Chapter 5: The Interstice of the Antique Shop

The aftershocks of the bronze mirror case hadn't yet faded. In the back courtyard of Sui Bao Zhai, the dim yellow lamplight remained as it always was, casting its glow over the workbench where the repaired bronze mirror lay silently, like a mute sleeper. Jiang Hao slumped in a rickety wooden chair, his leather jacket flung open, rubbing his temples and growling under his breath, "This damn job never ends—my ears are about to explode." Though the tinnitus had weakened, it clung to him like a shadow, inescapable. Lin Yao leaned against the workbench, her bandaged finger stained with dried blood, flipping through her notebook as her pen scratched out details of the mirror case.

The door creaked, and Old Zhong shuffled in from the shopfront, carrying two enamel mugs of steaming tea. He set them on the table with a hoarse rasp, "Drink up, rest a bit. That last job wasn't easy."

Jiang Hao took a mug, sipped, and grimaced. "Old Zhong, can't you say anything new? And this tea—it's like drinking medicine, bitter as hell." He set it down, tilting his head at the old man. "So, how many days of peace do we get before this dump drags me back in?" His tone carried a hint of defiance, though exhaustion seeped through.

Lin Yao didn't look up, smirking coldly. "Brute, you expect peace? Detectives like you can't sit still." She turned a page in her notebook, muttering, "Republic-era mansion, a soul bound to the mirror… similar pattern to the blood porcelain." Her pen paused as she frowned, a vague sound of footsteps from last night's dream flickering through her mind.

Old Zhong gave a bitter smile, picking up a rag to wipe the table. "A few days of quiet, maybe. Nothing's been dropped off lately—rest while you can." He paused, his fingers tightening on the rag. "But don't think you can run. That door won't let you." His gaze drifted to the wooden door, betraying a flicker of dread he couldn't hide.

Jiang Hao rubbed his temples and snorted. "Run? If I could've bolted, I'd be long gone. Who'd stick around to serve some so-called god?" He stood, stretching lazily. "Alright, I'm heading back for a nap. You two have fun." Grabbing his jacket, he walked off without a backward glance.

Lin Yao closed her notebook, glancing at Old Zhong. "He's right—it's not a god, it's trouble." She picked up her book and turned to leave, her steps half a beat slower than usual.

The next morning, Jiang Hao returned to his cramped apartment in a rundown building down a narrow alley. Peeling paint flaked off the walls, and the windows groaned in their frames. He pushed the door open, greeted by the stale smell of coffee. The table was a mess of case files and takeout boxes, a chaotic dump. He brewed a cup of instant coffee in a cracked mug that matched his current mood. Slumping onto the couch, he rubbed his temples, flipping through notes on the artifact dealer case. "Why'd that guy end up at the antique shop?" he muttered.

A faint tinnitus buzzed, whispers brushing his ear: "Give it back… give it back…" He frowned, his hand freezing as a blurry image flashed—a man clutching an iron bell, chanting under his breath. Shaking his head, he cursed, "Here we go again." He grabbed his phone, spotting a missed call from a client about another missing person case. He sent a voice reply: "Too busy surviving right now—gotta pass." Hanging up, he stared at his notes, eyes lingering on "iron bell." He muttered, "Why does that sound familiar?"

Sunlight glared through the window. He yanked the curtains shut, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. His mind churned with images—the wooden door, the woman in the mirror, that phrase, "destruction is also worth watching." He smirked. "A god? I've been solving cases for years and never seen a god like this." But his tone carried a thread of doubt.

Meanwhile, Lin Yao sat in her museum office, surrounded by ancient books and her notebook, the desk as orderly as her personality. She opened a Qing dynasty journal, its yellowed pages reeking of mildew. It read: "The divine envoys split into factions—one preserves, one destroys. The preservers file, the destroyers erase." She frowned, whispering, "Factions? Is the archive their tool?" She pulled out her records on the blood porcelain and bronze mirror, comparing runes and resentful soul patterns. "Antiques bind souls, resentment triggers them, then filing… they want more than just case-solving."

