Chapter 28: The Scalding Bronze Seal

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At eleven o’clock at night, Song Zhao’s breath turned to pale mist in the musty air of the old house’s storage room.

He crouched before a wooden chest; the rusty padlock snapped with a harsh shriek under the steel wire cutters. As the lid creaked open, a cloud of dust rose, making him squint.

Inside was his father’s police equipment bag. The navy cloth was frayed at the edges, and the buckle still bore a familiar scratch—a scar left when he’d stolen his father’s badge to sneak into an arcade at thirteen, and the buckle had snapped under the strain.

Song Zhao swallowed hard, his gloved hand hovering in the air, fingers trembling faintly.

He touched first a corroded police badge, the metal edge biting into his palm.

He picked it up gently; on the back was carved “Song Weiguo 1985.” The engraving had been worn by years, but it brought back his father’s words: “The badge is your backbone; it must be hard as bone.”

Digging deeper, he uncovered half a burnt case file—its cover only a remnant, though he could just make out: “1998.11.23 Lin Umbrella Shop Arson.” It matched exactly the unsolved case number he’d found at the evidence center.

The last item was unexpectedly heavy.

As soon as Song Zhao’s fingertips brushed the oilcloth-wrapped object, a jolt of heat shot through his palm.

He jerked his hand back. The oilcloth slipped away, revealing a brass seal.

The face of the seal was mottled, with only the characters for “Zhou Family” remaining. Around the edge, fine, branching patterns were engraved, reminiscent of the roots of an ancient locust tree.

“Dad…” he whispered, the word bouncing off the moldy walls and echoing back at him.

Outside, the rain suddenly intensified, drumming loudly on the tiles.

Song Zhao drew a deep breath, pulled on a pair of contamination-proof gloves, and once more pressed his fingertips to the seal.

A burning sensation raced up his nerves to his temples, and darkness crashed over his vision.

When his sight cleared, the rain was gone, replaced by the stifling stench of char.

The scene of the 1998 fire exploded on his retinas—his father, Song Weiguo, kneeling in the ashes, half his face blackened by smoke, right hand pressing down on a fragment of paper, left hand clutching the brass seal.

“Three branches, seven lines, all return to the Lin family…” Song Weiguo’s lips trembled, voice rough as if fire clogged his throat. “It can’t be burned… This is the Zhou family’s blood pact, made over three generations…”

Before the words faded, a beam crashed down, flames licking the edge of the fragment.

Song Zhao instinctively reached out, but his fingers passed through the ghostly vision.

Agony exploded behind his brow; he staggered, knocking over the wooden chest. The brass seal clattered to the ground.

When he looked up again, tears stung his eyes from the harsh storage room light, and a red welt bloomed in his palm like a burn.

“This isn’t a relic… it’s a key.” He bent to pick up the seal, his thumb tracing the characters for “Zhou Family.” His voice was barely more than a murmur, “Dad, the key you hid for twenty years—it’s time to open the door.”

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At seven the next morning, the underground archival vault of the city library glowed with cold, sterile light.

Su Wan’s white coat was dusted at the cuffs with flecks from old folders. She stared at the pattern scan on her computer screen, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Professor Shen Lanxin’s “Genealogical Land Rights and Avoidance Atlas” was spread open on the desk, a brittle ginkgo specimen tucked between the yellowed pages—a reward from the professor for helping organize ancient texts back in her sophomore year.

“Southern branch sequence…” she softly read the marginalia, her mouse tracing the branching patterns on the scan. “A secret code marking the direct lines of the Zhou clan during the Republican era—each branch for one generation of heirs.”

Suddenly, the database chimed with a match.

Su Wan’s fingers paused. On the screen appeared: “Zhou Family, Three Branches, Seven Lines. Covenant established in the 37th year of the Republic. Property entrusted to ‘Lin Umbrella Company’ for twenty years, automatically renewed until political change.”

“The renewal clause!” She sat up straight; her chair scraped loudly on the floor.

The archive manager peeked out from behind the surveillance screen. Su Wan offered an apologetic smile, but her fingers tightened around the USB drive in her coat pocket—it held the photo Song Zhao had sent of the brass seal the night before.

“If no one terminates it…” she repeated into the air, her voice trailing off. “1998 was the last year of the renewal period.” The morning light filtered through the small window, casting shadows under her eyes.

