Chapter Eight: Ashes in the Mirror
Lin Qishan sat in a dim motel room on the outskirts of town, the air heavy with the stale odor of smoke. The financial records spread open across the table were lit by a weak incandescent bulb; their pages were like ash-gray snowflakes scattered about, documenting the Xiangci Foundation's hidden and convoluted flow of funds.
He had been awake for two nights in a row. His eyes were bloodshot, but his expression remained calm and restrained. Outside the window, the occasional bark of a dog mingled with the distant blare of passing cars on the highway, making the night feel especially desolate.
Lowering his head, Lin Qishan gazed at a yellowed scrap of paper by his hand — a torn page he had picked up from an abandoned temple, the scarlet lettering on it still faintly visible: "0024 Abandoned Offering List."
He knew that code all too well; it was as if Atang's shadow were imprinted on those words. He slowly rubbed the edge of the paper with his thumb, as if caressing a scar. At that moment, three soft knocks sounded on the door.
Lin Qishan rose to answer. A lean middle-aged man entered, followed by two people who looked like assistants. It was none other than Li Chongping — the investigator from an out-of-town anti-fraud task force stationed here. Once inside, they locked the door and windows behind them, exchanged nods without any small talk, and got straight to the point.
In the dim yellow light, Wei Zhiyuan took a stack of documents and a USB drive from his briefcase. Speaking in a low voice, he said, "Mr. Lin, following the leads you provided, we've traced some of the Xiangci Foundation's financial accounts." He paused, then added, "It wasn't easy — the accounts span multiple provinces, and there are even signs of offshore money laundering."
Lin Qishan nodded faintly at this, his demeanor remote but intent. "Go on," he said.
Wei Zhiyuan opened the file, the pages rustling like a series of stifled sighs. Pointing his pen at a page of bank records, he explained, "In the past five years of the Foundation's donations, large sums were diverted under the guise of 'charity projects' to several shell companies in other provinces, then routed back locally to purchase real estate and luxury goods. These shell companies are connected to Pang Real Estate and Guanheng Capital."
When Lin Qishan heard the name "Pang," his eyelids twitched subtly. The image of Pang Sinan's slick yet sinister face flashed through his mind. Pang Sinan had always flaunted his zeal for charity; now it seemed he had merely been using Xiangci to launder money and trade favors.
Wei Zhiyuan went on, "Stranger still, within the foundation there's a 'donation points system' meant to encourage repeat giving. For every set amount donated, a donor earns points that can be redeemed for so-called merit certificates and gifts." He passed a few printed screenshots to Lin Qishan. They showed Xiangci's internal points interface: strings of ID numbers matched with point totals, with donor names or aliases listed in a remarks column.
Scanning through the numbers, Lin Qishan suddenly felt his heart clench — on the list he saw a familiar designation: "Jinggong 0024." Beside it was an astonishingly high tally of donation points, and in the corresponding "Donor" field, a single surname stood out: Tang. "This 'Tang'… that's Atang," Lin Qishan murmured to himself.
In his mind, scattered fragments snapped together: Atang had been given the code name Jinggong devotee No. 0024; her voice had appeared in an audio recording labeled XGCI-0024; and now this same code and surname showed up in the foundation's points system. But Atang was utterly destitute — how could she possibly have amassed such a huge amount of donation points? The only possibility was that someone had funneled money in under her name.
"They used her identity to launder funds," Lin Qishan said evenly, his words slicing through the room's silence like a blade. Li Chongping nodded. "The sums are enormous, and there's no real ID tied to them — it's all listed under just the surname 'Tang' on the charity honor roll." At this, Lin Qishan couldn't help clenching his fist.
In the gloom, his gaze fell upon a mottled mirror in the corner. Reflected in it were his own taut jawline and the faint throb at his temple. He suddenly recalled what Atang had said the first time he saw her by the side door of the old sanctuary: "Don't take my photo… I'm afraid the gods will take it away."
How many times had she been caught on camera, used as a prop in their publicity?
And now her name was engraved on a bronze donor plaque, turned into a showy symbol. In that instant, a chill that cut to the bone crept up his spine: those so-called "devotee" lists and this donation points system were two sides of the same coin.
At last, Lin Qishan saw the truth — those pious believers who had offered themselves had long since been carefully packaged into commodities, into living specimens of faith. In the name of "merit," they had been given price tags and put on display in the showcase of good deeds.
He drew in a long breath and spread a few pages of documents out on the table, placing them alongside the tattered "Abandoned Offering List" page.
