Chapter 46: The Recorder

As I was opening it, I reached into the file envelope and felt around. There was a noticeable bulge inside—probably photos or something similar. I took a utility knife and sliced the envelope open, then turned it upside down.

Several photographs slid out immediately and landed in my hands. I only caught a glimpse before I was so startled I threw the envelope away. My heart began pounding wildly.

It’s hard to describe exactly what was in the photos. Even though I only glanced at them, the images were crystal clear—black-and-white photographs of dead bodies, their faces and corpses captured in stark detail. And it wasn’t just one person; I saw at least two different faces.

I couldn’t tell who they were or when the photos were taken, but one thing was certain—someone had died. And someone else had taken the time to photograph their corpses and send those photos to me.

I’d never seen anything so twisted. I turned the photos face-down and set them aside, then dumped out the rest of the contents from the envelope.

The papers were old and brittle, the edges yellowed and singed as if they’d been near fire. What immediately caught my attention was the handwriting on the pages—bold, powerful strokes that hinted at someone highly skilled in calligraphy.
—
“Project Record No. 10

Recorder: XX

Confidential Level: Class One

Project Status: Entered first layer of Burial Pit via tunnel. No anomalies. Project proceeding. No supply records.

Casualties: None
Personnel: 109

Date: March 2, 1951

Location: Gansu”
—
The content left me confused, though the word “Gansu” did stand out. It felt like these were just two stray pages pulled from a much larger archive.

From this first page alone, I could tell the project was highly classified and dated back a long time. The document seemed to be a progress log, but with only these two pages, I couldn’t piece together the full story.

So I turned to the next page.

—
“Project Record No. 11

Recorder: XX

Confidential Level: Class One

Project Status: Surface collapse. Project failed.
Casualties: 109

Personnel: 109

Date: October 3, 1951

Location: Gansu”
—

The log entry was remarkably concise, with casualties represented merely by a few stark numbers. However, the recorder’s name on these two pages had faded over time, becoming nearly illegible.

I certainly didn’t believe the contents of these documents were some kind of prank. Someone had sent these archives to me, likely intending to convey some message through these papers

That was all the content there was. I held the pages up, tapped them with my finger, and examined them under a light, wondering if there might be some hidden ink or secret message. But after fiddling with them for a while, I realized the paper was so brittle it was flaking apart—there was no way it could’ve been treated with any special chemicals. I gave up trying to uncover any hidden messages.

Once I’d calmed down a bit, I dared to look at the photos again. I laid them out in two neat rows—ten photos in total. Only two showed faces; the rest were close-ups of torn, mutilated bodies.

I compared their clothing one by one and realized the entire set featured just two individuals. One wore a dark, lightweight down jacket; the other had on a camel-colored coat and carried a backpack. One of the faces struck me as oddly familiar.

I’d seen that face before, but couldn’t place it. I let it go for now and turned my attention to the second page. The “Recorder” field was faint, but I could tell it was two characters.

I had no idea what this project was called. In 1951, even my grandfather was still a young man. The time gap was too great. Rather than trying to uncover the project’s name, it made more sense to focus on identifying the recorder.

Whoever sent me this file clearly wanted me to find something out. And in this entire document, the only obscured detail was the recorder’s name. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

I already had a method in mind for restoring faded text—scan the document, then digitally enhance the image layer by layer. This was right in my wheelhouse.

Fourth Brother had an old scanner in his room. I tucked the photos and pages back into the envelope, quietly cracked the door open, and peeked out. The shop assistants were all busy in the front hall greeting guests. I slipped out sideways, closed the door behind me, and snuck into the little red door next to it.

Once inside, I got to work. I scanned the pages using the old machine, then spent over three hours enhancing the text on the computer until the faded characters finally became legible.

The result was beyond anything I could’ve imagined.

“Recorder: Tian Xiao.”

It was just too strange.

I stood up, stretching my back, and stared at the screen. I rubbed my brow, utterly baffled. The recorder for this project was Tian Xiao. That meant this wasn’t just any ordinary project.

In 1951, Tian Xiao had been involved in a highly classified operation and had served as the recorder for its tenth and eleventh stages. And now, over fifty years later, someone had sent me his records—along with photos of two dead people.

