American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

By the seventh hole, Lynn noticed another group of players in the later holes. It was a father and son, seemingly enjoying their weekend. This reminded Lynn of his own past with his father.

His father wasn't a professional golfer; in fact, he was even less skilled than Lynn. But when they played together, his father would always tell all sorts of stories—amusing anecdotes from his work, insights into life, and his hopes for Lynn's future.

“Remember, son,” his father once said, “work is important, but it’s not everything in life. You need to find something that truly makes you happy—it could be sports, it could be art, it could be anything. Don’t let work define who you are.”

Back then, Lynn was young and didn't quite understand the deeper meaning of those words. Now, in his early thirties, he's finally beginning to understand. He's an FBI agent—it's his job, his mission. But he's also Lynn Hall, an ordinary person with emotions, hobbies, and the need for rest and relaxation.

The ninth hole is the last hole in the front half of the course, a long par-5 hole over 500 yards long. Lynn stood on the tee, looking at the flagpole in the distance, and suddenly thought of the bomb-wielding maniac case.

History repeats itself.

What does this sentence mean? What history does the murderer want to repeat?
Lynn shook his head, forcing himself not to think about the case. Jason was right; he needed real rest and couldn't let work consume all his thoughts.

He focused on the ball in front of him, adjusted his posture, and swung.

The ball flew high and far, landing on the fairway, rolling a few yards, and finally stopping about 250 yards from the green. That was the best shot of the day.

Lynn nodded in satisfaction, picked up his golf bag, and continued on his way.

The afternoon sun was warm and comforting, and a gentle breeze carried the fresh scent of grass. Lynn strolled slowly, unhurried, enjoying this rare moment of tranquility. He remembered Wolverine's words in Alaska: "Sometimes, the simplest things in life are the most precious."

Perhaps Logan is right. Perhaps he doesn't need to be chasing criminals every moment, or push himself to the limit. Perhaps, occasionally stopping to enjoy the simple pleasures of life is a necessary balance.

On the second nine holes, Lynn played with more relaxation. He no longer worried about the score of each shot, but instead enjoyed the swing and the feeling of walking in nature. As he putted his last ball into the hole on the eighteenth hole, the sky was beginning to darken, and the setting sun painted the western horizon orange-red.

Lynn returned to the clubhouse, handed back the rented golf clubs, and sat on the terrace, ordering a soda. He felt much more relaxed, both physically and mentally. Although he still thought about the case from time to time, he wasn't as anxious as he had been the night before.

"How was the game?" the waiter behind the bar asked in a friendly manner.

“Not bad,” Lynn smiled. “Although there were a few mistakes, overall it was a pleasant afternoon.”

"That's the thing about golf, it can never be perfect, but that's part of its charm," the waiter said. It was a common saying, but there was some truth to it.

Lynn sat for a while, watching the sunset slowly sink, the sky changing from orange-red to purplish-red, and then to deep blue. The distant stadium was gradually shrouded in twilight, the green grass becoming blurred, leaving only its outline.

His phone rang. Lynn glanced at it; it was a message from Sarah: "Did you see the news? Detective Holmes held a press conference today, saying he's made a major breakthrough."

Lynn sighed and opened the news app. Sure enough, the homepage featured news about the case. A middle-aged man in an expensive suit stood in front of the camera, speaking arrogantly. The headline read: "Renowned Detective Sherlock Holmes Announces Major Breakthrough in Bomb Investigation."

Lynn didn't click on the video. He didn't want to watch those self-aggrandizing and exaggerated performances. If there was a real breakthrough, he would find out through official channels.

He put his phone back in his pocket, stood up, and walked towards the parking lot.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the NYPD's makeshift command center, hands behind his back, scrutinizing the caseboard on the wall. He wore a tailored dark gray three-piece suit, his tie impeccably tied, and his shoes gleaming. Even in such a tense working environment, he maintained a perfect image.

“Truly...crude,” Holmes finally spoke, his voice laced with obvious contempt. “The way you’ve organized this case is like a high school student’s homework. The timeline is a mess, the evidence is poorly categorized, and most importantly—” he turned to Captain Reynolds, “you’ve completely missed the point.”

Reynolds took a deep breath, trying to remain patient. Ever since this "famous detective" arrived yesterday morning, he had been treating everyone with this condescending attitude.

“Mr. Holmes, perhaps you could point out what we’ve overlooked?” Reynolds said, trying to be as polite as possible.

“Of course, that’s exactly why I’m here,” Holmes said, walking to the caseboard and pointing. “First of all, you’re all too focused on those messages. ‘Begin,’ ‘Remember,’ ‘History’—these are just smokescreens, deliberate illusions created by the killer to distract you.”

“But these messages clearly have some meaning—” a young detective tried to interject.

“Shut up,” Holmes interrupted him rudely. “I don’t need your opinion when I’m speaking.”

The young detective's face flushed red, but at Reynolds's prompting, he chose to remain silent.

“Secondly,” Holmes continued, “your analysis of the bombing locations was completely flawed. The abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn, the construction site in Queens, the parking lot in Manhattan—you thought these were chosen randomly, or had some deeper symbolic meaning. Completely wrong.”

“Then what do you think it is?” Reynolds asked.

Holmes turned around, a smug smile on his face. "The choice of these locations was purely pragmatic. The killer was testing explosive devices, testing their power, spread, and police reaction time in different environments. The first five explosions were experiments; the real target was the sixth—the stadium attack."

He walked up to a photo of the stadium bombing: "That's his real purpose. To kill those two players—Marcus Jenkins and Daniel O'Connor. The question is, why them?"

