Chapter 51: The Rusted Chain Speaks

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1:07 a.m., Southern City Incinerator.

The scent of decayed rust and faint traces of burning melded together, piercing Song Zhao’s nostrils.

He stood like a statue merged with the darkness, lurking in the shadow of an abandoned smokestack. The chill of the night wind could not ruffle a single fold of his combat uniform.

Through the eyepiece of his high-precision thermal imager, three idling pickup trucks glowed in the orange-red world, exposed as if they were beasts lying low in their lairs.

His gaze locked onto the middle vehicle. At the rear of the empty cargo bed, a faint but steady heat source pulsed stubbornly.

A heartbeat.

Its position had barely changed—proof that the target was effectively restrained.

But what truly drew Song Zhao’s brows into a frown was the rhythm of that heartbeat.

It was too steady—unnaturally so for a victim in mortal peril.

Fear breeds adrenaline, making the heartbeat erratic and frantic, flickering wildly on the thermal display.

Yet this one was as calm as if under hypnosis.

A cold term from the B7 resonance report flashed through his mind—compliance induction.

This was no mere intimidation, but a mental surrender.

He made an instant judgment: the enemy were not just kidnappers—they were hunters who preyed on the mind.

If the adversary was still exerting psychological control, the victim’s emotions would show no violent fluctuations.

This was not good news. It meant the girl’s will was on the verge of collapse.

“All units, stand by,” he murmured into the tiny microphone at his lips, his voice so low it seemed meant not to alarm prey a hundred meters away. “Prepare for a forced breach. Repeat, prepare for forced breach. There’s a living signal in the target vehicle, but her state is abnormal—likely under ‘compliance induction.’ Negotiation team won’t make it in time. We must act before her mental defenses completely break.”

1:34 a.m. The signal for action surged through the encirclement like a jolt of electricity.

The darkness was torn by beams of high-powered flashlights. Specially made spike strips fired precisely at the pickup’s tires; dull explosions sounded in quick succession.

Almost simultaneously, the vehicle doors were kicked open. Several men in black tumbled out, their automatic weapons spitting furious fire, a hail of bullets forcing the assault team behind cover.

Amid the chaos, a burly man with a gleaming bald head—code-named “Ironhead”—dragged a frail figure from the middle pickup’s cargo bed.

It was Xiao He.

Her mouth was sealed with tape, her eyes vacant, like a soulless puppet.

“Ironhead” moved with brutal efficiency, using Xiao He as a shield, the cold muzzle pressed hard against her temple as he retreated to the mossy corner of the incinerator’s crumbling wall.

“Don’t fucking move!” Ironhead’s voice scraped like sandpaper on metal. “One more step, and she’ll join Old Wang the holdout as this city’s second ‘suicide’ corpse!”

The word “holdout” stabbed like a poisoned thorn, making assault team leader Dong Lan’s pupils contract sharply.

She immediately raised her hand, signaling a halt with tactical gestures.

The mention of an old case changed everything—they had to wait for the negotiator.

In that glass-sharp moment, tension thick in the air, a figure suddenly stepped from the smokestack’s shadow.

Not a reckless charge, but a measured, steady advance.

It was Song Zhao.

He discarded his rifle, empty hands raised, walking straight into the shadow of death.

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Ironhead’s weapon instantly swung toward him, eyes wolfish and fierce. “Looking to die?”

Song Zhao didn’t stop. He ignored the yawning muzzle, his gaze as sharp as a blade, cutting straight into the other man’s eyes.

“Your old wound on your left shoulder—hurts like needles every time it rains, doesn’t it?” He spoke, voice low but carrying clearly to all present. “Kunlun Mountains, parachuting at seven thousand meters, gear malfunctioned, the squad lost contact. Your teammates all became ice sculptures on the mountain, but you survived, dangling from a half-spare parachute on the cliff edge. Am I right, former ‘Snow Wolf’ commando, Zhou Zheng?”

Ironhead—Zhou Zheng’s pupils contracted to pinpoints.

It wasn’t shock, but a terror as if seeing a ghost.

That Kunlun mission was top secret—the casualty list never released. He’d survived, only to retire in disgrace as a bodyguard skulking in the shadows.

This was the nightmare buried deepest in his heart. How did this man know?

1:52 a.m. The standoff continued.

But the balance of power had shifted, invisibly.

Song Zhao’s face betrayed nothing. He didn’t reach for a weapon; instead, he slowly drew something from his tactical vest—a small earring, set with a cheap rhinestone.

He held it up, letting it catch the flashlight’s glare.

