Before even seeing Charles Griffin in person, Samuel Lincoln already felt somewhat dispirited. “Whether he says it or not, I have to ask, I must ask.”

Henry Lincoln continued browsing information, sorting potentially useful articles into several categories and saving them in a separate folder—one of the things he was good at.

He worked straight through until dawn. When he took off his display glasses, he saw Samuel Lincoln asleep in a chair, the kitchen knife having fallen to the floor.

As Henry Lincoln stood up, Samuel Lincoln woke as well. The first thing he did was look for the knife, grabbing it and letting out a long breath. “I just had a nightmare... Did you find any leads?”

“The murder of the heir has had a huge impact. The Star Union has been putting pressure on the Zhaiwang Star Union Committee, demanding they quickly find the killer and the mastermind behind it.”

“Ridiculous. The barber was a citizen of our Zhaiwang Star. Him inheriting the planet was a great thing for Zhaiwang Star. His murder is obviously a conspiracy from other planets. How can the Star Union have the nerve to pressure Zhaiwang Star?”

“The situation is extremely complicated, and there’s too little relevant information. I haven’t figured much out either. There are tons of conspiracy theories online, all sounding plausible. Some have even guessed at spy weapons, but the conclusions are truly bizarre.”

“The killer still hasn’t been found?”

“No. The general speculation is that it was done by some extremist group.”

“That has nothing to do with us.”

“No.”

“And nothing to do with the Mei family or the Cui family either.”

“No.”

Samuel Lincoln put down the knife, raised his hand and rubbed his face hard for a while. “I’m about to become the dead spy that Third Uncle talked about, and die for no reason at all. What’s with that look in your eyes?”

Henry Lincoln had unconsciously been staring at Samuel Lincoln. Now he shifted his gaze slightly and chuckled. “I was thinking... maybe I’m overthinking it, but I do have a bold idea.”

“Go on, just say it. It’s not like you’re making a report. What’s there to hide between us?”

“According to the news online, the Star Union is still looking for a new planetary heir.”

“Didn’t they say the barber was the only descendant of the Shao family?”

“The barber was the only official descendant of the Shao family.”

“There are unofficial descendants? I’ve never heard that term before.”

“The Star Union is holding a council meeting next month. Rumor has it they’ll amend the inheritance law.”

“And then?”

“Interstellar orphans might be granted the right to inherit from blood relatives.”

“And then?”

“If you were targeted for assassination for the same reason as the barber...”

“Then I’d be the Shao family’s...”

A knock sounded at the door outside, and Samuel Lincoln was so startled he fell out of his chair.

Chapter 8: The Wastesea

“Rumors stop with the wise—ideally. In reality, rumors are only stopped by more rumors, and even the truth is buried under more rumors.” Third Uncle gently waggled his two fingers, though it was unclear which represented the ideal and which the reality. “A spy needs to distill information, but also to disrupt it. What we’re facing is a giant garbage dump—on one hand, you throw in a hundred, a thousand pieces of useless information; on the other, you hope to fish out the gold someone else carelessly tossed in. It’s a job that can easily drive you mad. You have to be prepared, have patience, not fear hardship or filth, and you need a cold heart.”

Henry Lincoln had just come out of the “giant garbage dump.” He preferred to call it the “wastesea”—too many baseless speculations, too much deliberate fakery. Valid information was often randomly drowned out, and even when you managed to fish something up, it might not be useful at all.

The sudden knocking outside startled Samuel Lincoln, and also pulled Henry Lincoln back from the edge of the “wastesea” to reality.

The two immediately took their positions, just like last night, guarding either side of the doorframe. Samuel Lincoln had already picked up the knife and nodded at Henry Lincoln.

“Who is it?” Henry Lincoln asked.

The knocking sounded twice more before someone replied, “Lao Qian.”

It was Charles Griffin’s voice. The two inside didn’t let down their guard. Henry Lincoln asked again, “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

Henry Lincoln quietly unlocked the door, opened it a crack, and only after confirming that Charles Griffin was indeed alone did he open it wider to let the guest in.

Samuel Lincoln kept holding the knife, standing against the wall. Even after the door was closed, he maintained this posture.

Charles Griffin looked around, then turned to face the knife-wielding Samuel Lincoln. He showed no sign of surprise or anger. “Mm, I already know. That’s why I’m here.”

Hearing this, Samuel Lincoln’s tension actually eased. He lowered his hand and tossed the knife onto the chair. “I was worried someone was following you.”

Charles Griffin smiled. “That’s possible, but don’t worry. Anyone following me is making a huge mistake.”

“I believe it.” Samuel Lincoln smiled too, glancing at Henry Lincoln. “We haven’t slept all night, looking for clues. Lao Bei has found something.”

“Sit down,” Charles Griffin said casually, uninterested in the “clues.” He pulled a chair to the middle of the living room, sat facing the sofa, and placed the kitchen knife on the floor by his feet.

Henry Lincoln and Samuel Lincoln sat at either end of the sofa, each lost in thought.