The living room was brightly lit.  
On the floor lay a corpse, covered in multiple stab wounds, drenched in blood that had already congealed on the tiles, preserving the exact scene of the crime.

The room’s furnishings were ordinary—television, media console, sectional sofa, glass coffee table, refrigerator, floor-standing air conditioner—but now nearly every piece of furniture and appliance had suffered some degree of damage.

That in itself wasn’t unusual, except that according to the forensic experts on-site, the nature of the damage was baffling.

For instance, the flat-screen TV bore not only several slash marks from a blade, but most strikingly, a deep indentation—clearly made by a powerful palm strike. The force had been so intense it punched straight through the display screen, leaving a slightly cracked palm-shaped imprint on the wall behind it. That was exactly how the experts quickly identified it as a palm strike.

Who could deliver a blow strong enough to shatter a monitor and leave a mark on the wall behind?  
Was this even humanly possible?

Further evidence throughout the scene indicated an intense, violent struggle: one combatant armed with a knife, the other bare-handed. The sofa had been slashed to shreds and overturned, torn apart into a chaotic mix of wood frames, springs, and fabric. The air conditioner lay toppled against the wall, snapped cleanly in half with only a sliver of casing still connecting the pieces. The refrigerator door was dented in multiple places, also bearing knife marks. And the glass coffee table lay shattered across the floor.

The fight had been ferocious—otherwise, the destruction wouldn’t have been so thorough.

The apartment followed a standard two-bedroom, one-living-room layout, covering roughly eighty square meters.

Several officers were scattered around the scene, meticulously searching for clues and traces. One officer was busy snapping photographs to document every detail. A forensic examiner knelt beside the corpse, carefully unbuttoning the victim’s shirt to inspect his injuries. Dozens of cuts—long and short—covered his body, but none appeared immediately fatal. More notably, two dark, ink-black palm prints stood out: one on his lower waist, another just below his abdomen.

When the examiner pressed lightly on the prints with a finger, he was startled—the skin felt hollow underneath, as if the flesh beneath had simply vanished, leaving only a thin membrane stretched over emptiness.

Baffled, the forensic expert began a more thorough investigation.

Near the doorway of one bedroom, an officer named Bai Qi stood watching quietly. When the examiner discovered the strange palm imprints, Bai Qi’s brows furrowed slightly. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: *Iron Palm?*

Just then, a voice called out, “Xiao Qi! Find anything?”

He turned to see Captain Hu Lang of the Criminal Investigation Unit approaching.

“Nothing,” Bai Qi shook his head.

“Nothing? Then why the hell were you standing there looking so thoughtful?” Hu Lang huffed. “I thought you’d spotted something!”

Bai Qi just chuckled and turned to resume his search—only to be called back again as Hu Lang suddenly had an idea. “Hey, Xiao Qi! You’re always reading those martial arts novels and obsessing over old-school kung fu styles, right? Take a look—what do you make of these palm prints? Any special origin?”

He pointed toward the body. The forensic examiner had already briefed him: the prints appeared superficial, but the tissue underneath had been reduced to pulp.

Clearly, no ordinary person could do this.

Bai Qi raised an eyebrow, surprised but intrigued. He walked over and crouched beside the corpse. After a quick glance, he said, “Captain, if I told you this was ‘Iron Palm,’ would you believe me?”

“Oh? Go on,” Hu Lang replied, neither confirming nor denying belief—just nodding for him to continue.

“Iron Palm is a type of iron-body conditioning martial art,” Bai Qi explained, gesturing to the imprints. “The killer must be a master of Iron Palm, with highly refined internal power. A single strike can leave the skin intact while pulverizing internal organs and intestines with focused internal force.”

“So he died from these two palm strikes?” The forensic examiner looked at Bai Qi as if he’d lost his mind.

“Yes,” Bai Qi nodded.

“Then why stab him through the heart? That’d be redundant,” the examiner retorted.

Bai Qi frowned, his eyes shifting to the victim’s chest. Then his gaze caught something—an elongated tattoo extending outward from the stab wound. His eyebrows shot up. “Get something to wipe away the blood around the heart.”

The examiner glanced at Captain Hu Lang, who paused briefly before nodding assent.

The examiner pulled out a clean tissue from his kit and carefully wiped away the congealed blood on the victim’s chest.

Once cleaned, a distinct tattoo became clearly visible beneath the wound.

“A tattoo?” Hu Lang leaned in, now intrigued, crouching down for a closer look.

