Chapter 63: Who Is Burning Books

The beam of light was like two sharp scalpels, instantly slicing open the dead silence of 6:03 a.m.

Song Zhao's pupils contracted abruptly; almost in the same second, he seized Su Wan's wrist, dragging her away from the window and deep into the shadowed recesses of the room.

His movements held not a trace of hesitation—muscle memory surpassing conscious thought.

"It's them. Come with me." His voice was pressed so low, it rolled across the floor like icy beads.

Su Wan didn't ask who "they" were, nor did she panic. Everything she had endured had long since taught her how to remain absolutely calm in the face of desperation.

She simply gripped Song Zhao's hand in return, his cold palm imparting a faint yet resolute strength.

The safe house's back door opened onto a narrow alley choked with weeds.

Dong Lan was already waiting in an inconspicuous technical support vehicle, the engine humming softly at idle.

The car door slid open; Song Zhao pushed Su Wan inside, his gaze meeting Dong Lan's for only a fleeting instant amid the gloom.

"Get her out of the city. Follow Route Three, maintain radio silence," Song Zhao commanded, his voice devoid of emotion, as if issuing a preordained protocol.

Dong Lan nodded heavily, his eyes flicking over Su Wan's pale face, then slammed the accelerator. The car slipped away like a black fish, quietly merging into the city’s barely-awakened arteries.

The headlights vanished at the alley's mouth, but Song Zhao did not leave.

Turning away, he returned like a lone wolf to his den, slipping back into the apartment already marked for death.

The air still lingered with Su Wan’s subtle herbal fragrance, strangely clashing with the impending stench of blood.

From his gear bag, Song Zhao deftly retrieved a miniature voice-activated recorder, placing it skillfully inside the ventilation shaft. He affixed several button-sized mobile cameras—one atop the bookshelf facing the door, another to the chandelier base overlooking the living room.

As he completed these tasks, his breath remained steady, heartbeat unchanged, as if he were a director about to stage a meticulously crafted drama.

Two hours—enough for the prey to let down their guard, enough for the trap to ferment its deadly allure.

At 8:05 a.m., the windowpane was silently cut open by a professional tool, and three shadows slipped inside like phantoms.

They moved swiftly, in perfect synchrony, landing without a single excess sound.

No conversation, only gestures.

They headed straight for the study, dumping files from the shelves and papers from the drawers, frantically searching for something.

Their objective was clear and urgent, as if seeking a particular item.

Song Zhao sat atop the rooftop of a derelict building across the street, watching everything unfold in his apartment through a high-powered telescope with icy detachment.

He was like a god, aloof from the world, observing the ants that had invaded the mortal realm.

The men in black found nothing.

The leader, frustrated, kicked over the coffee table, then pulled out a lighter and, without hesitation, ignited the corner of the sofa.

The orange flames bloomed like a wicked flower, quickly licking at the fabric, thick smoke billowing forth.

They sought not just to destroy documents, but to erase all traces of existence.

Before leaving, one of them instinctively wiped the door handle with his left hand.

In that instant, Song Zhao's lens captured the detail precisely—the little finger of his left hand was merely a short stump.

Song Zhao lowered his binoculars and enlarged the photo.

The scar of the severed finger matched exactly the features of "Old Ghost," the most trusted confidant in his database under Xu Zhaoshan.

Xu Zhaoshan, the deepest venomous snake lurking in darkness, had finally sent forth his fangs.

At 10:59 a.m., the support vehicle pulled into a remote mountain gas station.

The bumpy journey had left Su Wan even more wan and weary, yet her eyes shone with exceptional clarity.

She borrowed a blank library card and a special drawing pen from Dong Lan.

"Light signals are their mode of communication, but also their shackles," Su Wan murmured, her fingers racing across the stiff card, sketching rapidly. "Every light signal command has a fixed logical circuit. If we find that circuit, we can design a reverse command, implant it in their system, and make their own people pass messages to us."

Under her pen, a complex pattern of dots, lines, and arcs gradually took shape. It seemed chaotic, but concealed a unique rhythm, like some ancient rune.

Its core was a cleverly disguised "blue ribbon" motif—a special internal distress signal, decipherable only by coerced low-level members.

"Sunshine Home" was a children's charity front established by Xu Zhaoshan in River City, serving as their internal intelligence relay point.

Dong Lan arranged for the library card, embedded with special instructions, to be mixed into a batch of donated old books and dropped into the collection bin at the service center.

Later that afternoon, a young volunteer named Xiao Zhou discovered the card while sorting the books.

He picked it up, unconsciously tracing the pattern on the back with his finger.

That evening, the city bureau’s technical department found a crumpled note beneath the grill of a ventilation shaft in the alley behind "Sunshine Home."

