Chapter 70: The Name Beneath the Lamp

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9:12 a.m., Old House in the Suburbs.

The wind outside slipped through the weathered wooden window lattice, stirring a yellowed dance score pinned to the wall.

Su Wan gently helped Lin Su’e to sit down. The old woman’s back was bent like a bow, but her fingers were remarkably steady as she rested them lightly on an image recovered from a memory card—a fragment of an account book hidden in the freezer by Xiao Zhou, its surface covered with twisted symbols and numbers, resembling some ancient incantation.

“This is ‘Lantern Script’,” Lin Su’e’s voice was hoarse, rough as sandpaper on rusted iron. “When we danced in the old days, we used rhythm, counted steps as lotus petals. One petal meant a local branch, three petals a transfer station, seven petals…” Her finger paused, pupils narrowing, “Seven petals, that’s the overseas headquarters.”

Su Wan held her breath. “Zone B, Number 7?”

“Not a crematorium.” Lin Su’e shook her head, her thin fingers tracing a row of scorched symbols on the paper. “It’s the name of a vessel—‘Passing Seven’. Tomorrow at dawn, six o’clock, it departs South Port Pier Three. The cargo manifest reports building materials, but in truth… it’s all people.”

She looked up at Su Wan, her gaze cloudy yet sharp. “That child didn’t lie. They’re really shipping out the ‘Lantern Slaves’, one after another, like burning spirit money, sending them into the sea.”

Su Wan’s fingertips grew cold.

She remembered Xiao Zhou curled in the corner of the freezer when rescued, lips blue, muttering again and again: “Don’t stop, the lantern can’t go out…”

She immediately dialed Song Zhao’s number, her voice barely above a whisper. “’Passing Seven’, leaving port tomorrow. B7 is a ship, not a furnace.”

Silence hung on the line for a moment, then came the rasping sound of metallic breathing—Song Zhao was speeding in a car.

“I understand,” he said, his voice seeping up from the depths. “Tell Dong Lan, this isn’t transportation, it’s a ritual.”

10:09 a.m., Temporary Command Center.

The air was thick as lead.

Dong Lan stood before the projector screen, which scrolled with extracted account numbers for “Lantern Slaves,” DNA matches for missing children, and a seventeen-second recording—the moment Xiao Zhou was awakened in the freezer, screaming, voice torn and trembling with tears and terror: “I’m not a number! My name is Chen Xiao Zhou! Mom… do you remember me?”

The recording cut off abruptly.

The meeting room was deathly silent.

Several young officers bowed their heads, avoiding the screen; someone gripped a pen tightly, someone’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

Dong Lan swept her gaze across the room, sharp as a blade. “How much longer will we pretend we can’t see, when we can’t protect the children?”

No one answered.

She slammed the remote, switching the screen to vessel data for “Passing Seven”: Registered in Cyprus, flying a convenience flag, visiting twelve countries in five years, each stop boarding three to five underage “workers,” but no immigration records.

“The Coast Guard has two patrol ships on standby, Customs Assault Team is at Level One response,” her voice was icy. “Interpol has issued a cooperation alert, all ‘Lantern Slave’ numbers are on the Red Notice. Once they board, intercept immediately.”

She paused, turning to the technician. “Contact Song Zhao, ask him—will Xu Zhaoshan be on the ship?”

The technician had just connected the video, but only Su Wan appeared, shaking her head. “He won’t leave. He’ll watch the ship depart, like a funeral, lighting the last lantern himself.”

2:36 p.m., Port Surveillance Room.

The air conditioning was strong, but sweat glistened on Song Zhao’s brow.

He watched the main screen. Seven “Lantern Slaves” were escorted aboard by men in black; each bore a black electronic band on the wrist, their steps mechanical, their eyes hollow.

One stumbled and was dragged up instantly. No one cried out.

He took out a cloth teddy bear—Xiao Zhou’s only belonging, rescued by Su Wan from the freezer, its button eye split by a thin crack.

Song Zhao took a deep breath, fingertips slowly pressing the button.

Golden threads spread from his pupils, opening like a spiderweb.

[Rewind Activated]

The screen abruptly shifted—dim cabin, the sound of waves low and solemn, like chanting.

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Xu Zhaoshan sat in a wheelchair, his back to the camera, facing the sea.

His left hand tapped the armrest, slow and precise: three short, two long, one pause—the opening rhythm of “Lantern Script” found throughout the account book.

Children’s voices murmured in the background, reciting not prayers, but numbers: “L07, B03, K12…”

The camera flickered, reflecting a copper mirror on the wall. In the mirror’s image, an ancient Lantern Festival map hung on the cabin wall, marked with seventeen global nodes, red lines connecting major ports like blood vessels.

Xu Zhaoshan spoke suddenly, his voice gravelly and harsh. “Tomorrow’s voyage is the final chapter of the soul crossing. The Seventh Ship sails, ashes cast to the sea, souls lost without return. They will never come back.”

The rewind ended.

