Chapter 80: Yi Zhonghai

The curtains in the west room shifted again, and this time Zhao Jianguo did not look back.

He simply placed the register he was holding gently on the small wooden table beside the bulletin board, tapped the cover twice with his finger, then turned and walked toward the electrician's room. His steps were not fast, nor did he pause, but each foot landed steadily.

After entering the room, he pulled the door shut from the other side, without locking it. A tug on the light cord made the bulb flicker twice before it fully lit. He casually retrieved a small wrench from the bottom of the Toolbox, slipped it into his trouser pocket, and then pulled a paper bag from under the bedboard.

The paper bag had been quietly slipped to him this morning by Old Liu from the Youju, who said it was an anonymous parcel with no sender name. Zhao Jianguo hadn't opened it then, only nodded and handed over the Meal Ticket. Now, sitting at the workbench, he spread the bag open; inside was a stack of yellowed papers, the top one bearing a few crooked characters: "Save me."

The characters were written in red ink, dark in some places and so faint elsewhere they were almost illegible. Zhao Jianguo leaned close under the light to examine them, and realized it wasn't ink—it was blood.

He did not frown nor freeze; he simply flattened the paper and pressed its four corners with an old piece of iron sheet. Then he pulled a Magnifying Glass from the drawer, one used for repairing instruments; the lens was a bit speckled but sufficient for viewing.

The first passage was fragmented: "…they want to kill me… I am not a traitor… I was forced… Jia Wu shouldn't have gone to the boiler room that night… he saw it… they say it was an accident, but it wasn't… it was the replacement shift slip I signed… I let Jia Wu take my place… I need to get out… the contact person is at the Wall Base… when the light went out, people were supposed to leave… but Jia Wu saw it…"

Zhao Jianguo's finger paused on the three characters "contact person," and gently brushed them.

He remembered that day. Jia Wu's incident occurred in the winter of 1962, when the boiler exploded and the person died on the spot. The factory claimed it was due to aging pipes and a failed pressure valve, classifying it as a work injury. He had even gone to pay his respects; Jia Zhangshi cried so hard she could not stand, clutching forty yuan in her hand, saying it was compensation.

But what this paper now says is entirely different.

He kept reading; the later handwriting grew increasingly chaotic, as if the writer's hand was shaking: "…they promised to protect my son… but now they want me to expose others… I can't… yet I can't go on living… they have someone in a labor reform farm… I know speaking out means death… but if I stay silent, my conscience will die faster…"

On the last page, a string of numbers was drawn: **12-24-7-1962**, with a line of small text beneath: "Moon sets West Wing, light out, people die."

Zhao Jianguo stared at that line, suddenly recalling something. He opened a drawer and pulled out an old factory chronicle, a discarded archive from the Technical Section. Flipping to the December 1962 duty roster, his finger traced down the list—

December 24th, night shift, originally assigned to Yi Zhonghai.

But beside it was a handwritten note: "Yi Zhonghai took sick leave, replaced by Jia Wu."

The signature was indeed Yi Zhonghai's.

He slowly closed the chronicle, sat back in the Chair, and remained still.

The room was so quiet that the hum of the bulb's current could be heard. Outside, the wind was light, but a draft slipped through the Door Gap, lifting the corners of the papers on the table ever so slightly.

He didn't press them down, just stared at that line "Moon sets West Wing, light out, people die."

"Light out, people die"… that night in the boiler room, the power truly went out. The emergency repair log recorded a circuit fault lasting seventeen minutes. Jia Wu entered during that interval to check the pressure gauge.

But why was he the one who went in? Why could Yi Zhonghai "just happen" to fall ill? Why was the replacement record never questioned?

He suddenly stood, walked to the old bookshelf in the corner, pulled a volume from a stack of Mechanical Lesson Maintenance Manuals, and opened its inner pocket. Inside was a scanned copy—a Photocopy of Jia Wu's relic diary, archived by the system years ago.

Turning to the final page, the handwriting was faint, as if stopped midway: "Master Yi asked me to stand night for him… said 'people above' were coming… I didn't quite understand, but he was very nervous… I even asked if I should report it to the factory, he said no, it was an 'internal matter'…"

Zhao Jianguo placed the two documents side by side on the table.