Clues from two worlds had converged at this moment: one was the web of money woven by Pang Sinan and other powerful figures; the other was the roster of lives — Atang and other downtrodden devotees, adrift and dispossessed. Standing at this crossroads, Lin Qishan felt both anger and an unspeakable sorrow.
Wei Zhiyuan noticed Lin Qishan's silence and asked softly, "Mr. Lin, are you all right?"
Lin Qishan shook his head, his eyes turning cold and resolute once more. "What's our next step?" he said. Wei Zhiyuan was about to answer when his assistant pulled a portable tape recorder and a few documents out of a bag. "This is the cassette tape you provided last time — we did our best to restore the audio quality and transcribe it," the assistant said.
As he spoke, the assistant handed over a stack of freshly printed interrogation transcripts. The paper still held a bit of warmth, as if just brushed off from the dust of years. Lin Qishan lowered his head and skimmed through them; every word struck his nerves — this was the last time Atang had appeared in any public record before she vanished.
"Play the tape," he rasped. The assistant nodded and pressed the play button. In the soft whir of the cassette as it turned, a girl's faint yet clear voice floated out. Her words were fragmentary and her cadence broken, but each syllable pierced the heart like a needle—
She sat ramrod straight, her posture so prim it was almost reverent. Both hands were folded on her lap. It wasn't the posture of someone being interrogated — more like someone waiting for a kick. That rigid pose didn't come from pride; it was because her bones could no longer stiffen on their own, boiled down by life until only a shell remained.
The chair creaked once, and her eyelids flickered up, then down again. Like a stray dog crouched on a street corner all night — if someone passed by, it would glance up on instinct, but not bark.
Officer Zhou sat across from her, a table separating two fates. Her clothes weren't tattered, but they were untidy. Her shoes had been scrubbed clean — scrubbed in a way that seemed to scrape off a bit of dignity. At her scalp a patch of skin was reddened, as if someone had yanked her hair a couple of days ago.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She answered quickly, the kind of quick that suggested a wrong answer might earn a beating. "Atang."
Fake. It sounded like a name someone had given her.
"Name," he repeated curtly.
Old Zhou's gaze swept over her face, then lingered on her disheveled hair and clothing. The girl still reeked of smoke; the ends of her hair were charred black, and ash-like flecks clung to her temples, as if the shadows of the fire still clung to her.
She kept her head down. A lock of hair was stuck to the corner of her mouth. She tried to brush it aside but moved in the wrong direction, only making it worse. She didn't try again, as if she herself were disgusted by the sorry sight she presented.
"Tang… Tang Yamei." Atang finally whispered her real name, timidly. Her voice was husky, every syllable quivering. She hadn't introduced herself with that name in a long, long time.
Ever since entering Xiangci, she had been "Atang" — the one granted a new life. Hearing her old name now left her momentarily dazed, as if that identity had long since turned to ash.
"Age?" Old Zhou continued.
"Nineteen," Atang replied. Her voice was as faint as a mosquito's buzz, and the bare walls of the interrogation room tossed the tiny sound back, making it seem even more hollow.
"What do you do?"
Atang's answer was dry and brittle: "Wash clothes, sew clothes. Sometimes… kneel and offer incense for people."
Old Zhou's brow furrowed slightly. He looked down and scribbled two lines on the report, then raised his eyes to her. "Do you know why we brought you here?"
Atang's throat bobbed, but she didn't respond immediately. It felt as if a wad of cotton had jammed her windpipe; even breathing was a struggle.
Her gaze drifted toward one side of the interrogation room, where a one-way mirror reflected her gaunt figure — hair hanging in dusty clumps, face bloodless, only her eyes rimmed red with terror and exhaustion. In the glass she looked like a smudge of ash that refused to be wiped away. She dropped her eyes and said quietly, "Because… of the fire."
Officer Zhou fixed his gaze on her, his expression inscrutable. "Correct. The fire at the shelter last night killed seven people. You are the only survivor." He paused, then added, "And the only eyewitness."
The word "survivor" struck Atang like a blunt instrument.
Her breath hitched, and a searing flood of guilt and confusion poured into her heart. By what right had she lived? In last night's roaring blaze, those familiar sisters had collapsed one after another, their screams of agony still echoing in her ears. Yet by a fluke she had escaped the inferno, stumbling through the fields until a patrol officer found her. The memories crashed over her, and her shoulders began to tremble.
Old Zhou set down his pen and softened his tone. "I know you're scared and upset. But Atang — or Tang Yamei — we need you to calm down and answer a few questions." As he spoke, he slid a cup of warm water across the table to her.
