Chapter 17: The Mystery of the Notebook

At 6:50, Zhang Shutong was promptly awakened by his alarm clock.

He opened his eyes.

It was an unfamiliar ceiling.

His heart skipped a beat. He lay still for a moment before realizing where he was.

He had truly returned to eight years ago; this was not a dream.

It completely wiped away any sleepiness.

What does someone who has returned from eight years in the future do first upon waking?

Zhang Shutong thought it was to check his phone.

Not necessarily because someone had contacted him, but simply out of habit.

Squinting, he entered the password, somewhat missing the convenience of fingerprint unlocking. Yawning, he slipped on his slippers and padded out of the bedroom.

Only when he lit up the phone screen did he realize there was nothing interesting to see—no work messages, few entertainment apps—only QQ, with just a handful of friends.

A small group chat of four people had been chatting until past midnight.

Zhang Shutong then noticed the group’s rather immature name.

It was called “The Four.”

Hmm, it seemed he had named it himself.

Morning is when memory is sharpest; as he washed up, he recalled how the group name came about.

At first, Dukang wanted to call it “Fish Nest,” but Ruoping thought that sounded too rustic and vetoed it;

Then Qingyi suggested “Dragon Nest,” which would give each of the four members a title:

King of Bronze and Fire, King of Earth and Mountains, King of Ocean and Water, King of Sky and Wind—thus the group would be a gathering of heroes, perfectly balanced.

But all four monarchs were nearly extinct, which felt ominous, so Ruoping rejected that idea.

In the end, Zhang Shutong himself came up with a compromise name, and everyone unanimously approved.

He glanced casually through the chat history, losing track of the conversation’s direction. In the end, only Dukang was sending panda emojis. Zhang felt there was no substance to it and was too lazy to scroll further, so he began washing his face.

The mirror reflected Zhang’s sharply defined face—a broad forehead, a straight nose, thin lips. The only flaw was a lack of expression. Zhang used to not understand why he preferred to keep a cold face, but after spending an evening with Lu Qinglian, he suddenly got it. He tried to raise his eyebrows in the mirror, which gave a haughty air, making him seem even less approachable, so he gave up.

He had not always been this way as a child.

When Zhang was young, he looked like a girl. His mother’s favorite thing was to pinch his cheeks, calling him “Tongtong.” He once had a bright red Mickey Mouse hat with two ears. His mother nodded approvingly at the fitting room mirror in the mall, but Zhang tugged at her hand, staring longingly at a nearby Ultraman hat.

But to be an Ultraman, you had to believe in the light. His mother solemnly told him he didn’t meet the criteria yet and needed to grow a few more years. Zhang believed her and waited until his teens, after which he never asked for her opinion on clothes again.

He also recalled Dukang saying he always liked to wear black clothes. He thought about it and found it true—in fact, he had been so harshly treated as a child that his wardrobe held no bright colors at all.

Zhang felt his mother was a very refined person—not vain, but living life with finesse. For example, she made him eat an egg every day, chew slowly, drink only warm water... These habits left subtle imprints on him, like a stake holding a sapling straight. But that stake couldn’t stay forever, and later he bent again.

He washed his face without cleanser, using only soap. Apart from a bit of dryness, it was fine. After drying his face, Zhang stared at a bottle of almond honey beside the sink for a moment.

Over the years, he had tried to find a symbolic marker of growing from boy to man but felt no single thing was convincing enough. Now he thought he had found it: as a boy, he would never have spared a second glance at anything resembling skincare products; even washing his face an extra minute was a favor to his skin.

But now, he poured some almond honey into his palm, rubbed it on his face, and instantly felt fragrant all over, a little wistful.

Why had this day come for him as well?

Still, he had to visit the restricted area this morning. Without applying something, the wind would dry and crack his skin as soon as he stepped outside.

Time was tight but not rushed. Ten minutes were enough to tidy up and dress. Just before leaving, he remembered something and hurried back to his desk, opening a drawer.

The desk was cluttered with comics, books, crayons, even Yu-Gi-Oh cards, but Lu Qinglian’s notebook was missing. That meant it had to be at school. He dashed out, ran down the stairs, and rode his bicycle towards the restricted area.

He had eaten the steamed bun last night, so breakfast would have to be on the road.

—Fish fillet sandwich, perhaps a specialty of the island, since Zhang never saw it anywhere else. The fish fillet, coated with steamed bun crumbs, was fried golden along with some deep-fried vegetables and tofu. The sandwich had a black sauce spread inside, only half full, but the truly unique touch was a salted duck egg yolk, crushed and tucked inside.

Light red in color, with a sandy texture, like a sauce but not quite a sauce, biting into it was oily and rich, with a distinctive aroma. The island was known not only for fish and shrimp but also for mallard ducks—salted duck eggs were a specialty too. When they were in eighth grade, they studied Wang Zengqi’s “Dragon Boat Festival Ducks.” Maybe kids elsewhere drooled over it, but island kids never found it special.

The morning air was filled with a faint white mist, steam rising from the surrounding lake after a night’s rest. It was refreshing, though the cold stung his nose painfully.

So today he wore a scarf—black, of course. He didn’t remember how many times he hadn’t worn one. It itched a little around his neck. After finishing the sandwich at a small cart, Zhang continued on his way, the bustling voices quickly fading behind him.

When no signs of humanity remained, he arrived at his destination.

The fog around the restricted area was even thicker, a vast white expanse. The sky was high and clear, the surroundings wide open, with reeds gently swaying in the wind. He approached the lakeshore and saw his fishing line still neatly tied there.

Zhang now doubted Dukang’s words—not because they lacked credibility, but who had the fishermen actually seen a few days before the incident?

The killer? Or were they just the two poachers?

The bald man had an electric fishing net on him. Perhaps the restricted area had been electrofished in recent days?

Had the killer even been to the restricted area?

This clue was far from enough, and beyond that, there were no other worthy leads.

If he could return eight years later, he would definitely use the internet to investigate properly. For this murder case, that was the only place Zhang Shutong felt the “future” was more useful than the “past.”

He would have to wait until after school today.

Pondering this, he pedaled back. At 7:25, Zhang arrived punctually at the school gate and reluctantly squeezed the brakes.

The school gate was quite small—not because he disliked his alma mater. As the saying goes, a son does not disdain his mother’s looks, a dog does not despise its humble home, and a black Audi never complains about blocking the road—

A black car was blocking the entrance.

A girl with a red scarf stepped out of the car, a pendant at her hair’s end swinging slightly.

It was 7:25 in the morning, the second day after the time reversal.

The youth stopped his bike and waited for the young lady to get off, unaware of what awaited him back in class.

Had he known, he certainly would not have worn a black scarf that day.