Chapter 69: The Ledger of Departed Souls

2:18 a.m. The rain had yet to cease outside the Western City Crematorium.

Raindrops drummed from the fractured mouth of an abandoned smokestack, striking Song Zhao’s shoulder with a muffled, relentless rhythm.

He crouched behind the charred masonry, eyes fixed on the funeral van as it crept through the side gate.

The rooftop lightbox glowed a ghastly white, its inscription—"Rest in Peace"—as cold and hollow as if chiseled from a gravestone.

The wheels rolled through puddles without a splash, as if this vehicle had never been meant to make a sound.

The list A-Qiang burned before he died, the shoeprint atlas Su Wan deciphered, Lao Qin’s obsessive log of every coming and going—every clue converged on this place.

And that text message, sharp as a needle in his nerves: "A-Qiang burned three copies of the list before he died. You only got one."

Who was warning him? Who was watching him?

He dared not pursue the thought. All he could trust now was himself, and the faint warmth left in the delivery helmet at his fingertips.

It was left by the last "Lantern Slave" A-Qiang ever contacted.

He raised his hand, fingers brushing the sweat-soaked cotton lining inside the helmet.

The instant skin met fabric, his pupils contracted sharply. Golden filigree spread from the edge of his iris, molten gold flowing in midnight darkness.

The Eye of Truth—activated.

Images flickered—

A cramped, stifling compartment in a dim freezer.

A slight figure curled in the corner, knees drawn to chest, lips trembling soundlessly.

It was Xiao Zhou.

His wrists bore deep grooves from rope. His gaze was vacant—until suddenly, for an instant, it sharpened, locking onto the camera as if he could see Song Zhao himself.

Then, he moved his lips.

Silent, but the words were clear:

"Help me."

The vision snapped off.

Pain like steel needles pierced Song Zhao’s temples. He groaned, cold sweat mingling with rain across his brow.

His vision blurred—the world veiled in gray gauze.

He braced himself, heart pounding, not daring to rub his eyes—for fear of missing the slightest movement.

Xiao Zhou was alive, hidden in a freezer, soon to be transported.

He glanced at his watch: 3:07.

Less than three hours to the southbound train’s departure.

He tucked the helmet away and withdrew Lao Qin’s hand-drawn map of the underground pipes from his pack.

On the yellowed paper, a red line traced a disused smoke duct, beginning behind the crematorium’s boiler room and ending in the underground warehouse of the suburban logistics park.

It was the only route unmonitored, the secret passage used for years by the "Fishermen’s Lantern Society" to move their "Lantern Slaves."

He crept forward, rain streaking muddy tracks down his pants.

The iron fence was rusted through, its lock long broken—a gap left, perhaps, by design.

He pushed gently. The bars screeched, swallowed at once by the wet air.

The passage was narrow, just wide enough for one to crawl.

The walls were slick with black mold; the stench of corroded iron and corpse alkali thickened the air.

He held his breath, his flashlight wrapped in red cloth—its beam bloody.

After crawling a dozen meters, he froze.

Ahead—a trail of wet footprints.

Small prints, short strides, toes splayed outward, the second toe of the right foot markedly angled in—matching the congenital foot deformity from Xiao Zhou’s medical records.

Someone had passed this way, not long ago.

His heart thudded faster. He pressed on.

The passage sloped sharply downward.

From up ahead came the scrape of metal—an iron chest sliding—then low voices, hushed but every word clear:

"...Cargo is packed. The southbound train leaves at six a.m."

"The Lantern Master said this batch must cross the 'Bridge of Passing.' No errors."

"The last batch burned at the bridgehead. You know why?"

"Shut up. Do your job."

Song Zhao flattened himself, breaths shallow as a whisper.

He pulled out a miniature recorder, pressed it to the wall, switched it on.

At the same time, he unclipped a portable signal jammer from his tactical belt and flicked it on.

The alarm system might detect movement, but with suppressed frequency, he’d have at least thirty seconds of delay.

He crawled on. At the end of the passage stood an iron door, a faint blue light leaking from the gap.

He pressed his ear to the metal—nothing.

Sliding his pry bar into the lock, he popped it open with a soft click.

3:41 a.m.

He slipped into a basement disguised as an equipment room.

Six freezers stood in a row, their metal skins gleaming coldly, compressors humming low.

The nameplates were scratched, but the original numbers remained. He crouched, swept a UV pen over the freezer corners, and fluorescent letters appeared:

"Lin Haoyu Foundation—Sunshine Home."

The writing was warped, but unmistakable.

Sunshine Home, a charity for disabled children on the surface, was in truth the Lantern Slaves’ first training ground.

The abducted children were brainwashed, numbered, branded, then shipped via the funeral network to underground markets across the country.

He swiftly swabbed the freezer handle for skin residue.

As he stowed his tools, a chill ran up his spine, hairs standing on end.

The iron door had closed—soundless, unnoticed.

Above, a red alarm light blinked silently, its crimson beam rotating—a watchful eye.

