Chapter Seven – Beyond the Wall

On the other end of the line, Su Wanying’s breath caught for a moment before turning into rapid, shallow gasps.

The term "soul-summoning stake" struck her like an ice-cold key, instantly unlocking all her knowledge of folklore and ancient rituals.

A stake marked the boundary of a sacred space; soul-summoning was the medium for directional invocation.

Seven seemingly unrelated artifacts had been imbued with coordinates spanning over a century, linking the deaths of seven pairs of lovers into a ritual chain precisely aimed at the future.

“If it truly is a soul-summoning stake,” Su Wanying’s voice trembled slightly with shock, “then these artifacts are no longer just simple examples of ‘material corrosion.’ They are… living conduits. Qiwu Li is the ritual’s core, Jing Shi Feng is the perfect timing, and these stakes are the switches that activate the ceremony.”

“A ritual spanning over ninety years,” Shen Mo’s voice was as cold as a scalpel. “We have only forty-six days left to dismantle a killing machine that has been running for nearly a century.”

He hung up and turned toward the command vehicle temporarily stationed beneath the apartment building.

Inside, several technicians whispered among themselves as they examined the data and thermal images flickering on the screens, their faces a mix of confusion and awe.

The moisture-absorbing gel panel embedded in the wall had been carefully removed and sealed in a temperature- and humidity-controlled evidence box.

On the box’s surface, a blurred photo of a handprint that lasted eleven seconds was magnified and projected on the main screen—a slender, feminine five-fingered print pressed silently against the glass separating two worlds, as if from another dimension.

A technician reported, “Captain Shen, the energy peak analysis of the gel panel matches the frequency detected in the residual bioelectric signals from Lin Wanqing almost perfectly. It… it’s her.”

“Not just her.” Shen Mo’s gaze scanned the building’s architectural blueprint. A spiral pattern of condensate marked by infrared thermal imaging slithered like a dormant serpent from the sixteenth floor, where Lin Wanqing lived, precisely to the ceiling of an elderly man’s bedroom on the fifteenth floor.

“The residual echo is seeking a new host, or rather, a new ‘resonance body.’ It is no longer content to passively cling to an object but is actively expanding along humidity gradients. This building is turning into a massive petri dish, and every ‘false leak’ repair request is its way of self-regulating to keep the conduction path clear.”

His words seemed to thicken the air around them.

People could comprehend ghosts or curses, but a residual echo that understood architectural physics and fluid dynamics well enough to execute a “vertical contamination” surpassed all known boundaries.

This was no longer a supernatural incident but a blurred-boundary, cross-dimensional ecological invasion.

At that moment, Shen Mo’s personal phone emitted a sharp beep.

The caller ID showed Zhao Wan, Lin Wanqing’s close friend.

He answered to hear not words but a strangled, beast-like whimper drowned in overwhelming terror.

“Officer Shen…” Zhao Wan’s voice was choked, each syllable a struggle, “I dreamed of her… I dreamed of Wanqing…”

“Don’t be afraid, it’s just a dream,” Shen Mo steadied his voice.

“No!” Zhao Wan screamed, “It wasn’t a dream! I was sleeping in the guest room—the one she loved most! I saw her standing on the wall… no, not standing on it, coming out from inside it… like peeling back a layer of soaked wallpaper, her face pressed behind it, smiling at me… She said it was so quiet and damp in there, and she wanted me to come in and be with her…”

Shen Mo’s heart sank deeply.

He immediately ordered the technicians, “Pull up the surveillance footage of the corridor on the sixteenth floor of Building C from 2 a.m. to 3 a.m., now!”

Seconds later, the footage appeared on the main screen.

At 2:03 a.m., the corridor was empty and dimly lit.

Everything seemed normal.

A technician was about to fast-forward but was stopped by Shen Mo’s outstretched hand.

“Wait, rewind. Slow playback.”

The footage played at half speed.

At exactly 2:03:17, the entire wall facing Zhao Wan’s guest room—the smooth surface coated in off-white latex paint—suddenly rippled with an eerie undulation.

It was not a shift in light or shadow but a fluctuation of solid matter.

The ripples spread from the center, slow and viscous, as if the wall had ceased to be sturdy brick and cement and had become a taut, waterlogged membrane.

Something was moving slowly on the other side of this membrane. Its outline was unclear, but the distortions caused by its movement were sharply projected onto the membrane’s surface.

Silence fell over the command vehicle except for the faint hum of equipment.

Everyone stared fixedly at the screen, watching that impossible scene unfold for about five seconds—defying all laws of physics—a chill rising quietly from their very bones.

Shen Mo’s pupils narrowed to pinpoints.

He recalled Su Wanying’s mention of the “Yi Ji Tang” business—writing wills on behalf of the deceased.

Those final words of despair, defiance, and love.

Those farewells that should have been delivered but might have forever rested in forgotten archives.

They had not dissipated; instead, they were captured and concentrated by the core of Qiwu Li, becoming the perfect nourishment for this century-spanning ritual.

Each lover’s tragic death injected energy, and those seven artifacts were the stakes guiding and solidifying that power.

Now, this vast energy buildup, nearly a hundred years in the making, was no longer satisfied to wait passively—it had begun to actively “hunt.”

He grabbed the phone again and dialed Su Wanying, his voice carrying an unyielding urgency.

“Qiwu Li is the core, soul-summoning stakes are the medium, Jing Shi Feng is the timing, the tears of the bereaved and the unspoken last words are the sustenance… Su Wanying, a complete ritual can’t exist without an instruction manual.”

There was silence on the other end, clearly as she rapidly processed the information.

His speech quickened as his thoughts connected: “Yi Ji Tang isn’t a charitable hall; it’s a business. Handling bodies, writing wills, assisting with joint burials… each service corresponds to a tragedy, and every transaction must have records—prices, names, dates, reasons… especially the reasons! Who entrusts their final words to a stranger before death?”

He could almost picture Su Wanying’s furrowed brow on the other end.

“Go through the archives in the museum,” Shen Mo fixed his gaze on the now peaceful wall on the screen, speaking each word deliberately, “and find me their ledger. Every single entry—I want to see them all.”