The blood letter, the duty roster, the dying words.

Three items, like three puzzle pieces, clicked together with a 'click'.

He inhaled deeply, took an empty envelope from the drawer, placed the original blood letter inside, sealed it, and wrote the word "forbidden" on the back. Then he opened the system's safe, entered the password, uploaded the electronic scan, and set it to lock with the highest permission.

Having finished, he sat down, pulled out a scrap of rough paper, and began to write.

First line: **Jia Wu's death, not an accident. **

Second line: **Yi Zhonghai substituted, creating an alibi. **

Third line: **That night there was a secret contact, location Wall Base, time matching the power outage. **

Fourth line: **Jia Wu was forced through, silenced, and disguised as a work injury. **

Writing up to this point, he paused, the pen tip hovering over the paper.

If this were true, Yi Zhonghai's greed was not the whole story. He had someone behind him, someone capable of making him boldly take risks, kill and silence.

He recalled the confrontation in Chapter 78. When Yi Zhonghai broke down, he muttered: "I also did it to protect this family… they promised…"

No one understood at the time. In hindsight, it wasn't madness.

He slowly folded the scrap, slipped it into the pocket of the Mechanical Lesson Manual, and casually shoved the manual back into the innermost part of the bookshelf. Then he took a piece of black cloth from the Toolbox, wrapped the factory chronicle in it, and placed it under the bedboard.

Having done this, he stood, walked to the doorway, and pulled open the Door Gap to look outside.

The Courtyard was empty. The new note in front of the bulletin board remained, reading: "You think the supervisory rotation is the end? The real contest has only just begun."

He didn't tear it, nor glance again, merely closed the door gently, turned and returned to the table.

He took a small notebook from the drawer, opened it, and wrote down three names.

**Jia Dongxu. **

**Sha Zhu. **

**He Yushui. **

The pen tip lingered on the name "Jia Dongxu" for a few seconds, then he drew a horizontal line through it.

This person, of upright lineage, his father an old revolutionary, himself in charge of safety at the factory, and most crucially—he had always suspected something about Jia Wu's death. Years ago he had even secretly examined the boiler room's maintenance records.

Zhao Jianguo closed the notebook and slipped it into his under‑garment pocket.

He stood, turned off the light, and sat in the darkness.

Outside the wind ceased, and the Courtyard was very quiet. He listened to his own breathing, one after another, steady as the rhythm of a machine.

After about ten minutes, he rose, opened the door, and left the electrician's room.

The night wind brushed his face, a bit chilly. He didn't head to the bulletin board, but went straight to the west room.

A whiff of smoke lingered in the Door Gap, the curtains were drawn, yet the light inside the room remained on.

He stood in the Courtyard, neither knocked nor called out, just looked up at the small window on the second floor—Yi Xiao Hai's room, now empty.

Then, he turned and walked toward the main gate.

Reaching the doorway, he suddenly stopped, pulled half a scrap of paper from his sleeve—a piece from his earlier deduction. He glanced at it, folded it, and slipped it back into his pocket.

Just as he was about to step, a faint sound came from behind.

It was from the bulletin board side.

He didn't look back, nor did his steps halt.

But his ears were perked.

The sound came again—like paper rustling in the wind, or someone tearing something.

He finally turned around and walked back.

On the bulletin board, that provocative note was gone.

Replacing it was a newly posted sheet of paper, white background with black text, which read:

"**Who wants to be Sha Zhu the second? I'll do it. **"

The handwriting was neat, the strokes strong.

Zhao Jianguo stared at that line of text, looking at it for two seconds.

He neither smiled nor frowned, merely reaching out to touch the corner of the paper.

The paper had just been posted; the glue was not yet dry.

He turned and walked away, his steps a little quicker than before.

Walking to the door of the electrician's room, he suddenly stopped, pulled out that small Wrench from his trouser pocket, held it in his hand, and then pushed the door open and went in.

The light inside was still on.

He stood by the table, gently placed the Wrench on the tabletop, making a dong sound.

Then he opened the drawer, took out a pencil, and on that piece of scrap paper from before, he rewrote the three characters "investigate thoroughly" again.

He pressed hard with the pencil tip, leaving an indentation in the paper.