Chapter 27 The Name Beneath the Wax Seal

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At three in the morning, the motion-sensor lights in the corridor outside the provincial department’s confidential laboratory flickered on one by one with Song Zhao’s footsteps. The cold white glow cast wavering shadows across his shoulders and back. He stood leaning against the wall, his right hand tightly gripping the fragment of a copper box he had dug out from the ruins of Yong’anli, his knuckles pale from the force, his palm marked red by the bite of verdigris—the result of three hours sifting through rubble. Each piece still radiated the lingering heat of the great fire from 1998.

“Song Zhao.” Dong Lan’s voice came from behind him, muffled by her protective mask.

The deputy section chief of the department’s technical division pulled down her blue mask, revealing faint dark circles beneath her eyes. “The forensic analysis of the videotape is complete.” She raised the report in her hand; the red seal of the Forensic Science and Technology Office was still wet. “The footage clearly shows Lin Haoyu striking Su Wan on the back of her head with a weapon. The timestamp and location match up. We can apply for an international red notice immediately.”

Song Zhao said nothing, his eyes fixed on the badge hanging from her chest.

At the end of the corridor, the exit sign glowed a piercing red—just like that rainy night twenty years ago when his father lay dying in a pool of blood, streetlight glinting off his badge.

He pulled out his phone and called up the flight tracker page—XJ723’s icon remained at Jiangcheng General Aviation Port, the reason for delay listed as “mechanical inspection.”

“He won’t wait for us to go through procedures,” Song Zhao’s voice was hoarse, his thumb rubbing the inside of the copper box. “Lingering at the airport—either he’s waiting for someone to deliver something vital, or to destroy the last piece of evidence.”

As soon as he finished speaking, his fingertip brushed over a rough, uneven mark.

He lowered his head for a closer look and discovered half of a melted copper seal inside the box, its edge still clinging to charred paper ash.

The moment the golden pattern appeared in his vision, a stabbing pain surged at the nape of his neck—the prelude to the “Eye of Truth” activating.

The twenty seconds of retrospection crashed into him violently.

On that torrential summer night of 1998, amidst the fire’s broken ruins, a man in a police uniform knelt. Rain and ash dripped from his hair; the right shoulder of his uniform was burnt through, revealing a bleeding wound beneath. He shielded a half-burnt piece of paper to his chest, his left hand gripping the edge of his badge, lips trembling as he repeated, “Three branches, seven lines, return to the Lin family…”

The vision cut off abruptly.

Song Zhao staggered into the wall, temples throbbing, golden motes dancing before his eyes.

He gripped the wall for balance, a stifled groan escaping his throat—the garbled “Don’t burn” his father uttered before dying had not meant the house, but the family genealogy!

His phone vibrated in his pocket—it was a message from Su Wan: “I’m early for the morning sweep in the Rare Books Department.” Wiping the cold sweat from his face, he shoved the copper fragments into an evidence bag. As he turned, a dark figure flashed at the end of the corridor, uncannily like the black trench coat Zhou Mingyuan always wore on surveillance footage.

By six in the morning, the faint scent of camphorwood drifted through the Rare Books Department of the city library.

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Su Wan crouched atop a ladder, the tip of her tweezers carefully lifting mold spots from the spine of “A Gazetteer of Jiangcheng.” Without turning her head at the sound of footsteps, she spoke: “There’s some longan tea I made in the third drawer—it’s still warm.”

Song Zhao set the tray lightly on the desk. Beneath a glass cover, the carbonized “Zhou Family Genealogy Fragment” shimmered gray-brown.

As Su Wan turned, the ends of her hair brushed his hand, carrying the sandalwood scent of restoration fluid. “Last night you mentioned something inside the copper box?” She donned her magnifying glasses, pupils contracting behind the lenses. “This is no ordinary genealogy.”

Her tweezers paused beside a blurred imprint near the words “seven lines.” “A hidden-lineage record.” She pulled a yellowed notebook from a drawer; the cover read “Taboos in Clan Registers.” “In the late Qing and early Republican era, major families used ‘family’ as a code for actual controllers to evade tax inspections. ‘Return to so-and-so family’ was a cipher for property transfer.”

Her finger hovered over the words “Lin family,” casting a shadow across the fragment. “Check the Jiangcheng Commercial Registry. In 1903, ‘Lin Umbrella Company’ was registered, with Lin Chengzong as the legal representative. Of his grandchildren, the only one left to inherit the assets…”

“Is Lin Haoyu,” Song Zhao finished for her, his tone heavy as stone.