Turning the page, she found a rumor: "In the Qing dynasty, divine envoys clashed in a certain place, razing a city overnight, leaving no trace of bones." She froze, her finger lingering on the paper. "Razed a city? Old Zhong wasn't lying?" She grabbed her phone, sending Old Zhong a voice message: "What's this about a destroyed city? No dodging—tell me." After a long silence, his low, vague reply crackled through: "Don't ask. Knowing won't help." The signal cut out.

Lin Yao frowned, closing the book. Her dream from last night resurfaced—footsteps, chains, whispers, like someone pacing in the dark. She opened her notebook and wrote: "Dreams tied to the archive? Resentment's influence, or their doing?" Rubbing her forehead, she muttered, "This mess is worse than anything in the books."

A car horn blared outside. She glanced at the clock—already noon. She stood, gathering a stack of books, planning to grab lunch on the street and clear her head.

On the third day, Jiang Hao stood at a street coffee stall, clutching a steaming paper cup of black coffee in his old T-shirt, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. Rubbing his temples, he muttered, "Three days without tinnitus—finally some peace." But the moment the words left his mouth, a buzz hummed in his ear. He grimaced, cursing, "Damn it, spoke too soon."

Lin Yao approached from across the street, arms full of books, her pace brisk. Spotting Jiang Hao, she stopped, snorting, "Brute, not working your missing person case? Drinking coffee instead?" Her tone was sharp, but lacked the usual venom.

Jiang Hao raised an eyebrow, swirling his cup. "Bookworm, not studying your ghost junk anymore? Still lugging all those books?" He took a sip, grinning. "Bitter like Old Zhong's tea—want a taste?" He held it out, clearly taunting her.

Lin Yao glared, clutching her books tighter. "Not interested." She paused, then lowered her voice. "That damn door—do you really think it's a god?" Her tone carried a hint of probing.

Jiang Hao rubbed his temples, smirking. "Does it matter if I believe it? It won't let us go." He squinted at her. "What about you? Dig up anything, bookworm?" His voice was casual, but curiosity flickered through.

Lin Yao frowned, murmuring, "It's not about belief—it's suspicion. They're playing us." She hesitated. "I found something. The divine envoys might be split—some want to file, others to destroy." She glanced at him. "Your tinnitus—could it be tied to them?"

Jiang Hao froze, his hand pausing at his temple. "Who knows." He didn't elaborate, turning to walk away with a tossed-off, "Don't overthink it—rest up." But his retreating figure carried a trace of contemplation.

Lin Yao watched him go, muttering, "Brute." She turned toward the bus stop, gripping her books tighter.

On the fourth evening, the bell at Sui Bao Zhai jingled with a sharp ding. Old Zhong called out, "You two, get back here!" Jiang Hao and Lin Yao stepped into the courtyard one after the other. On the table sat an iron bell, its rusted surface flecked with dried blood. Old Zhong's hands trembled as he set down his rag, voice low: "Dropped off last night. It rang all night, and this morning, there was blood at the door. The customer ran off—no word."

Jiang Hao picked up the bell, and his tinnitus erupted. A vision flashed—a corpse driver ringing the bell, bodies lurching upright, blood seeping from its cracks. He rubbed his temples, growling, "This thing's filthy—used for driving corpses!" The bell hummed faintly, as if answering.

Lin Yao flipped open her notebook, whispering, "Modern corpse-driving technique? The bell's a control medium." She glanced at Old Zhong. "It's starting again?" Old Zhong gave a bitter smile, his gaze drifting to the wooden door. "No escaping it."

The door shuddered, black mist spilling out, a low resonance like a sigh filling the air. Jiang Hao and Lin Yao locked eyes, both feeling a familiar chill. The iron bell swayed, its bloodstains spreading like they'd come alive.