Chapter 2: The Seal That Shouldn't Exist

The rain didn't let up. On the streets of Nha Trang, murky brown mud, swirling with fallen leaves, flooded the gutters past ankle-deep, gleaming with an oily sheen under the cold light of the traffic signals. Guhai Li sat in the backseat of the ambulance, a dull ache pulsing at the base of his skull like a slow-moving tide. A physiological black halo blurred the edges of his vision.

The wet bundle of letter paper clutched in his arms had long since dried and stiffened, its edges curled. In the dim cabin, the bloody thumbprint on the page was jarringly vivid, looking less like evidence and more like an unhealed wound. The driver slammed the gas, tires spraying muddy water onto the glass. Guhai didn’t look back; he just tightened his grip on the letter until his knuckles turned white.

He remembered Desheng Wu’s words: justice isn't always the light; sometimes it’s the shadow. If the shadow is illuminated, does it lose its value as a place to hide? He folded the letter carefully, sliding it into his suit's inner pocket, as close to his heart as he could manage.

A near-pathological calmness beat there. It was a professional hazard from years of editing the School Journal, and at this moment, his only talisman. As long as something was seen, it permanently existed. Even if it was soaked in mud or stained with blood, once an information carrier was formed, it possessed a stubborn resilience against being forgotten.

The ambulance pulled into the loading dock in the alley behind the Provincial Archives. There was no fresh mix of flowers and soap here, only the moldy stench of fermenting old paper and the sharp bite of disinfectant. Guhai jumped out, the curtain of rain instantly engulfing him. He knocked on the iron ring of the side door: three long, two short. It was the agreed-upon code with the insiders.

The door creaked open a sliver. A pair of wary eyes peeked through the gap, and then the door was pulled wide. Standing in the doorway was Huangnan Chen. His white shirt collar was speckled with ink stains, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing capable, toned arms.

The forty-two-year-old provincial police chief, Desheng Wu, had not followed him. He remained hidden in the shadows of the system, waiting for the right moment. Guhai knew that once he took this step, there was no turning back.

Huangnan stepped aside, letting him into the makeshift shelter of the Archive Room, where the air was thick with the smell of mothballs.

"You look like you just went through the gates of death," Huangnan said, his voice low. His gaze dropped to the slightly bulging pocket of Guhai's suit. "That letter—are we still going to verify it?"

Guhai pulled the letter from his pocket and unfolded it with excruciating care, his movements as delicate as defusing a bomb on the verge of explosion.

"The wax seal is intact," Guhai said. "It’s just splattered with mud, but the underlying wax hasn't melted. The structure is sound. We need to extract the pattern and cross-reference it with the museum's archival collection."

Huangnan took the letter. He didn't put on gloves; instead, he gently stroked the red thumbprint with his bare fingertip. His eyes sharpened, a flicker of barely contained shock passing through his pupils.

"This wax seal isn't a standard closure," Huangnan whispered, his voice seemingly fighting against a gravitational pull from the past. "Look at the base. It's pentagonal, with a tiny groove in the center. This is a dedicated mold for the 'Old Nha Trang Chamber of Commerce'."

He paused, the weight of history settling between them. "But according to municipal records, that Chamber was dissolved twenty years ago. All its Seals were supposed to be destroyed and archived."

Guhai squinted, watching rain streaks turn into rivers on the windowpane, reflecting his cool, stern face.

"Dissolved doesn't mean disappeared," Guhai countered, his tone carrying the particular stubbornness of a scholar. "Especially Seals involved in asset liquidation. Due to bureaucratic laziness in archives management, they often linger in some forgotten corner, or they even become scarce items on the black market. If this Seal is genuine, then what's behind it isn't just history—it's an uncleared chain of interests."

Huangnan let out a cold laugh, setting the letter on a table covered with a dust cloth.

"A chain of interests? In the current devaluation of the Vietnamese Dong, it’s just a pile of moldy waste paper." He shook his head, the coldness in his eyes intensifying. "Unless... unless what's written on these pages is enough to make certain people lose their jobs or end up in prison. Guhai, do you know what you're doing?"

"You're betting your career on whether a long-dead organization still has a breath left in it."

Guhai didn't answer. He just stared at the wax seal, his finger hovering above it, feeling the subtle static charge in the air.

"I don't bet on the future," Guhai said, his voice perfectly flat. "I only verify the past. Huangnan, pull up the archive index from when the Nha Trang Chamber of Commerce was dissolved ten years ago, and the internal bulletins on artifact smuggling from the last five years. We need to find the only legal record of this Seal's ownership."

Huangnan sighed and turned toward the row of towering metal file cabinets, the iron wheels squeaking harshly against the floor. "You're always so persistent. It borders on obsession." He pulled out a yellowed file folder; the paper edges were brittle. "This is the original dissolution report. Look at who signed it last. Uncle Li, the former secretary of Wenxiong Fan."

Guhai leaned in, locking his gaze on the signature. The handwriting was flowing and elegant, carrying an air of old-school arrogance. But to Guhai, the document felt deeply wrong. He pointed to the date below the signature, his brow furrowing.

"Uncle Li's graphological profile indicates his right hand habitually used fountain pens, usually with blue ink. This signature uses red ink, and the ends of the strokes have distinct stops. That's a characteristic of left-handed dictation or extreme tension."

Guhai analyzed, his speech rate accelerating, the logical chain racing in his mind. "More importantly, the day this report was signed was the night of the club fire. A man who was in the middle of handling fire aftermaths, exhausted beyond measure—how could he possibly sign such a meticulous and rigorous dissolution document at that exact moment?"