“We are investigating their background,” Reynolds said, “but haven’t found anything particularly unusual yet—”

“Because you don’t know where to look,” Holmes interrupted him. “Let me tell you. These two players, one 27, the other 24. Three years apart. Marcus Jenkins played five years for the Red Bulls, Daniel O’Connor only two. But they have one thing in common—you know what it is?”

The police officers at the scene looked at each other, but no one answered.

“Ignorance,” Holmes shook his head and sighed. “They all played football at the same high school. Lincoln High School in New Jersey, though in different grades, they were all on the school's football team. I found this information in just thirty minutes, and you—” He glanced at his watch, “have wasted twenty-four hours.”

Reynolds had to admit that this was indeed a valuable lead. Their background check hadn't yet delved into the high school period. "So you think the killer is connected to this high school?" Reynolds asked.

“Obviously,” Holmes said, as if it were the simplest deduction in the world, “and most likely it’s someone who harbors a grudge against that high school or that football team. Maybe it’s a fired coach, a player who didn’t make the team, or a student who was bullied in school.”

He turned to everyone present, his tone brimming with superiority: "You see, this is the difference between professional and amateur. I found a breakthrough in a morning, while it might take you weeks to come up with this direction. That's why the mayor invited me—because you're not capable enough to handle this kind of complex case."

The atmosphere in the room became tense. The detectives looked grim, but under pressure from their superiors, they dared not contradict them. Reynolds clenched his fists, struggling to control his emotions.

“So, Mr. Holmes,” Reynolds said, trying to remain calm, “what do you suggest we do next?”

“It’s simple,” Holmes said, picking up his cane—an ornate one, purely for show. “I need all the records for Lincoln High School from the last ten years. Student rosters, faculty rosters, football records, and any disciplinary files. I also need interviews with the coaches from back then and some key figures.”

“We can arrange it—”

“I don’t need your arrangements,” Holmes interrupted again. “I can go myself. You’ll only slow me down. All I need is a car and a driver, that’s all.”

“But Mr. Holmes, investigating these kinds of cases requires teamwork—”

"A team?" Holmes chuckled dismissively. "A collection of mediocre people doesn't produce extraordinary wisdom, it only produces more mediocrity. I'm more efficient working alone."

He walked toward the door, then stopped and looked back at Reynolds. "Oh, and give me a copy of that FBI agent—Hall or something—and all the analysis he provided. Insights from federal agents are usually nonsense, but at least it lets me know how far you've gone in the wrong direction."

After saying that, he walked out of the room without looking back, leaving behind a group of angry and helpless police officers.

“That bastard,” a detective muttered under his breath.

“Enough,” Reynolds said, though he was also seething with anger. “The orders from above are to fully cooperate with him. Give him a car and a driver, and then we'll continue the investigation as usual. If he can solve the case, great. If not…”

He didn't finish speaking, but everyone understood what he meant.

Meanwhile, Holmes had already gotten into the black sedan prepared for him. The driver was a young police officer who seemed to have a great admiration for the "famous detective."

“Mr. Holmes, it’s a pleasure to serve you,” the driver said excitedly. “I’ve read your report on the serial murder case you solved in London; it was brilliant!”

“Absolutely brilliant,” Holmes said casually, flipping through the files on his phone. “That case was ten times more complex than this bombing, but I solved it in just three days.”

"That's amazing!"

“This isn’t skill, it’s talent,” Holmes corrected. “Some people are born to be ordinary, while others, like me, are born to solve problems that others can’t.”

The car drove towards Lincoln High School in New Jersey. On the way, Holmes continued studying the case files, occasionally making muttered comments to himself.

"Foolish. This reasoning is completely untenable; the chain of evidence is broken. How could they not have thought of that?"

It was 1 p.m. when we arrived at Lincoln High School. It was a typical American public high school, with red brick buildings, a green playground, and a standard soccer field.

Holmes walked into the administrative office and showed the special pass the police station had given him.

“I need to access the school’s records,” he told the surprised secretary, “especially the football team’s historical records, and all disciplinary cases from the past ten years.”

“This requires the principal’s approval,” the secretary said hesitantly.

“I don’t have time for your bureaucratic procedures,” Holmes said impatiently, slamming his pass on the table. “This is an urgent police investigation involving a murder. You can choose to cooperate, or you can choose to obstruct justice, and you’ll bear the consequences.”

The secretary, overwhelmed by his imposing manner, quickly called the principal. Ten minutes later, Holmes was taken to the archives.

For the next two hours, Holmes buried himself in a pile of documents. He quickly scanned student lists, faculty records, and the football team's history. His eyes swept across each page, searching for any suspicious clues.

Finally, he found something interesting.

Twelve years ago, a serious accident occurred on the Lincoln High School football team. During an important game, a student named Thomas Webber suffered a severe injury on the field due to a coach's poor decision-making, resulting in permanent leg disability and ending his football career.

Thomas Webber, then only sixteen years old, was a star player on his team and was scouted by several universities, with the potential to receive full scholarships. But that injury completely ruined his future.

Interestingly, according to records, the coach at the time was responsible for the accident, but the school and the sports league ultimately only gave him a minor punishment and did not fire him. Thomas Weber's family attempted to sue, but ultimately lost due to a lack of sufficient evidence.

“Found him,” Holmes said softly, a smug smile playing on his lips. “Thomas Webber, 28 years old. Motive: Revenge. Goal: To destroy the other players nurtured by the place that shattered his football dreams.”

He quickly took photos of the relevant documents and then asked to see Thomas Weber's current address.

The records show that Weber now lives in Brooklyn, and his occupation is listed as "freelancer," a vague statement that may mean he does not have a regular job.

Holmes immediately called Reynolds: "I've found the killer. Thomas Weber, 28, lives at 327 Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn. Send people to monitor that address immediately, but don't alert him. I'm going to meet him in person." (End of Chapter)