Chapter 67: The Lamp Head

Page 1 of 3
3:17 a.m., Temple Fair—Secret Chamber.

The air was thick with the cloying blend of old incense ash and fresh blood, like the breath of some ancient sacrificial rite.

Song Zhao moved along the wall, his breath held low, each step falling precisely in the shadows where candlelight and gloom met.

A-Qiang’s electric scooter was still parked by the side yard outside the temple, the letter to his five-year-old daughter inside its basket already soaked through by rain—the last words he would ever leave her: “This time, Daddy really is doing the right thing.”

There was no time for mourning.

His temples throbbed violently, pain stabbing through his skull like needles. The “Eye of Truth” hummed low in his veins, as if sensing the abyss about to open.

He slid beneath the shadow of the offering table, fingertips finding the bronze bell hidden in the depths of the offering box.

The cold metal surface was engraved with fish-scale patterns, matching perfectly the design on the fragments left by his father.

He swiftly embedded it into the hidden slot beneath the lampstand, his movements as light as returning a heartbeat to a chest.

In that instant, every flame in the temple shivered.

The drums began.

Nine circles of red candles suddenly roared to life, their flames shifting from crimson to blue, casting the grotesque painted demons on the vaulted ceiling into restless motion.

In the array’s center, a youth wearing a bronze mask slowly raised his hand, a burning torch balanced in his palm.

He was thin, his steps unsteady, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.

Chanting rose from all directions—deep, rhythmic, inhumanly mechanical, as if the entire mountain were intoning in unison.

Song Zhao pressed himself to the ground, pupils contracting—the golden veins spread from the rim of his irises, molten metal slowly flooding his gaze.

“It’s begun,” he murmured inwardly.

Su Wan’s voice crackled through his earpiece, calm to the point of coldness: “Anomalous sonic frequencies detected. Cerebral control harmonics loading. In three minutes, all children will irreversibly lose self-awareness.”

He nodded, fingers silently hovering over the *** activation key.

Three, two, one.

A piercing yet barely audible vibration burst from within the bronze bell, stabbing the brain like a needle.

The chanting faltered abruptly, then the children clutched their heads and screamed as one, their bodies convulsing violently beneath crimson robes, the copper plates at their throats giving off an eerie resonance.

The candlelight thrashed wildly, shadows twisting into struggling human shapes.

The guards moved.

Men in black surged from behind the pillars, blades flashing toward the altar.

“There—!” A-Qiang’s voice exploded at the temple entrance.

He overturned a cart of incense, raising his arms high. “The bell—it’s here!”

All eyes swung to him.

Song Zhao watched helplessly as the delivery rider, who had once become a “lamp slave” by mistakenly delivering the wrong drug, was struck down by three iron rods to the spine.

A-Qiang fell, yet still crawled forward, shouting, “Run… Run—”

Then he slammed his right hand onto the remote.

A burst of fire erupted from the temple’s power room; darkness swallowed the building whole.

Only the nine rings of guttering candles remained, their flicker casting a twisted trail of blood that slowly crept toward the temple gates.

Song Zhao moved.

In utter darkness, guided by thirteen years of crime scene memory, he dodged tripwires and sidestepped patrolling footsteps.

Each step landed between heartbeats, each breath pressed against the edge of life and death.

He could hear his blood rushing, feel the “Eye of Truth” burning in his skull, awaiting the moment to ignite.

3:49 a.m.

Page 2 of 3
He reached the heart of the array.

The masked youth stood motionless, torch hanging at his side, shoulders trembling faintly.

Song Zhao slowly raised his hand, fingertips brushing the edge of the mask.

—Contact established.

Gold veins surged, his pupils ablaze.

[Rewind initiated]

A vision flashed: flames devoured the temple, Xu Zhaoshan kneeling amid the inferno, face blackened but arms raised high, fitting a helmet onto the kneeling youth’s head.

Chanting surged, dozens of voices intoning as one: “When the lamp head stands, the old soul dies; when new fire burns, the old name fades.” The boy struggled and wailed, pinned by four strong men.

A needle pierced his temple; murky liquid flooded his brain.

His eyes glazed over, lips unconsciously echoing the scripture…

[Rewind ended]

Song Zhao jerked his hand away, staggering back half a step, agony splitting his head, vision blurring for an instant.

Yet a hint of compassion curled at his lips.

“You’re not the successor,” he rasped, voice hoarse yet clear. “You’re the last victim.”

The youth’s body jolted, breath turning ragged beneath the mask.

4:02 a.m.

Distantly, faint firelight flickered—the backup generator kicked in, the main lamp reigniting.

Flames leapt up, illuminating the youth’s trembling hands.

He raised the torch again, aiming for the “life lamp” suspended above the altar—the soul flame kindled with a child’s birth date.

If it fell, the ritual would be irreversible.

Song Zhao did not rush in.

At that critical instant, the old speakers in the temple’s four corners crackled with static.

