattered sheet music, tangled wires.
“It’s too messy,” Chen Dongyang said, frowning as his flashlight swept the clutter.
“We’ll never find anything like this.”

“Who said we’re using our hands?” Yin Xiran scoffed, stepping to the room’s center.
She raised a finger.
“Watch out.”

An invisible force erupted from her.
Beer cans, boxes, and papers lifted, sorted, and stacked neatly in a corner.
Sheet music aligned by page number on the keyboard; wires untangled, coiling onto wall hooks.

Chen Dongyang gaped, awed at her precision.
Yin Qingle stared, amazed by her sister’s power.
Jiang Yuxin watched coolly, calculating Yin Xiran’s limits.
No apparent cap on simultaneous control—impressive.

With another flick, Yin Xiran opened a wardrobe and drawers, their contents floating for inspection.

“So efficient,” Chen Dongyang marveled.

“Less talk, more searching,” Yin Xiran snapped.

Her ability made the search lightning-fast, but the room yielded little beyond proof of its owner’s slovenly habits.

“Maybe we’re wrong,” Chen Dongyang said, deflated.
“Maybe this was his old studio, long abandoned.”

“Impossible,” Jiang Yuxin said sharply.
“He used this address’s email to register a forum account three days ago. There’s something here.”

Her eyes landed on the single bed.

Yin Xiran nodded, lifting the mattress and filthy quilt with ease, revealing mismatched floorboards beneath.
With a hook of her finger, the boards rose, exposing a hidden compartment with a locked iron box.

Excitement flickered through the group.
Yin Xiran snapped the lock, and Chen Dongyang opened the box.

No weapons or evidence—just yellowed photos and old diaries.

They huddled around, Chen Dongyang flipping through the photos under his phone’s light.
The top image was familiar: a choir, young faces beaming under stage lights, seen before in the school and Yin Xiran’s office.

“He’s tied to the choir,” Chen Dongyang whispered.

More photos showed rehearsals, often featuring a young man with gold-rimmed glasses and a ponytailed girl.
He guided her at the piano or explained music, his smile warm.
She looked focused, occasionally gazing at him with admiration.

“Young Zhao Haoyu,” Yin Xiran said.

“And the girl…” Chen Dongyang’s stomach twisted.
“The one in the wall?”

“Likely,” Jiang Yuxin confirmed, her voice flat.

Chen Dongyang set the photos aside and opened a diary.
On the title page, in elegant script: Lin Shiyao.