Chapter 2: Chapter 1 : Preface

Author’s Preface

In mid-January of 2001, due to a worsening health condition, I was admitted to a hospital in downtown Kaohsiung to recuperate.

Kaohsiung is my birthplace, yet because of work, I had not returned for more than ten years. I still remember that after graduating from Sun Yat-sen University, driven by youthful ambition, I resolutely moved north alone to pursue my dreams. Now, as I was nearing forty—once a lowly errand boy running around a magazine office—years of training and baptism in the publishing world had turned me into a bestselling author earning four to five million a year.

My wife of over seven years urged me—persistently—to return to my hometown and rest completely. Her reasoning was that only by temporarily retreating to southern Taiwan could I escape the bomb-like information pressure that explodes daily in Taipei. But because she still had to take care of our two children and their schooling, she could not accompany me south to help with daily life during my stay in the hospital.

My stress was indeed overwhelming. Two years ago, after I published a prophetic novel discussing cross-strait relations, I suddenly became the focus of public attention. All kinds of media began frantically investigating the source of my material—digging to see whether it involved real national leaders or government officials. Like paparazzi, they tailed me everywhere, trying to discover hints of my hidden connections through my daily life.

To avoid unnecessary trouble, I decisively resigned from my job as an editor at a news weekly. The royalties from my first novel were enough to keep the family financially afloat even without work.

Confined at home, I decided to make a drastic change—no more political topics. I turned instead to writing soft, urban romance and erotic fiction. I had thought that would avoid controversy, but to my surprise, literary critics began assigning real-world identities to my characters, accusing me of using fiction to insinuate certain current cabinet members.

Even though I publicly denied it, the storm of baseless rumors only amplified my mixed reputation. Many people started inviting me to write, to lecture, and overnight I became a celebrated intellectual—a sharp new voice versed in all things past and present.

Enticed by fame and fortune, I gradually lost myself. As if wearing a polished mask every day, I kept saying things that went against my conscience and writing things that contradicted my true intent. In this double-layered existence, I alternated between anxiety and numbness.

And so, I fell ill. It was the inevitable recoil of a body crushed by pressure. The media eagerly speculated what hidden mysteries my next work might contain. This tormented me deeply, because I had no desire whatsoever to embed mysteries in my writing.

I only wanted to write simple stories—stories that readers would simply enjoy. No hidden metaphors, no veiled criticisms, no irresponsible slander, and certainly no attempt to chase fame.

With a heart exhausted and indignant, I completed my hospital admission procedures—and then I met Wu Jianxiang.

Wu Jianxiang, a police detective, was not assigned to the same ward as me, yet he became my daily companion during recuperation. Though younger than me by seven or eight years, his profession meant that since graduating from the police academy, he had been dealing with people from every walk of life. His extensive experience in criminal investigations fascinated me—I had never been close to anyone in law enforcement, so I enjoyed listening to him talk.

In truth, from the moment he introduced himself as a detective, I was intrigued. I freely admit that I hoped to find new writing material through him. I had never read detective fiction before and didn’t plan to in the future. My impression of the genre was no more than detectives, aided by police and sidekicks, going on adventures and catching criminals.

But facing a real detective with firsthand experience in solving crimes, I kept these shallow views to myself. From our conversations, I could easily tell that Wu Jianxiang was someone who loved his work—determined, persistent, and unwilling to let even the most cunning criminal escape.

“Xiao Wu, I feel that…”
About half a month into our friendship, during one of our chats, I couldn’t help saying, “Most killers in real life don’t even have the slightest imagination.”

“Imagination? For murder?”
Wu Jianxiang smiled.

“Of course. Otherwise they wouldn’t get caught so easily. The car theft, counterfeiting, and fraud cases you told me about—those criminals showed real creativity. They surprised—and almost impressed—me. But murderers? They usually act on impulse with no plan at all. A little pressure from the police and they confess immediately.”

“You’re not wrong,”
he nodded. “Murder is the most psychologically burdensome crime. After committing it, any slight slip in their unstable emotions gives them away.”

“Have you never encountered a killer who planned things meticulously and was impossible to break?”

“I have,”
he admitted, shaking his head, “but that case was handled by a junior colleague. I wasn’t directly involved. What I know is second-hand.”

“Can you tell me everything about that case?”
I asked, unable to hide the eagerness in my tone.

“I don’t know the details of the investigation,”
he replied. “I only remember the killer’s name.” Then he asked, “Is that enough for a novel?”

“Ah?”

“Brother Wang, I know you’re a writer. You’re hoping to get material from me.”

“Well… Yes,”
I said, embarrassed. “Xiao Wu, you don’t mind, right?”

“I don’t. But you’ve never really read detective novels… So why write one?”

I answered honestly, “Exactly—I know nothing about them. But I think if I can get a case from you—one with twists and turns—whatever I write from it should make a good detective story.”

“Not necessarily.”
He shook his head again. “Definitely not.”

“What do you mean?”
I was puzzled.

He didn’t answer directly. “You could write about theft or financial crimes instead.”

“But what interests me most is murder. Murder carries weight—emotional turmoil. Only such stories, I think, truly resonate with readers.”

“All right.”
Wu Jianxiang left the window and sat back down. “Brother Wang, you’ve seen this before, right?”

He took out a yellow-and-black chunk of solid material from beneath his pillow.

It was small—about the size of a finger—hard, rough-surfaced, with intricate patterns, like a stone unearthed from some foreign land.

At that moment, I suddenly remembered the other side of Wu Jianxiang—the mysterious one. By day he was perfectly normal: gentle, cheerful, with unique views on everything. That was why I enjoyed talking to him. But for some unknown reason, once night fell, he became silent and aloof. He wouldn’t even step outside for fresh air.

In those hours, it was as if he hung an invisible sign that read “Do Not Approach,” driving people back without a word.

I had no idea how he created such an atmosphere.

He would sit alone on his bed, head lowered, quietly turning that little stone in his hands. Even after the hospital’s lights-out, he showed no intention of sleeping. Once, needing to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I woke to find him sitting silently at the edge of my bed. I was startled and quickly asked what was wrong, but he said nothing—simply stood and left the room without a word.

I had long been curious about his behavior, but never found the right moment to ask. Unexpectedly, he brought up the strange stone himself.

“If you really want to write about a murder case,”
he said, holding the stone up to me, “I can tell you one I personally experienced. A very strange case—connected to this thing.”

“Really? That’s wonderful!”

“But,”
he added, “this case cannot be written as a detective story.”

“Cannot?”
I was completely baffled.

“No. It’s impossible for it to become a detective novel.”

“That’s okay, that’s okay… I don’t have to write detective fiction. As long as readers enjoy it, anything is fine.”
I felt like a child eagerly awaiting a Christmas present. Then a thought struck me, and I asked impulsively, “But wait—if it’s a murder case, why can’t it be written as a detective story?”