Then a child’s voice, clear, awake, and quivering with tears, echoed softly:

“Mama… I want to go home.”

It was Xiao Zhou.

The child abducted three years ago, whose hypnotic audio had once been recorded—now his own voice, played from the provincial safe house.

The sound fell like rain on parched earth.

A “lamp slave” suddenly dropped to his knees, tearing at the copper plate on his neck.

Another, then another… low sobs rippled from the shadows, like ice cracking in spring.

Simultaneously, Su Wan’s fingers flew across the underground server keyboard at the library, the last encrypted file uploaded.

Dong Lan, in the provincial command center, struck the Enter key—all evidence packages, including Xu Zhaoshan’s deathbed video, cross-border transaction ledgers, and the lamp-head authentication system’s source code, were simultaneously pushed to Interpol’s red notice system.

The raids had already begun in seven cities worldwide.

Within the temple, the torch still hovered in midair.

The youth’s hand shook like a leaf in the wind.

Song Zhao watched him in silence.

By candlelight, the bronze mask glinted coldly, as if still sealed by a century of relentless obsession.

But behind the mask, a pair of eyes gradually cleared, filled with terror and longing.

Wind slipped through the shattered window.

It stirred a page of paper in the corner—the remnant of A-Qiang’s letter home, on which was written: “You must be a good person. Daddy is learning how.”

4:36 a.m., the morning mist still unbroken, cold gray light drifting among the temple’s ruined walls.

Page 3 of 3
The torch, suspended in midair, finally fell, striking the edge of the altar and scattering a burst of sparks, but failing to ignite the life lamp—the flame died before touching the wick, as if some invisible will had at last released its hold.

The youth knelt at the center of the array, hands plunged deep into the earth, knuckles white with strain.

He tore off the bronze mask, revealing a pale, gaunt face pocked with needle scars.

His eyes were bloodshot, tears streaked with crimson tracing down his cheeks.

“I don’t want to be the lamp head…” His voice was a faint murmur at first, then exploded into a raw, heart-rending cry that echoed through the empty temple. “I want to be human! I want to go home!”

Song Zhao stood three steps away, neither approaching nor replying.

He simply watched in silence—as this child, brainwashed, remade, forged into a “god,” reclaimed the weight of the word “I” under the knock of a child’s recorded plea.

A USB drive slipped from the youth’s trembling hand, rolling to Song Zhao’s feet. Its surface was etched with the pattern of fish scales and the constellation of the Northern Dipper—the exact mark from his father’s relic.

He stooped to pick it up—the metal cold, yet heavy as a mountain.

In the distance, sirens swelled, surging over the mountain ridge like a tide.

Drones buzzed above the treetops; special forces darted through the woods.

Dong Lan’s voice came through his earpiece: “Signal locked. Seven global nets deployed. All core nodes of the ‘Fisherman’s Lantern Society’ neutralized.” Her tone remained calm, but the faint tremor at the end betrayed a long-suppressed relief.

In the temple, one by one, the “lamp slaves” collapsed to the ground, tearing the copper plates from their necks—some wept, some stared about in confusion, as if waking from a century-long dream.

Forty-three abducted children were registered, bandaged, and comforted one by one.

A little girl curled in the corner, clutching a tattered rag doll, looked up at Song Zhao and whispered, “Uncle, I dreamed of you… You said you’d take me to see the lanterns.”

Song Zhao knelt, placing his police badge gently in her palm.

“Now,” he said softly, “the lanterns are truly shining.”

5:50 a.m., dawn finally broke.

The mountain wind swept through the ruined temple, carrying off the last wisp of incense ash.

Su Wan stepped out of the library’s emergency van, hair a little tousled, eyes tired yet bright with hidden light.

She handed Song Zhao a steaming flatbread, asked nothing, and simply leaned quietly against his shoulder.

“A-Qiang’s last letter… I managed to restore it,” she said quietly. “Only two words remain unclear—maybe ‘don’t’ and ‘fear.’”

Song Zhao gripped the torn page, his throat tightening, but he said nothing.

7:11 a.m., on the return journey.

Morning light poured like gold onto the winding mountain road.

Su Wan opened the newly restored “An Essay on Lantern Customs in River City,” the pages yellowed, the ink once more distinct.

Her finger paused at the final page—last night, she had completed the colophon from fragments of ancient texts:

“A lantern shines to pierce the dark. If injustice yet exists in this world, the lantern must not go out.”

Song Zhao gazed out the window. The rising sun gently illuminated the wild hills and the road home.

He touched the badge on his chest, fingertips tracing the metal’s edge, as if confirming a faith lost and found.

“I kept my promise,” he whispered.

Wind brushed past the window, carrying the crisp scent of the mountains, as if countless tiny voices whispered at his ear—

“Someone has lit the lantern.”

The car reached the foot of the mountain; signal returned.

His phone buzzed, a single unread message quietly waiting on the screen:

[Old Qin from the funeral home: Someone came by last night, left a metal box, said to open it when you return.]