Song Zhao snapped his eyes open, head pounding like a hammer, vision blurred for a moment.

He gripped the edge of the table, cold sweat sliding down.

“He’s waiting for the moment the ship sails, to complete the final ‘soul crossing’ ritual,” he murmured. “Not escaping… but sacrifice.”

He pulled out the monitoring terminal’s USB drive, encrypted the data and sent it to Dong Lan’s terminal, then grabbed his jacket and rushed out.

The car’s wheels rolled over the asphalt, raising dust.

He headed north, toward the oldest corner of River City.

4:17 p.m., dusk falling, river wind rising.

Song Zhao parked alone on a desolate riverbank.

Ahead, a ruined ancestral hall stood by the water, its sign barely bearing the words “Lantern’s Hometown,” the paint peeling.

Vines climbed the outer wall; the ground had been freshly turned days ago, the new soil still damp.

He killed the engine, stepped out, his stride steady.

The beam of his flashlight sliced through the twilight, sweeping the ground—soft earth, drag marks at the edges.

He crouched, fingertips brushing aside loose soil, touching the edge of a blue stone slab.

—Someone buried something here.

Or hid an entrance.

4:17 p.m., Ruined Lantern Festival Grounds.

The river wind carried its salty tang, whipping Song Zhao’s coat.

He stood before the battered ancestral hall, flashlight cutting through the shadows like a blade.

Beneath the vine-wrapped threshold, the disturbed soil still bore the marks of digging, unwashed by rain, as if the earth had just swallowed a secret, not yet digested.

He crouched, fingertips gently shifting the dirt, finding the hard edge of the stone slab below.

Not natural settling—deliberately buried.

From the trunk he took a portable shovel, scraping inch by inch, muscles taut, sweat beading on his brow.

Each strike seemed to pry at some fated seal.

When he lifted the slab, rotten air rushed out, reeking of burnt wood and ashes.

The cellar was two meters deep, its walls built of blue bricks, covered in vermilion talismans, the script crooked but stubborn: “Enter the lantern gate, sever kinship; ignite the heart’s fire, illuminate the netherworld.” Blood-red strokes twisted like curses, as if countless desperate hands had retraced them.

In the deepest recess, a corpse sat upright atop a stone altar, draped in torn red robes, crowned with a half-charred lantern headdress, eyes burned away, leaving only black holes.

It was Xu Zhaoshan.

Song Zhao held his breath, suppressing the shock in his chest, and took out a portable detector, approaching the body.

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Infrared thermals showed no residual heat, the carbonization matched the characteristics of a body burned three days ago.

The broken neck bore the marks of a sharp blade—not self-immolation, but killed first, then burned, disguised as ritual martyrdom.

Yet if Xu Zhaoshan was dead, who was the figure in the wheelchair seen in the surveillance rewind? Who tapped out the “soul crossing” rhythm at sea?

He stood slowly, eyes scanning the walls.

The last line of carved script caught his attention.

Where it should have read “Guard the lantern for a thousand years, soul returns home,” it had been violently slashed out and replaced by deep gouges in the stone:

“If the lantern casts injustice, better to be the one who breaks it.”

The script was forceful, as if carved with a last breath, full of rage and rupture.

Song Zhao’s pupils contracted. This was not Xu Zhaoshan’s handwriting.

Someone died in his place. Someone performed the “sacrifice” for him.

Suddenly, he realized the entire layout of the ancestral hall—its orientation, direction, the depth of the cellar—matched exactly the “substitute burial rites” described in the ancient River City Chronicle’s Rituals chapter.

Su Wan had once mentioned that in old heretical rites, to avert disaster, the most obedient “Lantern Slave” would die in place of the master, burning their soul to confound fate.

Xu Zhaoshan never intended to escape.

He wanted everyone to believe he was dead, so he could vanish into shadow, becoming the true invisible “Lantern Heart.”

Song Zhao quietly closed the stone slab, covering it again with earth.

His movements were calm, but his heart churned like the tide.

He no longer rushed to report, but encrypted site photos onto an offline hard drive.

He knew that any leak of information now could alert the shadow lurking behind death.

6:05 p.m., Return Highway.

The car radio flicked on without warning. After static, an ancient melody flowed out—clear flute, jingling bronze bells, the music Lin Su’e once danced to in her youth.

Song Zhao meant to turn it off, but froze at the third bar of the tune.

That rhythm… three short beats, two long, one pause.

It was the opening rhythm of “Lantern Script” in the account book!

His fingers unconsciously tapped the steering wheel, humming along.

The longer he listened, the more shocked he became—the entire song was encoded in “Lantern Script,” each beat a coordinate or number, and the chorus variation likely signaled the overseas headquarters’ contact code.

He slammed the brakes, tires screeching across the road.

In the rearview mirror, the sunset bled across the horizon; in the distant mountains, a faint fishing lantern flickered, glowing and fading, as if answering the unfinished song.

Song Zhao stared at that light, his voice barely audible:

“Xu Zhaoshan isn’t dead… he’s singing his own song, with someone else’s life.”