Chapter 347: Test of Trust·Shadows of Internal Rebellion

Zhao Jianguo stared at the thin crack in the door frame, his eyes never blinking. The movement just now wasn't an illusion— the crack breathed, gently rising and falling, its color darker than before, like the rusted hue of iron sheet soaked in water for a long time. He didn't step back, nor call anyone, just slowly lifted his hand from Zhao Yang's forehead, his fingertips brushing the pant seam twice, as if wiping away something invisible.

The room was still quiet; the Triplets had already returned to the East Room to rest, the Light Screen was off, the door no longer creaked, only the marble in Zhao Yang's pocket occasionally gave a light clack, crisp but muffled. Zhao Jianguo turned, his steps light, not disturbing anyone, and walked straight to the office desk in the East Wing Room. He pulled open a drawer, took out an old‑fashioned recorder, black, its corners worn white, a piece of "practical supplies" he had exchanged for attendance a couple of days ago; he had joked then that it should have been in a museum. Now he rewound the tape and pressed the play button.

"Civilization—fire—of—light, begins—at—faint—glow."

His voice came out of the Speaker, a bit muffled and with some static.

He squinted as he listened, pressed pause again, pulled out the tape to look at it under the Light Screen, then slipped it back into the machine and fast‑forwarded. A few seconds later he heard his own voice again, but this time the trailing syllable was drawn out unusually long, as if someone had softly added a line behind him, though it was indistinct. He turned the volume to maximum and pressed his ear to the Speaker.

"…begins at… faint glow…"

That trailing voice was that of an old man, hoarse, as if gasping.

Zhao Jianguo slammed the recorder shut, his brows knotting. He stood up, walked to the corner beneath the old wall clock, lifted a loose floor tile, and retrieved a smaller device from beneath, silver‑gray, its surface engraved with "Special Service Bureau Voiceprint Sampling Terminal". It was left by Jia Dongxu last week, claimed to "prevent signal contamination"; he had dismissed it then, but now his palm felt hot.

He plugged the recorder's output cable into the Terminal and pressed the capture button. The Screen lit up, and the Waveform Diagram began to pulse. He stared at the line, watching his voice and that strange trailing sound being split into two separate frequency curves. One curve was steady and clear; the other was intermittent, its fundamental frequency lower, as if coming from far away.

He was lost in thought when Footsteps came from outside, unhurried, leather shoes on blue bricks making a "tap, tap" sound. Zhao Jianguo looked up and saw a person entering through the Courtyard Gate—a new director of the Special Service Bureau, wearing a dark‑blue wool coat, the collar buttoned tightly, a smile on his face, a briefcase in hand, looking as if he had come for a meeting.

"Old Zhao, good morning," the new director greeted as soon as he entered, his voice loud and full of vigor, "How did you sleep last night?"

Zhao Jianguo didn't move, staying where he was, his hand still resting on the Terminal. He nodded, "Fine. You came quite early."

"Lots of business," the new director said, smiling as he placed the briefcase on the desk, pulled out a Chair and sat down, "Today we need to go over the security agreement again; the higher‑ups are pressing hard."

Zhao Jianguo hummed in acknowledgment, saying nothing further. He stared at the new director's face, noticing that the angle of his upturned mouth corners was unusually consistent, each sentence ending as if measured with a ruler, precise to the millimeter. Even stranger, after sitting so long his forehead was completely dry, his clothes bore no crease, as if just taken from a cabinet.

He lowered his head to glance at the Terminal's Screen, his finger quietly marking the Abnormal Frequency Band he had just recorded, then pressed the send button. The signal traveled along the line to the adjacent monitoring room, where it should be received.

The new director opened his briefcase, pulled out a document, "This is the latest Permission Filing Form; sign your name and we'll complete the routine oversight process for the civilization's cornerstone."

Zhao Jianguo took the document, scanned it, and didn't rush to sign. "The door kept ringing all night yesterday," he suddenly said.

"Oh?" the new director looked up, "What's the situation? Did the system report a malfunction?"

"No report," Zhao Jianguo looked at him, "It's just the door frame, a crack has formed."

"A crack?" the new director raised an eyebrow, expression natural, but Zhao Jianguo noted his right eyelid twitched briefly, though unmistakably.