I shut off the computer, stuffed the envelope back inside my coat, and was about to leave when my eyes fell on a large group photo hanging in Fourth Brother’s room. It looked like all the shop assistants were in it, with Fourth Brother standing proudly in the center, looking much younger.

I walked over to examine the photo more closely. In the third row, I noticed a young man in a white tank top standing at the far edge, hands on his hips, beaming with a bright, carefree smile.

That face gave me chills. I fumbled to pull out one of the face photos from the envelope and held it up next to the group picture. The comparison confirmed what I’d suspected from the start.

I put the photo away, returned to the back room, and locked both the envelope and the Jade Casket in the cabinet. Then I stepped out and called to Xiao Wu to make me a cup of tea.

Xiao Wu was simple and honest. He didn’t think too much and immediately crouched down to find some tea leaves.

Watching his practiced movements, I nudged my nose with a finger and asked, “Hey, Xiao Wu, do you think I’m a lousy shopkeeper?”

Xiao Wu looked up. “Young Master, why would you say that? You’re younger than most of the guys here. We all kind of treat you like a little brother. Sure, we make good money, but sometimes our hands get a bit bloody. You’re a proper college student—there’s no shame in running the shop. Once you graduate, you can get a clean job. That’d be great, wouldn’t it?”

“But I’ve been living here for two months now, and you’re still the only one I really know. I’d like to get to know the others too,” I said.

Xiao Wu chuckled. “No need to get too familiar with us. People in the Outer Eight Trades tend to disappear. You never know when someone’s just gone, like they vanished into thin air.”

I suddenly remembered He Yu had said something similar. I hadn’t paid much attention at the time, but now I pressed on. “I saw a big group photo in Fourth Brother’s room earlier. Are those all our shop’s people?”

“Oh, that one? Yeah, that was taken when Ying Gan Hall first opened. It’s been a while,” Xiao Wu said as he started boiling water.

I nodded, then asked, “Do you remember a young guy in a white tank top in that photo? Not very tall, standing at the edge, but he looked pretty cheerful. He doesn’t work here anymore? I don’t think I’ve seen him.”

Xiao Wu thought for a moment, then suddenly remembered. “Oh, him! Young Master, your memory’s terrible. I just told you this morning—A-Yun went back to his hometown. You already forgot?”

My heart sank. “You mean the guy in the white tank top is A-Yun?”

“That’s right.” Xiao Wu poured hot water into the cup to rinse the tea leaves.

A-Yun was dead.

My expression darkened. Those black-and-white photos had clearly been taken recently. If my initial hunch was right, A-Yun was one of the “moles” inside the shop.

Now the only thing left to confirm was whether the other corpse in the photos was the thief who stole the Jade Casket yesterday.

Just then, the shop’s landline rang. I picked it up—it was the police. They said the small porcelain items stolen yesterday had been recovered and asked me to come retrieve them tomorrow.

I quickly asked, “Did you catch the thief?”

The officer replied, “He jumped from a building around 8 p.m. tonight, near your shop. Died on the spot. When we searched his rental room, we found the stolen goods. We believe the place was just a temporary hideout. Whether it was suicide out of guilt or something else is still under investigation. We can’t disclose more for now.”

My mind went blank with a loud buzz.

The thief was the man who’d fallen from the building across the street during dinner—his body shattered on the ground. That wasn’t suicide. He’d been silenced and thrown off the building.

Whoever sent me the envelope had killed the thief before he could deliver the Jade Casket to Hou Jinshan. They hadn’t even spared A-Yun, who was only indirectly involved. Both men died within the same window of time.

Then the killer photographed their corpses, quietly returned the Jade Casket to me, developed the photos, and mailed them in the envelope. Without those photos, I never would’ve known two lives had been snuffed out.

This wasn’t intimidation. If it were, they would’ve sent something far more terrifying than a few photos of corpses.

No, this felt more like a warning.

Someone was watching me—and using these photos to pressure me into staying involved. And that person had made one thing very clear: the Jade Casket must not fall into anyone else’s hands. If it did, they would eliminate the thief without hesitation.