Chapter 46: The Ember Returns Home

The harsh screech of metal scraping against rust echoed through the deathly silent power distribution room as the crowbar’s tip finally pried open the decayed latch of the vent.

Without the slightest hesitation, Song Zhao braced his arms and pulled himself into the narrow, dust-choked passageway.

A stifling stench of rot, tinged with the faint whiff of ozone, invaded his nostrils, making his stomach churn.

It was even more constricted than he’d imagined, permitting only a crawl.

Cold sheet metal grated against his elbows and knees, each movement like a dull blade slicing through memories from twenty years ago.

In the darkness, he relied solely on the feeble beam of his flashlight to find his way.

At the end of the light, a primitive, makeshift device lay quietly in the corner—several circuit boards haphazardly lashed together with tape, connected to an ancient car battery, and a crude antenna piercing a crack in the wall, stubbornly stretching toward an abandoned chimney outside.

A homemade radio transmitter.

Song Zhao’s heart suddenly plummeted.

He knew Chen Mo—his former partner, once the most brilliant tech detective in the force, could cobble together a machine capable of contacting the outside world from a handful of scrap metal.

Now, this machine was the only beacon he’d left hidden in the world.

Beside the radio, a dust-covered note was pinned by a battery.

Song Zhao carefully picked it up and blew away the dust. On it was a single line of thin, angular handwriting, the strokes trembling with weakness yet infused with an unyielding resolve:

“The signal transmits once every 24 hours. If interrupted, it means I am dead. —CM-097”

CM-097, Chen Mo’s code name during his undercover mission within the police force.

A persona known to no one but himself.

Song Zhao’s fingertips trembled uncontrollably as he gently touched the cold knob of the radio.

The moment his skin met the metal, a searing pain stabbed through his temple, and the world before his eyes was instantly swallowed by a flurry of whirling snowflakes.

Color and form drained from the world, dissolving into a gray chaos.

He knew—the “Eye of Truth” had activated.

It was the ability he’d gained, and the curse he’d borne, since that accident twenty years ago.

He could touch the most powerful emotional memories attached to objects.

Within the chaos, a blurred silhouette gradually took shape.

It was a compartment even more confining and pitch-dark than the ventilation shaft.

Chen Mo was curled in a corner, so emaciated he was little more than skin and bone, his once-bright eyes sunken and bloodshot, like a wild beast on the brink of death, caged and desperate.

He seemed to be enduring unbearable agony, his body wracked with violent convulsions.

At last, as if steeling himself for something, he thrust his finger into his mouth and bit down hard.

Blood seeped from between his teeth, yet he seemed insensible to the pain. Using that blood-smeared finger, he began to carve two characters, stroke by stroke, into the cold, rough wall.

Such force did he use, it was as if he meant to etch his very soul into the stone.

Song Zhao saw what those bloody characters said—a silent scream that nearly tore his eardrums apart.

“Zhao, trust me.”

His vision abruptly contracted. Gasping for breath, Song Zhao wrenched himself free from the suffocating hallucination.

He slumped against the frigid metal, sweat beading on his brow.

At last, he understood: Chen Mo’s signal was not a cry for help, but a charge entrusted to him.

A trust that balanced life and death on a razor’s edge.

10:03 a.m.

Dozens of unmarked black vehicles silently surrounded the old site of the Yong’an Orphanage, setting up a physical cordon hundreds of meters wide.

Song Zhao stood beside the command vehicle, face grim, issuing orders through his earpiece.

He hadn’t called in a single uniformed officer. Instead, he’d brought only those he trusted most—the elite, handpicked from every department, loyal to him alone.

“Technical team, report status.”

“Captain Song, we have complete control of the building’s external power network. Ready to cut at any time.”

Song Zhao glanced at his watch. The hands pointed precisely to 10:04.

Chen Mo’s signal had been transmitted around five in the morning. With the 24-hour cycle, this was when he’d be least alert.

“Cut the main power,” Song Zhao ordered, his voice flat. “Group Three, monitor all backup lines for current fluctuation. He’ll switch to a backup. The instant he does, I want his exact position.”

With the command given, all faint noises of electrical appliances within the orphanage abruptly ceased. The building plunged into utter silence.

In less than ten seconds, the technical team’s voice crackled in his ear, tinged with excitement: “We have a fix! Third floor, east side, third compartment! There’s a faint DC current, very low power—consistent with a backup battery!”

“Move!”

Song Zhao led the charge himself. Eschewing explosives, he used a special tool to silently unlock the compartment door in seconds.

He kicked the door open and burst inside.

At that instant, a shadow in the corner jerked up its arm, the cold muzzle of a gun aiming directly at the entrance.