On it, hurried scrawl read: "Aqiang delivers the 'gift' Wednesday, license plate Yun A·L7729."

Xiao Zhou, their planted informant in the outer circle of the "Light Gate" organization, code-named "Messenger Dove," had been successfully activated by the card.

At 12:44 p.m., Southern City Logistics Transfer Station.

The air was thick with the scent of oil and dust.

A delivery van bearing the "Fast Express" logo rolled in, parking in the shadow of a line of containers.

Driver Aqiang hopped out, opened the trunk, and the whole rear of the vehicle bounced upward as its burden was relieved.

As he unloaded an unusually heavy, square insulated box, several police cars—long lying in wait—instantly blocked every exit.

Song Zhao led a squad of SWAT officers, charging in like tigers descending the mountain.

"Police! Don’t move!"

Aqiang froze, all color draining from his face.

He did not resist, only gazed in despair at the insulated box.

Song Zhao stepped forward and lifted the lid.

A sharp medicinal odor wafted out.

The bottom of the box was lined thickly with sponge; inside, two children of about five or six were curled up, eyes tightly shut, clearly deeply sedated.

On their thin wrists, a sinister oil lamp tattoo and serial number—"Lamp 7"—had been inked with special dye.

The moment he saw the children, Aqiang’s taut nerves snapped. He collapsed to his knees, wailing, "It’s not my fault! They took my daughter... They said if I delivered this shipment, they’d give her back... I just wanted to trade her home!"

Song Zhao’s gaze was as cold as ice, but he did not interrogate immediately.

He pulled from his pocket the blue ribbon prepared in the support vehicle, holding it out to Aqiang.

Aqiang stared, his sobs cut off. He recognized it.

"Now," Song Zhao said, his voice utterly impassive, "you can save someone else's children."

At 4:17 p.m., at the temporary interrogation point, Aqiang's psychological defenses had completely collapsed.

He exposed a shocking plan—the "Lamp Slave" transfer.

According to Xu Zhaoshan’s orders, this Wednesday, that is, tomorrow at dawn, all marked core "Lamp Slaves" would be moved through a secret passage at the city’s suburban crematorium, entering the abandoned underground pipeline network, and finally picked up by a disguised cross-border convoy for smuggling out of the southern frontier.

"The exit of that passage is just one—west of Furnace 7 in Section B, inside the drainage pipe," Aqiang said, trembling. "The iron gate is custom-made and can only be opened with a specific frequency of sound waves, which they call the 'Opening Spell.'"

Dong Lan immediately relayed the intelligence to command; the tech team worked at full speed, simulating the sound pattern from Aqiang’s fragmented information.

Meanwhile, a border control order targeting Xu Zhaoshan was issued at the highest priority.

An invisible net was closing in from all sides upon River City.

At 7:56 p.m., the sky was fully dark.

On the highest bell tower of River City Crematorium, Song Zhao stood alone in the shadow of a gargoyle, night wind whipping his trench coat.

His gaze pierced the darkness, locked onto the brightly lit B Section in the distance, where Furnace 7 lay—the gateway to hell.

The battleground was clear.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated lightly in his pocket.

Not a call, not a text—a push notification from an unknown number.

Song Zhao frowned and tapped it open; an audio clip began to play.

It was an extremely aged, hoarse voice, reciting something in a strange cadence.

Song Zhao instantly recognized it—a passage from the "Light Gate Scripture," which he had once heard recorded in "Old Scar’s" relics.

In the background, rhythmic "crackling" sounds echoed—the sound of lamp wicks burning.

Song Zhao’s pupils shrank sharply.

He immediately imported the audio into his tablet, opening professional spectrographic software.

Beneath the gentle waveforms representing the old man's recitation, the seemingly chaotic crackles revealed highly regular, unnatural breaks and peaks.

Morse code!

He quickly decoded the hidden signal, and two words appeared on the screen, chilling in their simplicity—

Zi Gui.

Song Zhao clenched his phone, his knuckles turning white with force.

He understood instantly.

Xu Zhaoshan was already in River City.

That old fox hadn’t stayed abroad to direct from afar—he’d entered the game himself!

And "Zi," the word, bore a double meaning.

It referred not only to the deceased "Old Scar," whom Xu Zhaoshan regarded as his adopted son, but also to his true objective—the one "Light Gate" considered the only legitimate successor, the "Saint Maiden"... Su Wan!

"Zi Gui" was not a mere call, but an uncompromising order, a declaration of absolute intent.

The icy night wind swirled up the bell tower, carrying the distant city's muffled tumult.

Yet in Song Zhao’s ears, the world had descended into utter silence.

He could hear only the heavy, powerful beating in his chest, as if tolling a death knell in countdown to the coming dawn.