Chapter 73: The Blind Spot Test

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At 5:03 a.m., the riverbank was still shrouded in mist and smoke lingered. Song Zhao stood motionless, his back taut as a drawn bow. That whispered threat still echoed in his skull—“The next one… will be your colleague…”—like a red-hot wire twisting deep into his nerves.

He gripped the shard of a rearview mirror, its jagged edge digging into his palm. The pain kept him lucid: this was no hallucination. It was a warning—a declaration of war.

They knew he was investigating.

Worse, they were testing him.

At nine o’clock sharp, the provincial department’s case analysis meeting began. The projector flickered to life, displaying a stark, pale photograph of a corpse—a vagrant, around fifty, his face contorted, left skull caved in, right leg crushed.

Dong Lan stood at the front, her voice cold as a blade: “The deceased, Li, had no fixed residence. Time of death: 23:17 last night, east section of National Highway G312. He was struck by a vehicle resembling a police car, which then fled the scene. Autopsy reveals an old cranial fracture, matching the weapon wounds from the ‘10.19 Assault on Police’ case three years ago.”

The room fell silent.

That assault—still unsolved after three years. The patrol officer had been struck unconscious with a blunt weapon, his body camera lost; all that remained was half a bloody shoe print.

If this vagrant was truly the assailant, why had he died so mysteriously now?

A “police car” hit him—and fled?

In the corner, young Lin bowed his head, his pen tracing steady waves across the page—once, twice, three times… Rhythmic, less like writing and more like a code.

Song Zhao, seated in the second row, cast an unblinking glance at the paper. The frequency of those waves matched the drumbeat of the prelude to “The Lantern Song.”

He abruptly drew a pencil and tapped lightly on the desk. Tap, tap-tap, tap—three short, one long.

Lin’s pen jerked, the waves stuttering.

Song Zhao’s eyes lowered, as if the gesture was unconscious. Yet his heart was racing.

He was gambling—that this seemingly ordinary intern had been activated by the “Lamp Slave” system, passing on surveillance signals through his writing.

And his rhythmic interference had thrown the other off, if only momentarily.

“The rearview mirror of the fleeing car must have clear scratches,” Song Zhao spoke, voice steady. “I suggest we prioritize recent auto repair records, especially shops that replaced rearview mirrors.”

All eyes turned to him.

Old Zhang from Forensics frowned, “How do you know there were scratches? No fragments were retrieved at the scene.”

“The tire tracks are skewed, and the direction the body fell doesn’t match the impact force,” Song Zhao said evenly. “It suggests the vehicle tried to reverse after the collision, likely scraping the left mirror on a curb. Classic hit-and-run behavior.”

His logic was airtight, irrefutable.

Only he knew—the scene had replayed in his mind three times already.

At 23:16 the previous night, a “Lamp Slave” in police uniform pushed a modified, unlicensed car, intentionally striking the vagrant, then used tools to fake tire marks, scatter blood, and plant a shoe print.

The real surveillance feed had been cut remotely five minutes before the crime.

That car wasn’t a police car at all—not even a legitimate vehicle.

But he couldn’t say that.

He had already used the “Eye of Truth” twice; the third and final use must be reserved for an unknown crisis.

For now, he had to stand his ground like any ordinary detective—relying on reasoning alone.

Dong Lan glanced at him, a barely perceptible nod.

The meeting continued.

But Song Zhao knew—this was only the beginning.

At 10:17 a.m., in the evidence lab.

The cold chamber hissed as it opened, a wave of chill hitting him.

He pulled up the simulated image of the “hit-and-run” vehicle, then searched the system for recent rearview mirror replacements.

A single, inconspicuous entry popped up—

Old Li’s Garage, West City Industrial Zone. Yesterday at 21:45, a left rearview mirror was replaced; paint matched the Jiangcheng police livery.

Song Zhao’s pupils contracted.

“Old Li’s Garage”—third on the list of early “Lamp Slave” strongholds provided by Teacher Zhou.

The owner, Li, was once a crematorium worker who left three years ago due to mental issues. Since then, his shop had repeatedly appeared in various forgery cases.

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He quietly printed out the work order, slipping it into the public case file box.

But in the original electronic document, he furtively inserted an encrypted watermark, marked as “Level One Contamination Risk—Suspected Lamp Slave Activity Chain Involvement.”

A trap, and a lure.

If anyone tampered with this file, he would be able to follow the trail and unmask the mole.

At 3:09 p.m., in the tech room.

The air conditioner droned, the light harsh and cold.

Lin abruptly stood, handing Dong Lan a “supplemental report”: “Based on fuzzy frames from the city’s SkyNet system, the hit-and-run car’s license plate is preliminarily identified as ending in ‘K9’.”

All eyes settled on him.

Song Zhao rose and walked to the main console. “Pull up the original video.”

“It’s already been processed,” Lin replied evenly. “The raw stream was compressed, with frame loss.”

“Then let’s check the original hash value.” Song Zhao tapped the keyboard, pulling up the underlying data stream. “A video file’s digital fingerprint never lies.”

The screen flickered, two sets of hashes displayed side by side.

They didn’t match.

He magnified the edge of the surveillance footage from five minutes before the accident, playing it frame by frame.

At frame 23:12:03, a utility pole in the lower right flickered with a faint afterimage, pixels overlapping—a post-production overlay.

“This is a composite frame,” Song Zhao’s voice was glacial. “The real surveillance was cut five minutes before the incident. Someone used old footage to fabricate the hit-and-run vehicle.”