"Hmm," Zhao Jianguo set the document down, "Have you ever heard a voice that sounds like an old man speaking, yet not right next to your ear?"

The new director laughed, "Your imagination is richer than the summaries our archives department writes," he lifted the Teacup on the desk and took a sip, "It could be fatigue. You've been overworked lately, your nerves are too tight."

Zhao Jianguo didn't smile. He stared at the cup, noticing the water surface unnaturally still— the new director had drunk half a cup, yet when the cup was set back down, there was not a single ripple.

He was thinking when a faint sound came from the direction of the monitoring room, like a door opening. Then Jia Dongxu entered, wearing an old cotton coat, holding a Tablet, his complexion looking unwell.

"Old Zhao," he nodded at Zhao Jianguo, then looked at the new director, "Director, you're here."

"Dong Xu, perfect timing," the new director stood up warmly, "I was just discussing the security filing with Old Zhao; you're technically proficient, listen in together."

Jia Dongxu didn't respond, but walked straight to the desk, placing the Tablet beside the Terminal. The Screen displayed a voiceprint comparison chart, two waveforms side by side—one from Zhao Jianguo's recording, the other retrieved from the Special Service Bureau's top‑secret archive ten years ago.

"This is the last distress recording from ten years ago's 'North Ridge Operation,'" Jia Dongxu said evenly, without emotion, "The speaker was Agent Wang Dehai, who had infiltrated Experimental Zone 3 at the time; before the signal cut, he uttered his final words—"

He pressed the play button.

"…the flame of civilization, begins at a faint glow…save…me…"

The voice was hoarse, intermittent, tinged with fear.

After it finished, Jia Dongxu opened the second clip—exactly the trailing sound from Zhao Jianguo's recorder. The two waveforms overlapped, almost perfectly matching.

The room fell silent at once.

The new director sat there, his smile still on his face, but his gaze had changed, as if shrouded in mist.

"Just a coincidence," he said, his voice still steady, "Such slogan‑like phrases have a high repetition rate and cannot explain the issue."

Jia Dongxu ignored him and suddenly asked, "Director, do you still remember the first sentence you said during your oath of office?"

The new director paused, "Of course it was 'Loyalty in duty, safeguarding safety.'"

"Incorrect," Jia Dongxu shook his head, "What you said then was—'the flame of civilization, begins at a faint glow.'"

The new director's finger twitched.

Jia Dongxu stepped forward, staring at him, "Ten years ago, Wang Dehai went missing in Zone 3; his body was never found. But we know his last contact was with the prototype of a 'spacetime virus.' It doesn't kill; it parasitizes. It mimics its host, learns language, disguises behavior patterns—but it cannot alter the underlying voiceprint frequency."

He pointed at the Screen, "When you speak, the fundamental frequency is 112 hertz, exactly like Wang Dehai's. Your clothes have no crease because you don't sweat; you walk without breath because you don't need to breathe. You are not the new director—you are the 'thing' that was infected ten years ago."

The new director sat there, unmoving, offering no rebuttal. After a few seconds he slowly lifted his head, his mouth still upturned, but the smile grew increasingly crooked, as if someone had forced it on him.

"So?" he asked, his voice suddenly changed, no longer the loud middle‑aged male tone but a mixed, hoarse timbre as if several people were speaking at once, "What do you plan to do? Report? Quarantine? Or—" He slowly stood, the briefcase snapped open with a 'pop', revealing no documents, only a metal probe flashing blue light, "—let me also capture your voices?"

Zhao Jianguo snatched the Terminal from the desk and hurled it onto the floor; the Screen shattered, but the data had already uploaded automatically. He stared at the probe, whispering to Jia Dongxu, "Cut off all external communication channels."

Jia Dongxu nodded, turned and sprinted toward the monitoring room.

The new director remained where he was, not pursuing, but slowly raised his hand, pressing the probe against his temple. His lips moved, uttering not human speech but a string of high‑frequency static, like the screech of an old radio failing to find a station.

Zhao Jianguo stayed still. He knew rushing now was useless. He only stared at the thin crack in the door frame—it moved again, this time as if laughing.