At six in the morning on August 10, Year 243 of the Newland Calendar, Iwasaki Shun was found dead in his cell.
According to the guards on duty that day, they had been making morning rounds with breakfast when they noticed no movement from Iwasaki's cell. They opened the door and found him hanging: a bedsheet twisted into a rope was looped around his neck, the other end tied to the middle rail of the upper bunk. Several guards rushed in, clumsily cutting him down while someone called an ambulance. Chaos ensued. Iwasaki was taken to the hospital but was soon pronounced dead.
The autopsy report showed three fractures in Iwasaki's neck—one in the left hyoid bone, and two in the thyroid cartilage. Several senior forensic experts noted they had never seen a suicide by hanging cause three cervical fractures; it was a clear sign of homicide. Yet five days later, the chief medical examiner of Jinshui City submitted his report, still ruling the cause of death as “self-strangulation by hanging.”
The police ultimately accepted the “suicide” conclusion, on the grounds that Iwasaki had been alone in his cell block the entire night. The ruling sparked an explosive public outcry. Even President Zhao Wenlong reposted a social media post alleging that Iwasaki's death was definitely connected to former President Huayue and his wife. Conspiracy theories flooded the airwaves, drowning the official “suicide” verdict in a sea of speculation.
Because Chen Li had participated in Iwasaki's arrest, he was also invited to the internal police briefing. Before the meeting began, Chief Zhou Guoliang brought in two young men. One of them Chen Li recognized—his international fellow student at Jinshui University, Takagi Daisuke, son of the Kanto Embassy's military attache. Takagi greeted him cheerfully: “You're a cop now?”
“Still a trainee, learning the ropes. I'll join officially after graduation.” Chen Li looked from Takagi to the other young man, puzzled. “This briefing is confidential, isn't it? Who's that?”
“His name is Asami Mitsuhide. A detective.”
“A detective? From Kanto?”
Takagi nodded. “Iwasaki held dual citizenship in Newland and Kanto, so his case and death involve diplomatic issues. Especially since the surveillance camera in his cell block malfunctioned the night he died—everyone's saying he was 'suicided.' Our government has lodged a formal protest and authorized Asami to conduct an independent investigation.”
“Still, you can't let outsiders sit in on our internal meeting, can you?”
Takagi scooted his chair closer to Chen Li, grinning slyly. “Asami's father is the Police Minister. He's just here playing detective games.”
Chen Li frowned, staring at Asami for a long moment, then finally said: “Detective games?”
“Yeah,” Takagi sighed, brushing dust off his sleeve. “I'm just the NPC accompanying him.” Seeing Chen Li's still-pained expression, Takagi laughed. “Don't worry—we won't leak anything confidential.”
A Kantoese national investigating a Newland case made Chen Li uneasy, especially with that “game” attitude. He gave Takagi a perfunctory reply and turned his attention back to the briefing.
“According to the forensic estimate,” the presenter said, “Iwasaki's actual time of death was between ten p.m. on August 9 and two a.m. on August 10. Cause of death was asphyxiation by ligature strangulation—but the weapon was not the bedsheet found around his neck, as the ligature marks do not match the sheet's texture.” Asami produced a forensic report, not from the Jinshui Medical Examiner's Office, but written by another forensic pathologist who had observed the autopsy. Strictly speaking, it carried no legal weight.
“All in all,” Asami continued, “I see five major issues in the Iwasaki case. First, the three neck fractures—a dangerous red flag that forces us to question the 'suicide' ruling. Second, the sheet found at the scene was not the actual weapon; the ligature has not been recovered. Third, the chief medical examiner who signed off on the suicide ruling did not even attend the autopsy that day. Fourth, the guards contaminated the scene when they discovered the body. Fifth, the official time of death has still not been released. Given all this, I believe it is far too early to close the case.”
