Chapter Nine: The Perfect Deception

When Zhao Zhijie and Li Weiwei returned to the room once more, both wore heavy expressions. Under the gaze of the others, Zhao Zhijie spoke, “We’ve just completed the data recovery. The nature of Li Mengyao’s contact with the deceased over the past year is now more or less clear.” He glanced at Qiu Zhiyong, hesitant to continue.

“Go ahead, say everything you know,” Qiu Zhiyong urged.

Zhao Zhijie looked at Hai Feng, who nodded in encouragement. Zhao Zhijie nudged Li Weiwei, “Li Weiwei, you explain.”

Li Weiwei’s face was full of sorrow as she began, “Huang Guan and Li Mengyao met a year ago while playing ‘League of Kings.’ They quickly bonded, and Li Mengyao’s stories of her own misfortunes evoked a sense of shared suffering in Huang Guan. He saw her as his soulmate.”

She paused, then continued, “After getting close, Li Mengyao invited Huang Guan to play a game called ‘Groundless Accusations.’ It’s a pay-to-win game, much more expensive than any others out there. But for Huang Guan, gaming with Li Mengyao brought him so much joy that he was willing to spend recklessly. He exhausted the money his family gave him, then worked part-time to earn more, and when that was gone, he borrowed from classmates and friends. Whenever Li Mengyao called him to play, no matter how busy or tired, he’d be at his computer on time.”

Hai Feng was astonished by Li Weiwei’s account; he couldn’t reconcile the sensible Huang Guan he knew with someone so bewitched by a stranger.

Li Weiwei went on, “Li Mengyao and Huang Guan were not just gaming partners—they developed an online relationship, calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend. They added each other on ‘MegaChat,’ messaged constantly, and exchanged photos. But whenever Huang Guan wanted to meet in person, Li Mengyao always found excuses to refuse.”

“Li Mengyao would regularly persuade Qiu Feng to top up in-game purchases for her and often asked Huang Guan for money. Huang Guan seemed possessed, agreeing to her every request, until he was completely penniless. Even then, Li Mengyao wasn’t satisfied—she introduced him to online lending platforms, encouraging him to take out loans to buy her things.”

She paused again before continuing, “Shortly before Huang Guan’s suicide, Li Mengyao claimed her father was hospitalized with a severe illness and urgently needed twenty thousand yuan. She said her family’s money was tied up in a construction project and wouldn’t be available for two weeks, so she begged Huang Guan to lend it to her.”

“Huang Guan was frantic, desperate to help her but unable to ask his mother for the sum. So he borrowed twenty thousand yuan from the online loan services Li Mengyao had recommended and transferred it to her.”

“He thought this would help Li Mengyao through her immediate crisis, and she promised to repay him, principal and interest, in two weeks. But once she got the money, Li Mengyao vanished, never contacting him again. Huang Guan couldn’t reach her, couldn’t recover his money, his studies suffered, he didn’t finish his thesis, and wouldn’t receive his diploma. He saw no way out, felt he couldn’t face his mother, and ultimately chose suicide.”

“First, she used the Aronsen effect to lure him in, followed by the Matthew effect to draw him in deeper, and finally reaped the rewards with the Barnum effect. When nothing more could be gained, she disappeared. The scam lasted a year; Huang Guan encountered a true con artist,” Li Mengyang added, picking up where Li Weiwei left off.

Seeing the others’ puzzled faces, Hai Feng turned to Li Mengyang, “Can you explain what you just said?”

Li Mengyang nodded, “These are basic psychological effects. The Aronsen effect is about reinforcing the victim’s behavior with spiritual rewards, encouraging them to do what the perpetrator wants—like spending a little money in the game to express affection and getting reciprocation, making the victim more willing to spend. The Matthew effect means that the more the victim invests, the more they’re willing to continue investing. The Barnum effect is when the perpetrator suggests that money equates to love, tricking the victim into giving them money. These aren’t textbook definitions, but I think they help clarify the victim’s mindset in this case.”