“You were there when she cried in the cage.” Song Zhao’s voice was low, echoing from deep underground. “Did you hear her weakly call for ‘Mama’? I heard it, on the B7 warehouse’s surveillance echo. But you still walked over, expressionless, put this on her, telling her it was magic to make her pretty.”

Zhou Zheng’s fingers trembled uncontrollably.

Song Zhao caught that moment of faltering.

It wasn’t logic crumbling, but a flicker of guilt, so deep he himself hadn’t noticed.

“You’re not just following orders,” Song Zhao’s voice softened, but pierced like an awl at the weakest nerve. “You enjoy the control. Enjoy watching a living soul go from resistance to submission to a docile tool in your hands.” He paused, gaze settling on the captive Xiao He. “How many girls like her have you escorted? But this time…it’s different, isn’t it? When you dragged her from the cage, she kept looking at you. That look—like she was searching for someone.”

The words struck Zhou Zheng’s heart like a curse.

Memories flashed of the girl’s hollow yet persistent eyes.

That look—it wasn’t terror or hate, but recognition. As if trying to find a trace of someone she knew beneath his cold face.

2:06 a.m. The crisis broke.

Xiao He, until now a silent puppet, suddenly struggled violently.

Perhaps Song Zhao’s words had awakened a sliver of her consciousness suppressed by drugs, or perhaps survival instinct finally shattered her mental cage.

With all her strength, her nails raked a deep, bloody gash into Zhou Zheng’s hand clamped around her throat—down to the bone.

Zhou Zheng cried out in pain, instinctively loosening his grip.

Now!

Xiao He ducked, clamping her teeth onto his wrist, a guttural scream of pain and rage tearing from her throat: “I am not a tool!”

That scream was both signal and declaration of war.

In the split second Zhou Zheng’s focus wavered, Song Zhao pounced like a leopard.

His move was lightning fast—his left hand wrenched Zhou Zheng’s gun hand, a crisp crack as the pistol flew free.

Simultaneously, his right elbow, powered by a thousand pounds, smashed into Zhou Zheng’s jaw.

Zhou Zheng grunted, collapsing in a heap.

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Almost simultaneously, the assault team surged forward like a tide.

The rescue team rushed into the pickup’s cargo area, a wave of sharp disinfectant and metallic scents hitting their senses.

The truck’s interior had been refitted with smooth metal panels; in the corner sat a crude iron cage.

A medic cut open Xiao He’s sleeve, and all present drew a cold breath.

On her pale, slender wrist, rows of numbers were carved—like a kind of code.

The wounds were fresh, the blood not yet dry—obviously inflicted only recently.

Those numbers matched the log numbers repeatedly mentioned in the B7 warehouse’s audio echoes.

Xiao He was lifted onto a stretcher—she was exhausted to the point of collapse, yet her mind was preternaturally clear.

With her last ounce of strength, she raised her head, looked at Song Zhao, who steadied her, and moved her lips to utter a sentence that sent chills through every soul present: “The cage…remembers everyone.”

10:33 a.m., temporary isolation ward, City Emergency Center.

Su Wan compared high-resolution photos of the marks on Xiao He’s wrist with a military archive obtained by Lao Ma through an encrypted channel, her expression growing more grave.

The decoded information was shocking: B7 warehouse, disguised as an ordinary logistics depot, was in fact used to store a list of “special processing” personnel from a forced demolition project.

Every resident evicted by violence, disappeared, or “accidentally” killed, corresponded to a refrigerated locker number.

Etched on Xiao He’s wrist was the index to this death list.

Dong Lan stood by the window, just off a secure call.

She turned, her face grave, and said to Song Zhao, “Disciplinary team’s secret order. There are seven names on the list, all current city- and district-level officials.” She exhaled, looking at Song Zhao. “Now you understand why they went to such lengths to kidnap a girl—to use her to persuade the last holdout.”

Song Zhao’s gaze fell on Xiao He, asleep on the hospital bed.

The girl’s brows were furrowed, troubled even in her dreams.

Her wrist was swathed in gauze, but the marks seemed to burn through the fabric, searing themselves into Song Zhao’s mind.

“The worst wounds,” he said softly, his voice tinged with fatigue and chill, “are never from your enemies—they come with a smile from those you trust.”

Outside, the rain that had lasted half the night finally ceased.

The sky weighed heavy and gray as a soiled lead slab, pressing down on the city.

The city’s clamor sounded faint and unreal through the glass.

Song Zhao’s phone vibrated—a brief encrypted message from Su Wan: Begin.

He pocketed his phone and quietly walked to the bedside, tucking the blankets around Xiao He.

He gazed at the spotless gauze, as if he could see the blood-red codes beneath.

The key to the storm was now in his hands.

All that remained was to find the door it fit—the door that led straight into hell.