Huangnan blinked, then a sardonic curve appeared on his lips.

"You noticed even that? Looks like the School Journal editor's eyes are sharper than a police dog's." He pulled a magnifying glass from a drawer and pushed it toward Guhai. "But what I'm more concerned with is: if the Chamber is dissolved, why is this Seal appearing on a letter with a bloody thumbprint?"

"A bloodprint means violence. It means someone, in their final moments of death, was trying to leave something behind. If this Seal belonged to the Chamber, why would the killer steal it? Or... is the Seal itself the murder weapon?"

Guhai took the magnifying glass, aligning the lens with the texture of the wax. As the angle changed, a faint halo refracted inside the wax. His pupils constricted, his body leaning forward involuntarily.

"No," Guhai's voice trembled slightly. "Look at the corners of this pentagon. They aren't cast; they are etched. If it were an official Seal, it would be stamped from metal or hard plastic. This Seal was cast from a wax mold and then pressed directly onto the wax seal. In other words, this is a forgery... or..."

"Or, after the Chamber disbanded, someone secretly kept the wax mold for subsequent illegal operations," Huangnan finished, his gaze deepening. "Like forging an undisclosed asset transfer agreement. Guhai, do you see? This Seal isn't just a symbol; it's a key. A key to an underground vault."

Guhai put down the magnifying glass and took a deep breath, the dust of old paper filling his lungs.

"If that's the case, the person holding this Seal must know where that agreement is stored." He looked up, meeting Huangnan's eyes directly. "And that president who disappeared in the fire... maybe he didn't die at all. He disappeared to take that real Seal, or the agreement. And this letter is the final clue he left us."

Huangnan was silent for a moment. He reached onto the top shelf of the file cabinet and took down a heavy, old newspaper. The cover was faded, leaving only blurred black-and-white photos. He turned to a page in the middle, pointing to a short news report.

"Three days later," Huangnan said, tapping his finger on the page, "the Nha Trang Morning Post published an obituary confirming the president's death in the fire. But next to the obituary was an inconspicuous social news item, titled 'Harbor Witness Missing'."

"Look here. Someone claimed that on the night of the fire, they saw the president not entering the warehouse, but driving away from the dock. The witness was wearing a raincoat, face obscured, but they described one detail: the president's left cuff had an embroidered Iris Badge."

Guhai's heart skipped a beat. The iris, that was the crest of old noble families, and also the symbol once used by the Wenxiong Fan family. Twenty years ago, that family was investigated for organized crime. Although they were cleared of most charges, the core figures either vanished or changed their affiliations.

Wenxiong Fan is now a prominent official, actively trying to commercialize historical Ruins to create a tourism card for Nha Trang. If the president was indeed still alive and had old grudges with the Fan family, then the mastermind behind all this wasn't just a down-on-his-luck businessman. It was likely an entangled web of power.

"Huangnan," Guhai's voice was cold and hard as iron, "Did that witness lead lead anywhere? Did the police ever chase down the person in the raincoat?"

Huangnan closed the old newspaper, a mix of helplessness and pity in his eyes.

"We did chase it, but the lead broke. That witness went to Hanoi three days later and never appeared in Nha Trang's surveillance system again. And in the Archive Room, we can't find any filing records for that Iris Badge."

He paused, adding, "But that's not the point. What matters is that this wax seal in your hand, even if it might be a forgery, is modeled after a prototype that definitely existed. We need to find the prototype to prove who is lying."

Guhai stood up and walked to the window. The rain was easing. City lights filtered through the water mist, blurring into a wash of light spots. He felt a profound, unprecedented loneliness. It wasn't the loneliness of being misunderstood, but the weight of the truth. He realized he had jumped into a deep well; the walls were covered in moss and thorns, and the letter paper in his hand was the only lantern.

"Guhai," Huangnan asked from behind him, his voice so soft it seemed afraid to disturb the dust. "What do you plan to do? Making this letter public will offend many people, including the superiors Desheng Wu is currently protecting. But if you destroy it, the truth sinks to the ocean floor forever, with no chance of resurfacing. Remember, every step forward has a cost. This time, what is your cost?"

Guhai turned around, his back to the glass window. In the reflection, his figure looked thin but resolute.

"My cost," Guhai said slowly, "is my professional reputation as an editor, and my future promotion prospects within the system. But it's worth it. Because justice cannot be built on lies. If Wenxiong Fan uses legal procedures to cover up illegal smuggling, or commercial packaging to whitewash historical plunder, then it is our responsibility to tear off this painted skin."

"Even if it's just a corner. To let sunlight in. To let the public see the filth inside."

Huangnan nodded, stepping forward and handing the old newspaper to Guhai.

"I'll continue digging into the background of that witness report. That witness... I vaguely remember he was an old employee of the Textile Factory. Later, his daughter, Yulan Fan, became the line leader there. Maybe that family is hiding other secrets."

Huangnan's gaze softened slightly. "Be careful. Since you've chosen this path, don't look back. As for Desheng Wu, I'll pass the message at an appropriate time, so he understands your predicament. Inside the system, understanding is more important than support."

Guhai took the newspaper. His fingertips touched the rough paper, feeling like he was touching a frozen moment in time. He looked at Huangnan, his eyes filled with complex emotion—gratitude mixed with vigilance. "Huangnan, why are you helping me? Given your position, touching these old cases should have nothing to do with you. It could even cause unnecessary political trouble."

Guhai stared at that line of text, the letter paper in his hand burning slightly. He looked back toward the street corner, where a black figure seemed to be watching him silently, before vanishing into the depths of the night. The hook had been thrown. Who would be the one netted?