With Li Mengyang’s explanation, Hai Feng understood how Huang Guan had become lost in the scam. After a moment’s thought, he asked Li Weiwei, “Did you recover any of Li Mengyao’s photos? Any specific information about her? Which company developed that game? Do you have any company details? How did Huang Guan transfer her money—are there records?”

Li Weiwei was overwhelmed by the barrage of questions and nudged Zhao Zhijie, “You answer.”

Zhao Zhijie replied, “We did find the photos Li Mengyao sent Huang Guan, but they’re all candid shots of an obscure foreign actress, definitely not Li Mengyao herself. She told Huang Guan she was a student at Tanghua University, but we contacted their administration and there’s never been a student by that name.”

He looked at Hai Feng and continued, “We also checked the supposed developer of the game, but there’s no registration—likely fake as well. All the money transfers between Huang Guan and Li Mengyao were through online payment platforms. If we want to trace them, we’ll need to go through the payment companies.”

Zhang Mufeng interjected, “Even if we check, the money’s probably already laundered. We won’t find anything, right?”

Zhao Zhijie nodded, addressing the group, “This is the usual tactic with online scams. It’s almost impossible to trace the money. Traditional investigation methods are powerless here.”

Hearing Li Weiwei and Zhao Zhijie’s account, Qiu Zhiyong felt even more miserable. He hadn’t imagined Huang Guan had suffered so much over the past year, and he felt he had let Huang Jifeng down. What hurt most was that, despite his years of experience, he couldn’t even identify the true culprit. Was Li Mengyao really going to get away with this?

Hai Feng, seeing Qiu Zhiyong hang his head in silence, felt a pang of sorrow himself. Clinging to a sliver of hope, he asked Zhao Zhijie, “You’re an expert in digital forensics. There must be clues to find this Li Mengyao, right?”

Zhao Zhijie nodded, “Analyzing the game, I found information about the server. We can pinpoint its location. As for Li Mengyao’s and the game company’s information, there will definitely be clues on the server.”

“Where is the server?” Hai Feng pressed.

“In Qingdong City,” Zhao Zhijie answered.

“Understood. Then we go to Qingdong City first—to find Li Mengyao and the company behind this game,” Hai Feng declared. He turned to Qiu Zhiyong, awaiting his decision.

Qiu Zhiyong sighed deeply, “So be it. Today’s meeting ends here. There’s nothing more I can do to help. The rest is up to you.”

After the meeting, Qiu Zhiyong stopped Hai Feng and Liu Zhiyang, asking them to walk with him.

The three middle-aged men strolled across the lush, grassy campus in silence. Qiu Zhiyong knew his two juniors were waiting for him to speak. Spotting a long bench ahead, he said, “Let’s sit for a bit.”

Seated at the edge of the field, gazing at the empty track, Qiu Zhiyong began, “I really am getting old, I just can’t keep up anymore. After all these years as a police officer, I never thought I’d be stumped by a simple fraud case. If not for you and the young people, I might never have found the real culprit. Who would’ve thought a lifetime of hard work would end up so futile—that I can’t even protect the orphan of a colleague who died in service?”

Hai Feng said, “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s not about age—it’s just a different era. In our day, there was no internet; cybercrime was unheard of. We handled traditional crimes—that was our specialty. You’ve solved so many cases and achieved so much. No one can deny your contributions.”

He shifted tone, “But when it comes to cybercrime, we’re all newcomers. We can’t compare to the younger generation. It’s not just you—Liu Zhiyang and I are outpaced by the times, too. We need these young people—they’re the future of the country.”

Qiu Zhiyong looked at his two juniors and continued, “Yes, times have changed so fast it’s hard to keep up. Back when I was investigating cases, finding suspects was easy—just show my badge, ask the neighbors, and I’d have a general idea. Worst case, round up the local troublemakers and question them one by one; someone always knew something.”

He paused, reminiscing, “Back then, the police badge carried so much weight—criminals didn’t dare act out. When they saw the police, they’d scatter like rats. I remember once bringing in seven or eight suspects with nothing but a rope. The community was my eyes and ears. If a crime was committed, I’d always find the culprit.”

