Chapter One: The Earring Broke, and the Sky Came Tumbling Down

Page (1/3)
Recommendation
### Guide 1:
When Song Zhao was hit and sent flying by the Maserati of a wealthy heir, he thought it was the worst day in his thirteen years as a detective. That was until he woke up and found himself accused of "fabricating evidence," kicked out of the criminal investigation team, and even his record of solving seventeen cold cases had become a joke. One stormy night, rummaging through an old warehouse, he found a blood-stained evidence bag. The moment his finger touched the blood-soaked knife, golden lines flashed across his pupils, and the scene from twenty seconds earlier exploded in his mind: a man in a tailored suit was plunging the blade into an old man's chest, and on the hilt of that knife, engraved, was Deputy Mayor Zhou Mingyuan's personal emblem...

### Guide 2:
In the archives of Jiang City, three twenty-year-old unsolved homicide cases lie buried: a demolition resident's fatal fall, a missing street child, and a veteran policeman who died suddenly. When Song Zhao, now a suspended forensic technician, touched the evidence bag from the third homicide, the "Eye of Truth" suddenly awakened—on the bloodied pocket watch appeared a scene he had never seen before: a man in police uniform (his own father!) was stuffing a stack of files into an iron box, while in the shadow behind him, his most trusted old captain was raising a wrench… More terrifying still, three months ago, the rich kid who hit him had photos of those files in his phone album. From his father's death twenty years ago to the day he was struck and left disabled, it was all the work of the same group, silencing witnesses.

### Guide 3:
He had saved her once; she waited for him for ten years. As Song Zhao searched the library's ancient books section for clues to an old case, Su Wan handed him a yellowed "Chronicle of Jiang City": "You touched this book last time before you went on duty." The moment his finger touched the spine, golden lines spread across his pupils—twenty seconds earlier, he was seen hiding a blood-stained USB drive within the book's pages. Three days later, he was hit by a car and lost his memory. "They wanted to destroy your memories," Su Wan turned to a certain page, where beneath the cotton paper used for restoration, faint blood-red words appeared: "Zhou Mingyuan's people are selling children." The little girl he had saved from traffickers years ago, had already, in a pile of old papers, woven for him the knife to tear open the darkness.

Chapter 1: The Earring Shattered, The Sky Collapsed
The rain pounded on the skylight of the Jiang City Public Security Bureau's archive room, like someone scattering shards of glass overhead.

Song Zhao crouched before the third row of evidence cabinets, an old wound at the nape of his neck throbbing with the thunder—a scar from three years ago, when a wealthy heir hit him and broken glass embedded into his vertebrae.

He gripped a freshly printed retrieval record in his right hand, the corner wrinkled by sweat, the case file number "JC-2013-07" shimmering cold and white under the fluorescent light.

"Song Zhao, Technical Squad, due to impaired judgment from cranial trauma, is hereby removed from frontline investigative duties." When Sister Zhang from Human Resources handed him the notice this morning, her fingers deliberately avoided his touch, as if dodging a burning coal.

Now the whole squad was whispering that he'd been knocked senseless, couldn't even press the right button on the fingerprint scanner.

But no one mentioned that three days ago, the evidence system suddenly showed five new retrieval records for the "Unnamed Female Corpse, Rainy Night" case, all approved by Deputy Squad Leader Zhao Zhenbang, with "File Review and Archival" as the stated reason.

Song Zhao’s knuckles pressed against the metal handle of the evidence cabinet, cold enough to sting.

Seven years ago, he was the youngest forensic analyst on the technical team, and when he personally sealed this case file, he drew three question marks on the autopsy report—the soil in the victim’s stomach contained 17% silicate and 0.3% mica granules, which didn’t match the soil from the main road where the body was found.

But back then, the squad leader patted his shoulder and said, “Little Song, the chain of evidence is enough for conviction; don’t get hung up on the details.”

The cabinet door clicked open.

He pulled out the evidence bag labeled "WZ-2013-07-03." The plastic seal still bore his signature from years ago, now faded to pale gray.

Inside lay half a silver earring, the break jagged as if forced by a blunt instrument, stained with dark brown blood and hardened mud—the only personal item from the deceased left intact, with original notes stating it “fell off during the struggle.”

The moment his gloved fingers touched the earring, Song Zhao’s pupils contracted sharply.

Gold threads, as if picked by a needle, seeped from the edge of his iris, spider-webbing across the whites.

The archive room twisted before his eyes; cold lights turned to rain, metal cabinets morphed into blue-brick walls. He heard his own heavy breathing drowned out by rainfall, followed by a woman’s scream: “No—!”

A dull thud as an umbrella frame hit the ground.

In the rain, a figure in a beige dress staggered back, the silver earring flying from her ear, striking the stone corner and splitting in two.

Page (1/3)

Page (2/3)
The camera suddenly pulled back. He saw the umbrella’s black ribs, the handle embroidered with faded “Lin’s” characters. Underneath, the person wore dark gray work pants, the cuffs stained with silvery mud—identical to the mica granules noted in the autopsy report.

The vision ended abruptly at the twentieth second.

Song Zhao’s temples felt as if nailed through with steel, and double images swam before his eyes. He slid to the floor, clutching the cabinet, cold sweat soaking the back of his uniform.