From bloodshot eyes burned the ferocity of a cornered beast.

But when he saw Song Zhao, the killing intent and despair in his eyes froze in place.

Time seemed to stop.

Chen Mo’s hand holding the gun trembled uncontrollably.

He looked at Song Zhao, at the wary, armed team behind him—his gaze flickered from shock, to confusion, then finally to utter desolation.

Slowly, inch by inch, he lowered the muzzle.

12:40 p.m., at a temporary safehouse on the city outskirts, its address unregistered.

The sharp scent of disinfectant hung in the air.

Chen Mo leaned weakly against the wall, dressed in clean clothes that did little to hide his sickly pallor.

He hadn’t touched the food laid before him, only stared fixedly at Song Zhao.

“I thought... you’d come to arrest me,” his voice was hoarse as if scraped raw by sandpaper. “I thought you’d see me as the traitor from twenty years ago, the one who killed our old captain.”

Song Zhao said nothing, only pushed a steaming bowl of soup toward him before drawing out a folded piece of paper and gently laying it on the table.

It was a picture drawn in crayon.

On it, a little girl beamed with joy as she held hands with a giant of a man.

The man’s eyes were colored a vivid red, jarringly out of place.

Next to the drawing, in childish handwriting, were three words: “Red-Eyed Daddy.”

“Your daughter Xiaoya drew this,” Song Zhao said quietly, his voice deep and steady. “She said her daddy’s eyes are always red these days. She thinks you’re working too hard. She misses you.”

The moment Chen Mo saw the picture, it was as though all strength drained out of him.

Stiffly, he reached out, wanting to touch the drawing, but stopped, as if it bore a weight he could not bear.

In the end, he bowed his head. A single scalding tear fell onto the paper, quickly soaking into the word “red.”

5:11 p.m., the safehouse phone rang.

It was Dong Lan; her voice was calm and measured, but could not entirely mask her excitement. “Song Zhao, the disciplinary committee just issued formal notice—Lin Haoyu has been apprehended. His ‘Spring Breeze’ Charity Foundation was sealed off overnight, and all assets are frozen.”

Song Zhao hung up and passed the news to Chen Mo.

Chen Mo, who had been silent all this time, suddenly jolted.

He looked up, and for the first time, a faint glimmer of hope shone in his red eyes.

He seemed to summon all his remaining strength to speak: “He... he’s finished?”

“He’s finished,” Song Zhao nodded. “But we still need the key evidence—the chain that will definitively tie him to all his crimes.”

“I have it,” Chen Mo’s breath became rapid. “I have a USB drive. Everything I’ve risked my life for these years is on it. It’s not the full proof, but it’s the index to Lin Haoyu’s entire criminal network. With it, you’ll know where to look and who to investigate.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s... under my daughter Xiaoya’s pillow,” Chen Mo replied, pain and tenderness mingling in his eyes. “That’s... the safest place in the world.”

“I’ll get it,” Song Zhao said without hesitation, rising to his feet.

“Wait.” Chen Mo stopped him.

With trembling hands, he fumbled inside the inner pocket of his battered old jacket for a long time, then finally pulled something out, clenching his fist around it before extending his hand to Song Zhao.

Slowly, he opened his palm.

Inside was an old police badge.

Its edges were worn, the golden emblem dulled, but it had been carefully cleaned.

It was the very badge that their old captain had given them when they first joined the force twenty years ago.

Chen Mo placed the cold badge in Song Zhao’s warm palm, and said, word by word, “Zhao, twenty years ago, I asked you to trust me, but I never gave you a reason. This time, let me be the one to trust you.”

8:09 p.m., by the riverside.

The evening breeze, heavy with the scent of water, stirred the corners of their clothes.

Song Zhao and Chen Mo stood side by side, neither speaking.

In Song Zhao’s palm, the old badge glimmered with a faint but steady light, reflecting the neon glow from across the river.

In the distance, the city library was ablaze with light, standing tall like a beacon in the night.

Song Zhao knew that Su Wan was there, in the climate-controlled, humidity-regulated restoration room, wearing white gloves and using the most delicate tools to painstakingly restore a half-burnt account book salvaged from the fire.

That was another thread in the foundation’s clandestine web.

Gazing at those distant lights, Chen Mo spoke softly: “The spark isn’t out.”

Song Zhao drew his gaze back from afar, looking down at the ever-rushing river at his feet, and replied in a low voice, “It’s come home.”

The wind suddenly picked up, rippling the river’s surface.

The badge in his palm seemed to come alive with the wind, growing warm to the touch—as if, after being sealed away for twenty years, its heart had finally been rekindled this very night.