Morning sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the faint tremble of Su Wan’s eyelashes—just like when she was a child, locked in a dark room by traffickers, staring wide-eyed at him with dust clinging to her lashes.

By ten o’clock, the old archives at the evidence center smelled of aged newsprint.

The third time Song Zhao touched the carbonized edge of the fragment, the pain at the base of his neck nearly split his skull.

Gritting his teeth, he watched as scenes flickered in golden patterns: gloved hands stuffing the fragment into a briefcase, flames licking the paper, someone hastily blackening the surface with charcoal, and, amid the crackle of burning, a low voice muttering, “Alter…register…book…”

“Enough!” He yanked his hand away, sweat from his brow dripping onto the evidence bag, spreading into a watery stain.

Dong Lan’s video call popped up, her face cold in the screen’s glow. “Voiceprint enhancement is finished. The words ‘alter register book’ match the 1998 Urban Construction Bureau archivist’s voiceprint by 89.4%.” She pushed up her glasses. “That archivist is Lin Acheng’s father-in-law. He just retired for health reasons last year.”

Song Zhao pressed his aching brow. “Check which land registry files he handled before retirement.”

At two in the afternoon, the microfilm library reeked of developer fluid.

Su Wan stood before the iron shelving, the number “JC-1903-07” on the film canister burning against her fingertips.

She drew out the film and loaded it into the reader. The land deed for “Lin Umbrella Company” unfolded on the white screen—the property boundaries covered what is now the heart of the development zone.

What made her breath catch was the row of invisible numbers in the upper right corner of the deed: “LJ-097,” precisely matching the digits revealed under ultraviolet light on the fragment.

She quickly photographed the film, then hid the original in the lining of the “Yong’an Orphanage Account Book.”

Turning, her peripheral vision caught the surveillance camera in the corner— a man in a maintenance uniform was aiming his phone at her badge.

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Su Wan lowered her gaze, adjusted her cufflinks, and uploaded the copy to the municipal bureau’s public archive platform, keying in the search term: “Lin Family Lineage.”

By five in the evening, fine rain drifted across the plaza before City Hall.

Reporters swarmed Lin Acheng with microphones. He wore a crisp suit, but his gaze behind gold-rimmed glasses was tense. “The foundation’s funds are legal. Every project has—”

“Are there falsified land deeds and a burned genealogy?” Song Zhao’s voice cut through the crowd.

He pushed to the front, unfolded the genealogy fragment, and switched on a portable UV lamp. Instantly, the fluorescent characters “LJ-097” seared every eye.

“In 1998, an accountant discovered the Lin Umbrella Company’s deed had been altered. That very night, his office burned down.” Song Zhao stared into the cameras, rain dripping from his cap brim onto the fragment. “Today, someone wants this history burned again.”

Su Wan pressed to his side, raising the handwritten copy of “Taboos in Clan Registers.” “Three branches, seven lines, returned to the Lin family—this is property theft masked as genealogy,” her voice clear and cutting through the rain. “From 1903 to 1998, they spent nearly a century executing this theft.”

The livestream’s comment feed erupted.

Lin Acheng’s Adam’s apple bobbed, a stiff smile tugging at his lips. “Nonsense.” He turned to leave, but looked back as he opened his car door, his gaze sharp as a poisoned needle. “Officer Song, some accounts can never be settled.”

His phone vibrated then, an encrypted message flashing a single line: “The old umbrella ledger is clear, but the ribs remain unbroken.”

The rain intensified.

Song Zhao watched the Lincoln disappear into the downpour, then pulled his father’s old police cap onto his head.

Su Wan moved her umbrella to shelter half his face. “It isn’t the evidence they fear,” she whispered, her voice as light as the rain, “it’s that we finally understand their rules.”

On the library’s top floor, a surveillance camera quietly pivoted, framing the two of them together.

At ten that night, Song Zhao stood before his father’s old house.

The rusty lock snapped easily in his hand, the scent of mildew and old timber rushing out to meet him.

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he crossed the storage room. He took out his lighter; the flame illuminated a dust-caked wooden chest in the corner—the copper lock on its lid matched exactly the fragments he’d dug from the ruins of Yong’anli.