He held his breath, stepping back, hand on his tactical blade.

No alarms. No footsteps.

But under the door, a thin laser line swept the floor—a dynamic sensor, not yet triggered.

Looking down, he saw mold clinging to his right shoe, poised above the beam.

Half an inch lower, and the whole system would blow.

Cold sweat stung his eyes. He dared not blink, dared not breathe, inching his foot back.

Then, a faint disturbance in the air from the vent.

Someone was above.

He looked up—a flicker of light in the vent grating.

Not infrared. Not a flashlight.

Firelight.

Fisherman’s fire.

His pupils contracted.

"Three bells and the fisherman’s fire, souls cross not the bridge..."

The child’s song from Lao Qin’s phone echoed in his ears.

Suddenly, he understood—

They weren’t hiding people.

They were sacrificing them.

And the ritual had only just begun.

4:03 a.m., the hidden chamber.

Song Zhao’s fingers gripped the edge of the vent, rust slicing his skin, but he felt no pain.

The space above was coffin-tight, dust raining onto his nose—every breath like swallowing death’s ashes.

Below, the iron door opened. Footsteps—heavy, measured—boots grinding the wet floor, each step pressing on his nerves.

He shrank deeper into the shadows, one eye peering through the grating.

The guard was nearly two meters tall, broad-shouldered, thick-backed, the top of his left ear missing, a limp in his right leg—a classic old injury.

He strode to the B7 freezer, unlocked it with a fingerprint, and slowly opened the door.

Cold vapor billowed out, congealing pale as death under the emergency lighting.

Xiao Zhou was dragged out, limp as a corpse not yet gone cold.

His wrists were bound behind him, mouth taped, but his eyes—those eyes that should have been hollow—blazed with a wild, desperate clarity.

He strained up, neck veins bulging, glaring straight into the surveillance camera in the corner.

"The seventeenth batch is in B7!" he screamed, his voice tearing his throat. "They use urn numbers as fake IDs! Every Lantern Slave is registered as dead! We... we’ve been dead for years!"

The guard froze—a split second, the gap between mechanical duty and human tremor.

Then he brought down his rifle butt, smashing the back of Xiao Zhou’s skull.

A dull crack. The boy’s body crumpled, sliding like a sack of rags.

The guard grunted, shoved him back into the freezer, set the cold cycle.

The compressor roared to life, frost crawling over the walls—freezing that unfinished accusation beyond time.

Song Zhao clenched his fists in the dark, nails cutting deep into his palms.

He knew that look—not pleading for life, but delivering a message.

Xiao Zhou wasn’t begging for rescue; he was leaving a last testament.

"Urn numbers"—the phrase slotted into the lock of all his unsolved cases: unmatched DNA samples, "cremated" files with no next of kin, de-registered citizens whose identities still trafficked underground...

They had all been alive, in the shadow of death.

Footsteps faded. The alarm light died. The guard left, the lock reset.

Song Zhao hesitated no longer.

He unscrewed the vent, slipped into the crawlspace above.

It was crammed with discarded cables and broken ducts, the air thick with the stench of corpse alkali and oil.

He swept a signal detector—no trackers, no bugs.

A ten-minute window, at best.

He popped the back off the surveillance mainframe, pulled out the storage card, sealed it in a waterproof pouch.

As he prepared to leave, something caught his eye—a USB port, scorched, data hastily destroyed but not completely.

He slid in his recovery pen.

Three seconds. A flickering line appeared on the screen:

[...Passing Seventeen · B7 · Urn Number: LHY-0917-042]

[Transfer Route: Southbound Train → Old Bridge Station → Underground Warehouse No. 3]

[Remarks: Identity replacement complete. Family signature forged. Cremation record archived.]

Song Zhao’s pupils shrank.

Lin Haoyu. LHY.

0917—the founding date of Sunshine Home.

And 042... the year his father was killed.

Not a coincidence. A provocation.

He yanked out the USB, stowed it, and crawled twenty meters down the duct, pried open the vent, and used the fire escape ladder to drop silently to the ground.

4:50 a.m., the crematorium rooftop.

The dawn wind cut to the bone, the clouds splitting to reveal a slash of gray-white.

He stood by the incinerator, clutching the storage card, and dialed Dong Lan.

"Prepare to intercept the southbound train," he rasped, his voice sharp as drawn steel. "Cargo code—'Passing Seventeen.'"

There was a two-second silence on the line, then: "Understood. Disciplinary approval signed. Provincial support will arrive within thirty minutes."

He hung up.

He looked east, where the sky was just beginning to lighten.

The city still slept, but the undercurrents raged beneath.

He took out A-Qiang’s lighter, the brass case scored with a shallow mark—the commemorative gift every rookie received upon joining the detective squad.

He flicked it open.

Flame leapt up, illuminating his blood-smeared face.

He tossed the lighter into the incinerator.

The fire shot up, devouring the metal with crackling pops.

In that instant, it seemed the wind carried countless soft whispers from the furnace’s depths, like children chanting in unison:

"We remember the names."