The conference room was deathly silent.

Lin lowered his head, revising the report, pressing the pen so hard it pierced the paper, leaving a blackened hole.

He didn’t look up, but his Adam’s apple bobbed slightly.

Song Zhao’s gaze lingered on the back of Lin’s neck, where a fine, circular scar ran—a sign of surgical stitching, precisely where “Wearers” had neural interfaces implanted.

He slowly closed his eyes.

No coincidence.

The boy had already been “awakened.”

This meeting, from the very start, was a test of blind spots—they were watching to see if he would reveal knowledge he shouldn’t have, if he would expose anything “abnormal.”

He’d shielded himself with reasoning, covered the supernatural with trace analysis.

But he knew—they would not relent.

At 4:38 p.m., in the Criminal Investigation squad’s archive room.

Su Wan sat in the corner, a yellowed notebook spread beneath the desk lamp—a tattered remnant of “Lamp Slave Behavioral Comparison Table” that Teacher Zhou had secretly handed her, written in archival ink from the Republic era, tucked in a copy of “Jiangcheng Customs Gazette.”

Her fingertip traced the page, pausing at the third column:

“Behavioral traits during command activation period:
1. Unconscious responses to specific rhythms;
2. Repetitive, periodic hand movements;
3. When focus is engaged…”

She suddenly stopped.

Her pen circled the phrase: “swallows after blinking three times.”

At 4:41 p.m., still in the archive room.

The air was thick as waterlogged cotton, pressing on Su Wan’s shoulders.

Her finger hovered above the yellowed page, afraid to let it fall.

Those six words were like a viper’s tongue, licking her nerves—“swallows after blinking three times.”

Swiftly, she pulled up a saved clip of Lin’s actions from earlier: before the meeting, he was in the corner organizing notes, his profile caught on camera.

Blink—once, twice, three times… then his throat contracted, swallowing distinctly.

The timing was precise—right after Song Zhao tapped the “Lantern Song” code.

She held her breath, flipped the remnant to its back. Faint ink—visible only at the right angle and light—appeared on what had seemed a blank page.

It was an addendum written in Republic-era archival developer ink, the handwriting as fine as a spider’s web:

“If all activation signs manifest, the ‘Messenger’ stage is reached.
Behavioral traits:

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- Swallowing after three blinks (auditory stimulus response)
- Left ring finger tapping the desk seven times (information encoding preparation)
- Pupil dilation during focus (memory upload initialization)

Duty: Identify and report users of unconventional investigative methods.”

Su Wan slammed the notebook shut, her heart pounding against her chest.

They were using people as probes—remodeled “Lamp Slaves” sent to detect anomalies beyond the system.

And Song Zhao, a suspended officer supposedly sidelined by brain trauma, had within twenty minutes dismantled a forged video, pinpointed the surveillance blackout, and precisely identified the repair shop… These deductions were too “smooth,” less coincidence than a mask for something extra-sensory.

She immediately opened her encrypted messenger, fingers flying over the keys: “You’ve been marked. Lin is a Messenger—his behavior matches every indicator. He can sense users of unconventional methods—you must not solve cases by any means except the ‘Eye of Truth,’ or you’ll be exposed.”

Before sending, she hesitated, then added: “They’re not solving the case—they’re screening people. You’re being tested—not suspected, but confirmed.”

As she hit send, the desk lamp flickered.

She looked up. Dusk had fallen outside; the glass reflected her pale face and, behind her on the shelves, rows of silent dossiers.

On one, the label read faintly: “2021 - Narcotics - 047.”

She didn’t notice.

All she wanted now was for Song Zhao to understand: he was already caught in an invisible sieve, and on the other side was something capable of rewriting reality.

At 6:07 p.m., in Song Zhao’s office.

The fluorescent lights buzzed—a low, pulsing hum.

He sat before a black screen, fingers frozen on the keyboard.

The meeting minutes weren’t right.

He distinctly remembered stating: “Surveillance was interrupted five minutes before the incident; the original data stream was tampered with.” But the archived document now read: “SkyNet experienced a brief fluctuation and recovered; no footage of the fleeing vehicle was captured.”

A single word, a world of difference.

He immediately retrieved his local backup, comparing hash values—the file had been overwritten.

Last modified: 4:58 p.m., before the meeting had even ended.

IP address: Internal Tech Room, Terminal 03—Lin’s workstation.

Cold sweat trickled down his spine.

They weren’t just monitoring—they were reconstructing reality.

Piece by piece, they were replacing his words and actions with what they wanted.

Without his habit of backups, days later he might question his own memory—had he remembered it wrong?

He shut down the computer fast, plugged in a USB drive, and began copying the entire original evidence chain.

Just as the system powered off, an unsent draft email flashed across the screen, the window summoned without his notice:

Recipient: Lantern Liaison@police.gov.cn

Subject: Blind Spot Test - Node 73

Body:
Target relies on unconventional methods.
Blind spot test, passed.

The cursor hovered above “Send,” as if awaiting a command.

Song Zhao slowly withdrew the USB, his knuckles white.

He knew—it would be sent, sooner or later.

Now, he had to find the one piece of evidence not yet overwritten, before the system closed for good.

In the darkness, he stood, heading for the deepest archive in the evidence center.

There, behind a door that was never opened, marked Zone B, were all the narcotics cases “technically shelved” over the past three years.

One file, labeled “2021 - Narcotics - 047,” had been mentioned in his father’s diary twenty years ago.

He didn’t know why, but tonight, he had to go there once more.