Asami spoke with animated enthusiasm while the police officers around him sweated nervously. Finally, Chief Zhou Guoliang stepped in. After a moment's thought, he said to Asami: “The Iwasaki case is highly complex and involves many interests. Your concerns are valid. However, we based our conclusion on the forensic report, and on professional matters we must trust expert judgment. That said, I received a call from higher-ups this morning instructing us to coordinate your work in Newland. So here's what we'll do: we'll hold the conclusion in abeyance, and if your investigation yields new evidence, we'll follow up accordingly. As for your work here, we'll cooperate. Let's have… Chen, you'll assist Mr. Asami's investigation.”
Chen Li had been half-distracted, idly scrolling through a news article Takagi had sent him about a military infectious disease research facility being shut down. Startled by the chief's call, he looked up in bewilderment at Zhou Guoliang, who merely gave him an impassive nod. Reluctantly, he accepted the assignment.
After the meeting, Takagi formally introduced Chen Li to Asami Mitsuhide. When Asami learned that Chen Li was still a JSU student, he looked incredulous. “Jinshui University is Newland's best, isn't it? And you're studying law—why become a policeman?”
Takagi laughed. “He's no ordinary cop—he's a rising star in Newland!”
Chen Li demurred modestly. “That's an exaggeration. Policing is more about career development.”
Takagi nodded knowingly and told Asami: “You see, Newland is taking the Iwasaki case quite seriously.”
Chen Li picked up the thread: “So, Mr. Asami, where do you plan to start your investigation?”
“One can never visit the scene too many times. I'll start with the cell where Iwasaki died.”
After his arrest, Iwasaki had been held at the Jinshui Metropolitan Correctional Center, a high-security prison with strict supervision. He was housed in a special cell with extra security measures, originally with a cellmate, but the day before his death that inmate had been transferred to another cell.
The special cell was a standard double-occupancy room: a metal bunk bed, a table, two chairs, a sink, and a toilet. It had already been cleaned, so Asami had to work from the crime-scene photographs. The floor in the photos was littered with orange sheets; one of them, twisted into a rope, was tied to the middle rail of the upper bunk. Asami compared the rail's height and muttered: “This seems a bit low, doesn't it?”
He had Chen Li stand in front of the bunk and took a photo, then used AI software on his phone to generate a 3D reconstruction of the scene. In the simulation, Iwasaki, standing upright, was about the same height as the rail. Asami pointed it out: “Iwasaki was nearly 1.8 meters tall. Even accounting for the rope's length, the knot point would be above the rail—how did he hang himself?”
Chen Li tilted the simulated figure forward so the rope went taut. He explained: “Mr. Asami, in forensic medicine there's a term called 'incomplete suspension'—cases where the victim's feet don't leave the ground but death occurs by strangulation. Because only about seventeen kilograms of pressure are needed to close off all the neck vessels, and an adult obviously weighs more than that, hanging can occur from standing, kneeling, sitting, or even lying positions.”
Asami gave an awkward laugh. He then pointed to the scattered sheets in the photo and asked: “Why were there so many sheets on the floor?”
Chen Li said he didn't know—the guards on duty might be able to answer. But the guards gave a uniform response: “It was a clerical error. We changed Iwasaki's sheets that day and forgot to remove the old ones.” They were clearly annoyed by the repeated questioning and gave Asami evasive answers when he pressed about “any unusual activity during the night patrol.”
When Asami requested the surveillance footage from that night, the prison director said that on August 9, four of the five cameras in the cell block had malfunctioned. The only working camera, at the block entrance, had poor resolution and showed only an orange figure walking up the stairs around ten p.m. The prison claimed it was “a guard carrying the inmate's bed linens upstairs.” But after watching the clip several times, Asami challenged that: “That clearly looks like an inmate in an orange jumpsuit!”
Chen Li added: “Transferring an inmate at ten p.m. seems unusual, doesn't it?”
The prison was noncommittal, insisting it was a guard and noting that Iwasaki had indeed requested fresh sheets that day. According to patrol logs, the cell block was supposed to be checked every thirty minutes. But Asami cross-referenced the timestamps with the footage and found that after 11 p.m., no guard had entered the block at all. Faced with the evidence, the guards on duty admitted they had falsified the logs—one had been working five straight days of overtime, the other had been on duty for twenty-four hours straight, so both had slept through their shifts and never made the required half-hour checks.
