Chapter 357

Xu Damao lay on the hard board bed in the factory infirmary that smelled of disinfectant for less than two hours; his soul was like a soaked sponge, slowly being reabsorbed into his body.

The pain in his shoulders and neck remained, but more piercing was a kind of post‑disaster terror, and… a strange, burning excitement.

I almost died. This realization made him break out in a cold sweat, almost wetting his pants. But immediately, another thought wrapped around him like poison ivy: I saw him! I saw the killer clearly! I even know what's in the Iron Box! This is Xu Damao's one‑of‑a‑kind leverage!

After the initial panic receded, Xu Damao's shrewd calculations began to regain the high ground.

He lay on the hospital bed, his eyeballs rolling under his tightly shut lids. This was a huge matter; the Project Team, the Security Department, and Factory Director Li were surely watching him.

He was now a key witness and the primary target. Dangerous, but it also meant an opportunity—a huge one!

Should he just spill everything? That would be too easy for the Security Department and the Project Team. How would the credit be calculated? Had he endured this fright, these injuries, and the risk of continued assassination for nothing? No, he had to make full use of this leverage, put it to good use.

A plan quickly took shape in his winding, devious mind.

He deliberately groaned, and when Chen Jianghe came again to inquire, he acted shaken and vague, saying only that the man was short, his face dirty, unrecognizable, with tremendous grip strength, and that the Iron Box contained old photos and some scraps of paper—what exactly, he claimed, he couldn't see because he'd been too frightened.

He deliberately obscured the killer's most distinctive facial features (in fact, he had clearly seen the man's drooping outer eye corners, prominent cheekbones, gaunt face, and a fairly large black mole on the left earlobe), and also concealed his own fleeting glimpse of the blurry numbers on the paper scraps.

But he "inadvertently" told a young guard tasked with watching him (he knew the kid couldn't keep a secret): "Gee, I was lucky back then—I almost had that guy's face pressed to mine; his features were obvious—if I saw him again I'd surely recognize him! And the stuff in that box, though I didn't examine it closely, is definitely out of the ordinary, otherwise why would someone kill for it?"

Those words spread like wings, quickly through the Security Department's small circle and even via some covert channel to the ears of certain people "concerned" about the matter.

That's exactly the effect Xu Damao wanted. He wanted to spread the word: "I, Xu Damao, saw the killer and know the item is important." That way, the Security Department and the Project Team would have to treat him as a treasure and guard him tightly.

From the killer's side, he would certainly be seen as a thorn in the flesh, a splinter in the eye—but precisely because of that, the security forces would dare not let up.

Xu Damao himself would safely stay at the center of the protection circle, becoming the "pearl that calms the storm" in the eye of the tempest, waiting for the waves to pass, then reaping the rewards steady as a rock on the basis of this "major meritorious service" and "brave wound".

He even began to fantasize: once the case was solved, would he be invited to give a report in the city? Would he appear in the newspapers?

He had already imagined the headline: "Resourceful Cadre Foils Enemy Spy, Fearlessly Preserves Evidence in the Nick of Time." … Thinking of how clever it was, his mouth twitched involuntarily, almost laughing out loud, but he quickly stifled it and put on a grimace of feigned lingering fear.

Yet Xu Damao's self‑congratulatory scheming was childish play compared to the real hunters and far more dangerous opponents.

After receiving Li Ping'an's report on Xu Damao's "leaked" information, Project Team Group Leader Sun only coldly remarked: "He's giving himself a talisman, but he's also become the brightest target. The killer surely already knows he's been identified, and knows he claims to remember the Iron Box's contents."

What comes next, there are only two possibilities: either the killer flees and abandons this lead, or… he will spare no expense to silence Xu Damao forever—before he is placed under tight protection or before he can reveal more.

Obviously, given the enemy's ruthlessness and persistence, the latter is far more likely. Moreover, they may not need to directly assault the heavily guarded Xu Damao.

The killer is impulsive, but the mind controlling him is calm. Li Ping'an stood at the window on the second floor of the Security Department, gazing at the factory district as dusk deepened, lost in thought.

Xu Damao is this "bait"—we must use him, but we cannot let him lead us by the nose. Protection must be carried out, and the net must also be cast.

He ordered that, openly, extra guards be assigned in three shifts, never leaving Xu Damao's side, and that he be lodged in a vacant dormitory with iron windows behind the Security Department, with meals specially inspected and delivered.

In secret, he drafted capable plainclothes officers to conduct a reverse investigation of everyone Xu Damao had recently contacted, especially those who might have encountered him after his inadvertent disclosure.

At the same time, regarding the Su Xiulan lead, surveillance was stepped up and they began to sort through all the books she had borrowed over the past three years that might relate to industry, technology, or codes, to see whether, aside from *Principles of Machinery*, she had also come into contact with any other volumes that could be used for information transmission or training.

Xu Damao was "invited" to the small house behind the Security Department. Seeing the guards posted at the door and the iron bars on the windows, he felt a bit uneasy at first, but soon grew proud: "Look at this show of force—it proves I'm important!" He took his special protection in stride, even began to complain that the food wasn't refined enough and that his shoulder pain needed better medicine.

He didn't know that, while he was complaining about the food, the killer disguised as a janitor in another corner of the factory had already changed into a semi‑worn but clean blue work uniform, donned a flat cap, blended with the off‑shift crowd, head down, and slowly walked out of the Steel Rolling Mill's main gate.