He smiled at the memory, growing spirited. “Now it’s different—criminals are more cunning and better at evading capture. Cases are harder to crack. But that’s just progress—criminals evolve, and so do we. We have better tools, better training, and we still have the advantage. Most of all, we still have the ‘support of the people’—our greatest weapon!”

Hai Feng wholeheartedly agreed. He knew the difficulty of combating crime had increased—urban growth and higher living standards made criminal activity more mobile and hidden, adding pressure to law enforcement. Criminals’ awareness of counter-surveillance and legal loopholes had also improved, making investigations harder. Sometimes, he felt that some criminals were more diligent students than he was; many watched legal programs religiously, treating them as lessons in how to commit and escape crime.

At the same time, as law enforcement became more standardized, the deterrent power of police had diminished. Physical coercion was no longer an option, and reasoning with criminals was not always effective. This made finding evidence and obtaining confessions more challenging, while more effective methods had yet to be found.

Yet “relying on the people” remained an unquestionable asset. The public’s keen eyes often provided crucial tips, evidence, and even direct assistance in apprehending criminals—an invaluable aid to police work.

But Hai Feng also knew that not all crimes could be solved with the help of the community, and cybercrime was the prime example. Its secrecy and cross-regional nature meant that crimes committed in one place were often orchestrated from another, with only the victim aware of what had happened, making investigation even harder.

A trace of sadness crossed Qiu Zhiyong’s face as he continued, “But when it comes to these elusive cybercrimes, I feel more and more powerless—like I’m useless, with no idea what to do.”

His eyes reddened as he choked out, “Huang Guan died right in front of me; his life was just beginning, and now it’s over. I don’t know how to face Xu Ting, or Jifeng. Jifeng was a hero who died in the line of duty—we should have taken care of his family, protected them. And yet, I couldn’t even manage that.”

The night wind rustled the poplar leaves across the campus, their soft whispers lamenting a bleak existence. The bright moon hung high, casting its pale light over the black night, unable to warm the heart of a man past fifty. The campus, usually vibrant, was now deserted, steeped in desolation.

Liu Zhiyang, usually the most talkative, stood silent, listening. He wanted to comfort his senior, but didn’t know how. Looking at the old veteran before him, he saw not the authoritative deputy director of the police department, but a man overwhelmed by the realities of cybercrime.

He gazed at this lifelong adversary of crime, this former nemesis of evil who, in the end, could not win this battle. The cost of defeat was a life lost—a tragedy of a father burying his son.

Liu Zhiyang, too, felt lost. Was all their hard work over the years truly meaningful? As faithful servants of the law, they had fought crime for decades, yet it persisted. For every criminal sent to prison, another appeared; for every gang dismantled, another emerged. After so many years of toil, evil had not vanished from their beautiful land—it had only grown more cunning.

He didn’t understand why. Did it mean they hadn’t tried hard enough? They had sacrificed their youth, their health, time with their families. Why, then, were so many still willing to break the law, never to turn back? He simply could not fathom it.

Hai Feng, silent until now, patted Qiu Zhiyong’s shoulder. “You’ve already done so much. We’ve all given our best, but there will always be scoundrels who, for personal gain, disregard the lives of others, corroding the country like termites. As guardians of this nation, we have always stood our ground.”

He paused, then continued, “We have sacrificed our own happiness for the sake of the country’s. No family reunions during the holidays, no time to care for our children, no chance to grow old with our partners. But it’s because of us that so many others enjoy those very things. We truly have done our best. Xu Ting won’t blame you, and neither will Jifeng.”

Qiu Zhiyong looked at Hai Feng, puzzled by his junior’s unusual eloquence. He knew Hai Feng wanted to comfort him, but the sorrow remained. Facing cybercrime, the sense of helplessness wouldn’t go away. At this moment, all Qiu Zhiyong hoped was that his resolve hadn’t come too late.