With this breakthrough, the guards disclosed another previously unreported detail: at one a.m. on July 23, Iwasaki had been found lying on his cell floor with a neck injury, semi-conscious, and was hospitalized. His cellmate at the time claimed to know nothing. After that, the prison placed him under additional suicide-watch measures and gave him another cellmate—but those measures were lifted on the morning of August 9, and his cellmate was transferred to another facility the same day.
Asami was dumbfounded. He finally managed to say: “Are you insulting our intelligence?” But there was more to come. After Iwasaki's body was discovered, chaos erupted. Someone called an ambulance, so the body was first taken to the hospital, declared dead, and then returned to the prison. During that interval, reporters had gathered outside the prison. The guards pulled a “Trojan horse” trick: they arranged a box and a sheet into a human shape and loaded it onto the medical examiner's van, leading reporters to follow that vehicle, while the real body was taken away in a separate car.
“Asami spent most of his time at the scene—Iwasaki's cell. He examined the site, took photos, and used AI to create a 3D reconstruction of how the body was found. Then he reviewed the surveillance footage—most cameras failed that day; the one working showed an orange figure entering the block. He interviewed the guards, learned that Iwasaki's cellmate had been transferred on the morning of the ninth, and that the night-shift guards had skipped their rounds. They claimed they were sleeping and missed their patrols. Also, the prison used a fake body to mislead the press after Iwasaki's death.”
Back in the Jinshui Police Chief's office, Chen Li reported Asami's activities to Zhou Guoliang. Zhou listened, rubbing his forehead, then stood up, paced around his desk several times, finally lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and grabbed a folder from his desk to hand to Chen Li.
“Asami's investigation report?” Chen Li didn't need to read it to know what the Kantoese detective had written. Skimming it quickly, his eyes stopped at the final conclusion: In summary, Iwasaki Shun's actual time of death was between 11 p.m. on August 9 and 2 a.m. on August 10. He was strangled to death in his cell, and the scene was staged to look like suicide.
“Chen, what do you think?”
“The case is full of suspicious coincidences,” Chen Li said after a moment's thought. “And the prison's actions are inexplicable on many levels.”
Zhou sighed. “The kid's right—it's an insult to common sense.” He shook his head. “But the decision came from the top. Iwasaki must be a suicide.”
Chen Li smiled. “Otherwise, a lot of people would lose sleep.”
“Exactly. The Justice Department has already been alerted—directly ordered by the president. Once they take over, we'll be sidelined, just doing grunt work and making arrests.” Zhou lit another cigarette, smoked half of it in silence, then said to Chen Li: “In any case, this report has to be buried for now. But we need to keep Asami placated so he doesn't go public. He's been asking to access our database for Iwasaki's files; I initially refused, but he got the embassy to pressure us diplomatically. Now that Zhao Wenlong has brought in the Justice Department, I think we can let Asami look. On one hand, it shows we're cooperating; on the other, whatever he finds could be used to take the Civic Party down a peg.”
Chen Li pondered for a moment, then said: “Chief, the Iwasaki case has already caused an uproar; it won't be wrapped up easily. I think we should focus on two things. First, apprehend Iwasaki's accomplices as soon as possible—that gives the public and the media something, and it also keeps the judicial process moving. Second, locate and protect the anonymous witness associated with the case to prevent any 'accidents.' Neither of these directly involves Iwasaki himself, so we can sidestep the Justice Department. I'm especially interested in a student group called the 'October Society' at Jinshui University—they published the Herald report, and they know a new witness, but they've refused to let us interview her because they don't trust the police.”
“Jinshui University? That's your school, isn't it?”
“Yes. Since we're all JSU students, they might be less guarded with me. It should be easier to confirm the witness's identity.”
Zhou nodded repeatedly. “Good thinking. Like father, like son!”