She suddenly remembered what Song Zhao had said about the 1998 arson—the fire in the accounting office had broken out precisely on November 23.

At 9:30 a.m., the bitter scent of coffee filled Song Zhao’s apartment.

He set the brass seal and the charred fragment of the family record side by side under the lamp. The nerve suppressant in the syringe was tinged pale blue.

Dong Lan’s voice crackled over the phone line: “This will delay the cognitive collapse after you use your ability, but the side effects—”

“I know.” He cut her off and pressed the plunger.

Cold fluid spread through his veins. He stared at the seal, inhaling deeply three times, then pressed his fingertips gently to the carbonized edge of the fragment.

This time, the flashback didn’t burn; it was like sinking into ice water.

The 1998 fire scene was no longer fragmented. He saw the man in the raincoat—the cap of his duckbill hat pulled low, collar turned up to his ears.

Kneeling beside the accountant’s body, the man, gloved, picked up the half-burnt fragment with a touch as gentle as waking a sleeper.

When his briefcase opened, Song Zhao glimpsed a “Jiangcheng City Cadastral Register” inside, its corners dog-eared as if well-thumbed.

The man turned to leave, and a fountain pen slipped from his sleeve.

Song Zhao narrowed his eyes—the pen cap was engraved with “Urban Construction Archives,” glinting cold in the firelight.

Then came two faint scraping sounds, like a nib scratching paper.

As the vision faded, Song Zhao’s temples throbbed, golden spots dancing before his eyes, but he saw clearly—three new words had been added to the back of the fragment: “Alter Register.”

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“Dong Lan, check the 1998 Urban Construction Bureau archive staff, especially those in charge of cadastral entries.” He grabbed his phone, voice shaking. “Focus on Lin Acheng’s father-in-law, Chen Dehai.”

At 1 p.m., Dong Lan’s reply pinged into his inbox.

Song Zhao opened the attachment, pupils constricting—a medical retirement application was tucked into Chen Dehai’s 1998 employment file, with “Linji Development Company” listed as the payer of his pension.

A check on the company’s registration showed it was closed in 2001, then reborn in 2003 as “Lin Cheng Realty,” with “Lin Acheng” as the legal representative.

“A change of shell, not of hands; the accounts pass through three generations, the power stays in one line.” He gave a cold laugh, then compiled the brass seal photo, scan of the fragment, land contract number, and Chen Dehai’s file into an encrypted dossier named “Linmen Covenant.”

When uploading it to the provincial bureau’s “Cold Case Reopen” portal, his mouse hovered over the “Submit” button for half a minute before he finally pressed down hard.

At six in the evening, the hum of the AC filled the library’s surveillance room.

Su Wan stared at her screen; an anomalous access log glared at her like a thorn—“JC-1903-07” film access had been remotely logged in three minutes after she left, with the IP traced to the city foundation’s server.

Her fingers danced on the keys. She inserted a forged log in reverse, showing the film as “digitally archived,” and set the physical retrieval to trigger an alarm.

When she was done, she switched off the monitor. As she stood, her lower back knocked against the chair arm—a childhood injury from when traffickers once caught her, which always ached in damp weather.

The rain still hadn’t stopped. As Su Wan gathered her things, she glimpsed the unmarked black sedan at the street corner.

The window reflected her own outline, blurred like a smear of shadow.

She pulled out her phone and sent Song Zhao a message: “They’re looking for the original film.”

The phone’s screen lit up and went dark. She gazed at the car through the curtain of rain and whispered, “You think burning a single page will erase a century’s bloodline… but the words, they’re inscribed in our bones.”

At eleven that night, Song Zhao’s phone vibrated on the coffee table.

He opened Su Wan’s message, then looked outside—the rain had finally stopped, and a half-moon peered through the clouds.

Suddenly, a notification popped up: the provincial bureau’s case registration. As he looked closer, another message appeared: “West Street Redevelopment Zone, 6 a.m.—something’s waiting for you.”

The number was unfamiliar, but it reminded him of the half-burned map among his father’s relics—West Street was the spot marked in red.

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. In the hallway mirror, his jaw was set tight.

At the corner, the unmarked sedan started up, its wipers sweeping the glass one last time, leaving two streaks on the window.

Meanwhile, across the city, in the ruined shell of the West Street redevelopment zone, the wind rattled a half-broken brass umbrella rib inside a wall cavity sealed with cement, gently tapping a metal box hidden within.