Chapter 7: The Whisper of the Rusted Blade

At six in the morning, the wind carried dew as it slipped into his collar. Song Zhao crouched on the attic floor of his father’s old house, his fingertips searching for the loose floorboard.

When his fingers brushed the grain’s fissures, a humid mustiness mingled with the aged scent of old wood swelled through his nostrils, like a breath sealed by time.

He remembered, at thirteen, a morning just like this. His father had ruffled his hair and said, “Be good, Zhao,” his voice hoarse as the wind outside. Then, he left with that knife—and never returned.

With a click, the floorboard lifted. Beneath the dust lay a rusted police-issue dagger, its sheath pressed against half a melted chocolate, the sugary frosting clinging to a cobweb-laced corner, exuding a faint, sweet rot.

Last night, Old Zhou delivered a parcel. His calloused hand paused on the kraft paper: “A week before your father left, he quietly brought this home from the bureau’s archive.” Song Zhao wiped the blade’s dust away with his sleeve; the chill of metal crept up his fingers. Suddenly, the fine scratch on the guard made his pupils contract—it matched, down to the smallest detail, the pattern of corrosion on the butcher’s knife he’d logged in the evidence department, as if fate had etched the same scar twice.

He spread his notebook across his knees. The blurred house number in the photo fragment was circled over and over in red ink, the nib leaving tiny fibers on the paper.

He recalled the demolition map he’d photographed last night in the charity tower’s surveillance room: the red line conveniently skirted the site of the dismemberment case, like a carefully drawn map of lies.

The fountain pen bled ink onto the page, the words pressed deep: “If Father’s death wasn’t an accident, does this knife point to another concealed scene?”

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Dong Lan’s message carried the provincial bureau’s signature chill: “Early shift keys for the evidence center are at the front desk. System shows you have temporary access.” Song Zhao slipped the dagger into his inner pocket; the metal pressed against his chest, heavy as a sworn testimony.

The attic stairs creaked beneath his feet, each step like treading on a crack in memory—he had to confirm the butcher’s knife’s secret before the early shift manager arrived.

The iron gate of the evidence center still glistened with dew, cold seeping up his trousers. Song Zhao flashed his temporary badge. As the receptionist bent over the logbook, he noticed a fresh bandage behind her ear—the edge lifted, revealing a hint of bloodstain, identical to the medical kit logo on the security uniforms under Qian Shikang.

The door groaned open; the musty air, tinged with formaldehyde, prickled his nose, cold crawling over his skin.

In the dark, he found Row 7, Section B. The butcher’s knife, tagged 2018-04-12, lay in its evidence bag. The blade’s crusted dark brown blood was like dried mud. Even through rubber gloves, he seemed to smell the lingering gore from the slaughterhouse five years ago.

As his gloves touched the handle, golden patterns pulsed in his pupils, searing his nerves like electricity.

Cold suddenly wrapped his neck; he saw a man in a rubber apron shoving half a corpse into the meat grinder, blood mist splattering on the wall like twisted red plum blossoms—the scene echoed with metallic tremors and the sticky sound of blood hitting the floor.

The victim’s right hand convulsed, nails digging deep into the assailant’s sleeve. The tearing of fabric merged with the grinder’s roar—then a bloodied scrap was stuffed into the seam of pig intestines, the stitches crooked crosses, his fingertips brushing those rough threads.

“Ding—”

The vision snapped away, a sharp pain shooting from his nape to his brow. Song Zhao staggered against the iron rack, the evidence shelves wavering like glass submerged in water.

Outside, the sound of leather shoes striking the floor—he quickly returned the knife, slipping between two rows of shelves.

“Officer Song? Or should I say ‘former officer’ now?” Qian Shikang’s voice was like a rusty saw, his butcher’s hook clattering on the iron table, the metallic hum lingering in Song Zhao’s ears.

Through the gap, Song Zhao saw the burn scar on his face, bluish-grey under the harsh white lights, like a piece of cooled iron.