A small, inconspicuous patch of flesh‑colored tape was stuck to his left earlobe.

He was called Old Blade—a name as cold and sharp as his purpose, existing only to reap. The Iron Box had already been sent away, but the mission had suffered a fatal mishap.

That idiot Xu Damao had actually seen his face clearly and even claimed to remember what was inside the box. This was an intolerable loophole.

Going straight to the Security Department to kill him? That would be suicide. Old Blade wasn't that foolish. He was waiting—for an opportunity, or for a new order.

The person pulling his strings, codename "Shopkeeper," would absolutely not allow Xu Damao—a live witness and potential identifier—to remain alive.

The Shopkeeper would have a way—perhaps he wouldn't need Old Blade to act personally.

Sure enough, that night, in an order conveyed via a dead letter box, Old Blade received his new mission: lay low, cease all activities inside the Steel Rolling Mill, monitor the exterior of Xu Damao's protection point, and assess the feasibility of a forceful assault or infiltration.

At the same time, the order stressed that someone would apply pressure from other directions, create chaos, and perhaps create an opportunity to deal with Xu Damao.

"Other directions?" Old Blade chewed on those four words. Was it the Su Xiulan side? Or something else?

Su Xiulan had been living these days as if walking on a razor's edge. In the library everything seemed normal, yet she could feel those glances that seemed to sweep past unintentionally, the bicycle that always kept a distance behind her on the way home, and the faint glow of cigarette butts lurking in the darkness near her door.

Fear clung to her heart like icy vines, tightening ever more. She knew she had been exposed—at least suspected.

Her brother's whereabouts remained a mystery, while she herself had become a pawn in someone else's hand—possibly a disposable piece.

That evening, as she returned home from work, while buying vegetables at the alley mouth, an old woman stooping to pick leaves seemed to absentmindedly slip a crumpled little paper ball into her vegetable basket.

Su Xiulan stiffened all over, forced herself to calm, returned home, locked the door, and with trembling hands opened the paper wad—on it was a single penciled line, uneven and shaky: "Tomorrow night at eight, the old place, the final word, about your brother."

"The old place?" Was it the Listening‑Rain Teahouse? Or some other spot she had arranged with "them"? Su Xiulan's heart began to race.

"The final word?" What did that mean? Was it finally going to tell her where her brother was, or… was it just one last use of her, or even a complete elimination?

She sat in the dim room, clutching that slip of paper, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. Going could be a trap, a dead end.

Not going, her brother's news might vanish forever, and the other side might then deem her worthless and silence her.

What should she do? Report to those protecting her? Could they be trusted? Could they rescue her brother?

Overwhelming pain and confusion nearly consumed her. She didn't notice that, not far outside her window, a detective posing as a cobbler was using a telescope to sharply capture the anomalous moment when she bought vegetables and brushed against that old woman, and immediately reported the situation.

The Project Team quickly identified the old woman who had slipped the note; she turned out to be merely a street vagrant who had been used and paid a small sum, and the other party had only instructed her to slip the note to "the woman in gray Lenin‑style clothing, wearing glasses, coming from the library direction," knowing nothing else.

Handwriting analysis showed the note was written with the left hand, making comparison impossible.

The other side was urging Su Xiulan. Group Leader Sun judged they might want to use her to draw something out, or to send false information to disrupt us, or even… to make her a pawn or sacrificial lamb in an attack.

Tomorrow night at eight, at the "old place," we must set up surveillance. But this time we'll be loose outside, tight inside, to see what tricks they're really up to.

Li Ping'an agreed with that assessment. But he worried more: could this move be linked to Xu Damao's side? Was it a feint to draw the tiger away from the mountain, diverting the attention of the Security Department and Project Team to create an opening for an attack on Xu Damao? Or was there some other scheme?

The forces protecting Xu Damao had not weakened; rather, because of the developments on Su Xiulan's side, Li Ping'an covertly added two more reliable operatives, blending them into the factory night‑shift workers to lurk at key points near Xu Damao's hut. He himself also decided to personally take charge at the factory tomorrow night.

Night fell once more, the massive frame of the Steel Rolling Mill crouched in the darkness, the machines' roar diminished but not stilled, like the slow breath of a giant beast.

Xu Damao, in his hut, was eating the convalescent meal sent by the guards (with an extra egg added), mulling over how he could tomorrow "inadvertently" stress his own importance again.

Su Xiulan, at home, trembled over that slip of paper, unable to sleep all night.

Old Blade lay concealed in an abandoned shed outside the factory, waiting like a poisonous snake for the moment.

And many more eyes, hidden in every corner inside and outside the factory, vigilantly scanned for any abnormality.

The bait had been cast, the net spread. A game surrounding Xu Damao's life or death, Su Xiulan's choice, and the secret of the Iron Box, in the hushed night, had entered its most tense moment.

The murderer's desperate‑as‑a‑dog‑jump‑the‑wall shadow hung over the Steel Rolling Mill, and the hunters' arrows had already been silently nocked, aiming at the tiniest stir in the darkness.

The wind seemed to have stopped. But everyone knows this is the most suffocating calm before the storm.

Xu Damao's pitiful scheming is insignificant in this grand game of chess. His life and Su Xiulan's fate, as well as the safety of many others, will hinge on the contest of wit, courage and ruthlessness over the next ten‑plus hours.

The towering smokestacks of the plant silently pointed toward the night sky, as if awaiting a thunderclap destined to shatter the silence.