His left hand still gripped the evidence bag, the earring pressing into his palm—the scene had been so clear: the rain on the woman’s lashes, two stitches missing in the “Lin’s” embroidery, even the metallic scent in the storm.

“It’s not a hallucination,” he whispered into the air, his voice rasping like sandpaper against glass.

With trembling hands, he fished out his phone and pulled up the soil composition chart from years ago.

Silicate 17%, mica 0.3%—an exact match for sediment from the abandoned drainage ditch in the old industrial district on the city’s west side.

The “Lin’s” black umbrella—only Old Lin’s repair stall at the alley corner used that custom fabric, right across from the drainage ditch.

The rain intensified, a leak in the skylight dripping onto the case file, blurring the annotation for “Zhou Mingyuan’s New City Development Project.”

Song Zhao suddenly recalled that three years ago, the day he was struck, he’d been investigating the disappearance of three tenants during the forced demolition of the old industrial area.

Someone had anonymously sent a photo—where a man in dark gray work pants stood, his cuffs glinting with silvery mud.

“Knock knock.”

The wooden door to the archive room opened a crack, cold air laced with rain swept in.

Song Zhao quickly stuffed the earring back into the evidence bag and looked up to see Forensic Expert Chen at the door, the hem of his white coat stained with fresh blood—the veteran had just come from the autopsy room.

“Deputy Squad Leader Zhao will announce the transfer decision at tomorrow’s meeting.” Chen’s voice creaked like a rusty gear. He stepped in, hesitated, then said, “I kept an extra sample of the victim’s stomach contents from back then.”

Song Zhao’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

Seven years ago, when he pressed Forensic Expert Chen about the soil, the old man had patted his shoulder and said, “Little Song, some cases can’t be solved, not for technical reasons.” Now, the words sounded different.

“Thank you,” he said.

Chen didn’t reply. As he turned, his coat brushed the doorframe, scattering a web.

Song Zhao watched him disappear at the corridor’s end, rain muffling a faint sigh: “Don’t throw yourself in.”

At the next morning’s meeting, Zhao Zhenbang’s leather shoes echoed in the conference room.

Song Zhao sat in the last row, eyes fixed on the golden star on the deputy squad leader’s epaulet—a recent promotion.

“In light of Song Zhao’s health, the squad committee has decided to revoke his frontline investigation privileges effective immediately.” Zhao Zhenbang’s gaze swept over Song Zhao, as if looking at a rag, “Some colleagues keep digging up old cases for attention. Let me remind you, the police force isn’t a playground. We follow rules.”

The room was so silent, the air conditioner’s drip could be heard.

Song Zhao stood, slapped his printed comparison report on the table.

Page (2/3)

Page (3/3)
The sheet slid in front of Zhao Zhenbang, the top photo showing the earring, the mud on its break circled in red, alongside the soil analysis from the city’s west drainage ditch.

“Seven years ago, during the victim’s struggle, the earring fell off, and the mud came from the west side drainage ditch.” His voice was soft, but every word nailed in place. “Only ‘Lin’s Umbrella Stall’ uses the ‘Lin’s’ black umbrella. Old Lin’s stall is right beside that ditch.”

Zhao Zhenbang’s face flushed liver-red.

His hand shook as he opened the report, eyes pausing on Forensic Expert Chen’s signature—a fresh appraisal.

The room filled with murmurs. Someone whispered, “So the dump site was faked,” and another muttered, “That mud composition…”

“Absurd!” Zhao Zhenbang slammed the report shut. “You’re overturning the case based on mud? Song Zhao, you’re abusing your authority!”

“Deputy Squad Leader, I no longer have access to the evidence,” Song Zhao tugged at his collar. “This sample came from Forensic Expert Chen, who kept it secretly seven years ago.”

In the third row, Forensic Expert Chen looked up, his gaze behind the glasses passing over Song Zhao and quickly dropping.

Song Zhao noticed his fingers clenched under the table, knuckles white.

After the meeting, the lock to the evidence analysis room clicked shut.

Song Zhao locked the door from inside, then took out the earring from his chest pocket.

This time, he wore no gloves; the chill of the metal seeped directly into his skin.

Golden lines once again covered his pupils.

Rain, black umbrella, “Lin’s” embroidery—the vision lasted only fifteen seconds this time, but the headache was fiercer than before, darkness veiling his sight.

He leaned against the fingerprint scanner for breath, when suddenly a fragment of memory pierced his mind: a rainy night, high beams blinding, the roar of a black SUV engine, a shadow in the passenger seat turning back—a blurred face, but Song Zhao recognized it. It was the last thing he saw before being struck.

“So that’s how it is.” He smiled at his reflection in the glass, rainwater streaming down, splintering his face.

In the reflection, his pupils still shimmered with pale gold, like a blade forged in fire.

Outside, the storm raged.

Song Zhao curled in the corner of the evidence analysis room, back pressed against cold, hard instruments, clutching the broken earring.

Cold sweat trickled down his nape into his collar, but his eyes burned bright—he finally understood, the car accident three years ago wasn’t an accident, and the female corpse case seven years ago was no ordinary murder.

They were like two ropes, pulling him toward a deep abyss.

And at last, he had grasped the other end of the rope.

Page (3/3)