“Looks like… a snake?” the examiner ventured—though he wasn’t entirely sure. The “snake” seemed to be composed entirely of bones, lacking any flesh. Its head sat right at the puncture site, now obscured by torn, bloodied tissue.

While Hu Lang and the examiner puzzled over it, Bai Qi’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the symbol—but he said nothing.

“Could this be a unique gang emblem?” the examiner suddenly suggested.

“Possible,” Hu Lang agreed. “Xiao Lin! Come take photos!”

“Yes, sir!” Officer Xiao Lin hurried over with his camera and began snapping the tattoo from every angle.

Once the photos were taken, the team stepped aside. There was much more to investigate. Standard procedure called for immediately reviewing the city’s surveillance network—the omnipresent “Sky Net” cameras that usually caught every suspicious movement.

But oddly, although all nearby cameras were fully functional, none captured any clearly suspicious figures. The only relevant footage showed a man wearing a mask running out of the residential complex in the dead of night—precisely around the estimated time of the murder.

Not long after that, someone called the police to report a homicide at Mingzhu Residential Complex.

Investigators quickly traced the call to a young woman—and soon after, tracked down Shen Hao.

When Shen Hao opened his door to find two officers—a man and a woman—standing outside, he wasn’t entirely surprised, though he hadn’t expected the police to arrive so quickly the next afternoon.

“Hello, can I help you?” he asked politely, stepping aside to let them in. He moved toward the kitchen to make tea, but the officers stopped him, so he simply sat down on the sofa.

“My name is Bai Qi, and this is Li Xuan,” the male officer introduced himself. “There was a homicide in your building. You’re aware of it?”

“Yes,” Shen Hao nodded—then, without waiting for further questioning, added honestly, “I saw the killer’s face.”

“Oh?” Both officers looked surprised by his straightforwardness.

“Good,” Bai Qi said with satisfaction. “Can you describe the suspect in detail?”

“Give me a moment.” Shen Hao stood, returned to his room, and came back holding a sketch. He placed it on the coffee table. “This is him.”

The drawing depicted a man in his thirties: prominent brow ridge, short beard and hair, cold eyes. Alongside the face, Shen Hao had also sketched the man’s build and clothing—thick, muscular arms and unusually large, thick palms.

All based on the fleeting glimpse Shen Hao had caught that night.

Bai Qi and Li Xuan exchanged glances, clearly impressed.

“You were prepared,” Bai Qi said with a smile. “Then why didn’t you report to the station yourself?”

“I saw him—but he also saw me,” Shen Hao explained. Except for the inexplicable circumstances of how he’d stumbled upon the murder, he had nothing to hide. In fact, he wanted to provide as much accurate information as possible to help catch the killer quickly.

“So you didn’t go to the police for your own safety?” Bai Qi asked.

“Exactly,” Shen Hao nodded. “I was wearing a mask, so my face was covered—but I can’t be sure he didn’t recognize me by something else.”

Bai Qi nodded, signaled Li Xuan to take the sketch, and stood. “That’s all for now. Thank you for your cooperation. If you feel threatened, contact us immediately.”

They’d barely sat down—and already they were leaving? Li Xuan was visibly puzzled, but she glanced at Bai Qi and said nothing, simply following him out.

Shen Hao, too, was surprised. He’d expected a lengthy interrogation, yet they left after just receiving the sketch—far from standard procedure. Still, he wasn’t about to ask why. Though he’d prepared multiple alibis, lying directly to officers always carried risk. Their lack of follow-up questions was a relief.

He walked them to the door and watched as they entered the elevator before closing it behind him.

...

“Xiao Qi, we barely asked him anything! Why are we leaving already?” Li Xuan finally spoke once they were alone in the elevator.

Standard protocol demanded they ask where and how Shen Hao encountered the killer, plus many other critical details—certainly not just accept a sketch and walk away.

“No need. Let’s go,” Bai Qi said flatly. He glanced back at the building they’d just left, then turned and strode toward the residential gate.

Li Xuan had no choice but to follow.

Bai Qi had only recently been transferred to this district, and his secretive, unconventional methods were already well-known among the officers. Many had filed complaints—but strangely, every one vanished without a trace. No reprimands, no inquiries—just silence from above.

Given that, even though his approach defied protocol, Li Xuan knew better than to press further. She’d just need to file a minimal report back at headquarters. Probably wouldn’t even raise eyebrows.