“Heard you’re digging up five-year-old debts? The lunatic killed and jumped into the dissolution vat, not all the bones were even recovered. What’re you hoping to find?” Song Zhao gripped the dagger in his pocket, the metal edges biting into his palm, steadying his dizziness: “I’m just verifying an evidence link. But you—a slaughterhouse boss—how are you so familiar with the crime scene’s details?”

Qian Shikang’s pupils shrank to pinpoints, the butcher’s hook clanged to the floor, its sound bouncing in the empty storehouse.

When he bent to pick it up, Song Zhao glimpsed a blurred tattoo on his inner wrist—a rose, deliberately burned with a cigarette, the charred edges bleeding like a memory destroyed by fire.

“Some doors, once opened, never close again.” Qian Shikang tossed out the words as he left. When the guards’ boots faded, Song Zhao snapped a photo of the evidence rack’s number.

The blue glow of his screen reflected his pale face. A message alert sounded: “Coordinates sent. Watch out for the dissolution vat.” The handwriting was Su Wan’s, ending in a doodled flower—just like the note she’d tucked in his first aid kit at thirteen. That flower, once wrinkled by rain, still marked the last page of his police academy notebook.

The slaughterhouse’s iron gate howled in the night, rust showering down like blood coughed from an old house.

Song Zhao entered with his flashlight, the stench of decay crawling down his throat, his stomach twisting.

The meat grinder’s wreckage was piled in a corner, half a chain still hanging from the rusty track, echoing hollowly when touched.

He followed the route from his vision, crouching before the intestine stitching table; the heap of discarded pig stomachs glowed with dark mold, his fingers brushing sticky fungal threads.

The third time he used the “Eye of Truth,” golden patterns scorched his pupils, his temples throbbing. He touched a fragment of stitch thread, and the vision extended five seconds—a bloodied USB drive etched with “ZY-07,” identical to the one left by his father!

The chill of metal seemed to pierce his memory.

“Bang—”

His left eye felt struck by a blunt object; darkness flooded his sight, and as he stepped back, he missed a floorboard.

In the sensation of falling, he caught hold of a rusty pipe, its barbs slicing his palm, the taste of blood spreading in his mouth. Below, the hiss of strong acid corroding metal sounded like a snake flicking its tongue in the dark.

A sudden shaft of light appeared at the vent. Su Wan’s voice, trembling: “Hold tight!” Long tweezers used for book restoration reached down, cool metal clamping his wrist, her fingers gripping his skin painfully. “I followed your red pen marks on the library map, you idiot…”

In the library’s restoration room, the desk lamp shone at full brightness. Su Wan used a micro tweezer to lift the miniature chip from the pig intestine remnant, her lashes casting trembling shadows on the lens: “Only 37% of the data remains.” She opened “Secret Guild Mark Atlas of Jiangcheng Slaughterhouses, Republic Era,” her fingertip tracing the yellowed pages, fibers rough, the ink gently blurred. “Look, ‘ZY’ is the abbreviation for Zhaoyang Alley, ‘07’ is the seventh shell company—registered under ‘Morning Light Scholarship Foundation.’”

Song Zhao stared at the reconstructed transfer records on the computer screen. His father’s signature stood out in the notes column, the penstrokes as familiar as ever.

He compressed the video reconstruction animation and the number chart into a file, sent it anonymously to the discipline committee inbox, and uploaded a blurry photo of the wrist tattoo to the local forum.

At three a.m., Jiangcheng’s trending search quietly climbed to “True culprit’s tattoo in five-year-old dismemberment case exposed,” the comment section exploding with calls for a thorough police investigation.

His phone vibrated; Dong Lan’s voice was taut and sharp: “Provincial bureau received a public opinion report, ‘Slaughterhouse Case’ review procedures initiated. But…” She paused. “Qian Shikang filed a complaint last night with the city bureau, accusing you of illegally entering the crime scene.”

Song Zhao gazed at the lightening sky outside. Su Wan’s hand quietly covered his, her palm damp, warmth of reunion lingering.

The first ray of dawn leaked through the restoration room’s blinds, illuminating the chip’s sealed bag on the desk—the letters “ZY-07” gleaming coldly, like a knife steeped in poison.

At the corridor’s end came the sound of a key turning in a lock—the security guard arriving for shift change.