Atang picked up the paper cup. Her fingertips could barely hold it; water sloshed over, leaving little dark blossoms on the tabletop. She nodded and, with effort, swallowed that sip of warm water.
"Alright," he said gently. "Now tell me: what exactly happened when the fire broke out?" Old Zhou guided her in a low voice. "Don't be afraid. Just tell us everything you saw and remember."
Atang clenched the cup, her knuckles whitening again. She forced herself to remember. Her mind was filled with chaotic, shattered images: candle flames flickering; Director Bai Jingci, draped in white robes, standing before the altar with eyes closed in prayer; the air thick with a cloying incense that made her dizzy. She remembered someone quietly sobbing — then that sob being swiftly stifled. And the sharp click of the wooden door being locked… Cold sweat broke out on Atang's forehead, her chest heaving unevenly.
"I… I remember someone locked the door," she began, her voice as thin as a thread. "Then smoke started rising… I don't know what caught fire, but suddenly there was smoke and fire everywhere… Everyone was yelling, but the door wouldn't open…" As she spoke, her teeth began chattering uncontrollably. Her eyes lost focus, as if she were back in that stifling, searing darkness.
Old Zhou listened, a deep frown furrowing his brow. "Who locked the door? Did you see clearly?" he pressed.
Atang's throat bobbed hard, as if the words were caught there. After a moment, she bit her lip and whispered two words: "Liu Yuan… It was Sister Liu Yuan who locked the door." The moment she said it, her whole body nearly cringed in on itself, as if bracing for a blow. Liu Yuan was the senior devotee in charge of day-to-day affairs at the shelter — she would never have barred the hall doors unless someone ordered her to. But Atang dared not venture any further guess.
The interrogation room fell silent for a few seconds. Old Zhou's pen had stilled. He stared at Atang, as if struggling to believe what he'd just heard. "You mean someone deliberately locked everyone in?" His voice sharpened. "Who told her to do that?"
Atang's mind conjured up Bai Jingci's pale, impassive face. As the flames raged, Director Bai had vanished without a trace — had she slipped away beforehand, or hidden in the shadows to watch with cold eyes? The thought cut into Atang's heart like a knife.
She trembled out, "I don't know… The Director, she… she wasn't in the room at that time…" She couldn't bear to think that Bai Jingci would abandon them all and leave alone, but she had no other explanation.
Old Zhou's brow was deeply knit now, plainly dissatisfied with that answer. "Tang Yamei, don't hold back! What on earth was going on in that shelter? What is Jinggong, exactly? Why would this happen?" Without realizing it, his tone had grown severe.
As a veteran officer, he had seen plenty of tragedies involving cults and suicide pacts, and arrested criminals who donned religious garb to prey on lives and wallets. He had assumed this was just another grisly incident of extremist religion run amok. But the words of this surviving girl made it sound more like outright murder.
"Jinggong… it means pure devotion," Atang blurted automatically, her voice listless. "We vowed to fast and pray, to cast off worldly desires and impurities, and to offer our bodies and minds in devotion to the Bodhisattva… That way we could cleanse the sins of our past." She kept her head bowed, pupils unfocused, as if reciting a mantra long since ingrained in her soul.
That rote intonation sent a chill through Old Zhou's heart. In this moment, the person sitting before him was not a normal nineteen-year-old girl, but more like an empty husk whose will had been washed away.
Old Zhou fell silent for a beat, then tried a different approach. "How long were you at the shelter? Why did you go there in the first place?"
Atang's eyelashes fluttered, and her breathing grew heavier. After a long pause, she answered softly, "Over a year… I had nowhere else to go." She stammered, as if struggling to gather her words. "Before that, I did some… bad things." She involuntarily hunched her shoulders, as if trying to hide from an invisible gaze. "Someone told me only Xiangci could help me be reborn, make my soul clean again. So I went."
She didn't say what those "bad things" were. But from her downcast eyes and the pain and shame on her face, Old Zhou could guess at a few — perhaps selling her body, or drifting on the streets. There were many girls like her in society: driven to a dead end and led astray, then desperate for redemption, they were the easiest prey for organizations hiding behind a religious façade.
At last, Officer Wu, who had been observing from the sidelines, spoke up, his tone noticeably softer. "Atang, we truly want to help you. But you need to tell us — who was it that forced you to do all this?"
Atang turned her head and looked at the officer. A film of tears glazed her eyes, though none fell. She spoke slowly, with an unexpected clarity: "The one who forced me… wasn't a person. It was God."
The room fell into a brief hush once again. There was only Atang's delicate breathing, like a dry stalk of grass stirring in the wind — struggling to live, yet liable to snap at any moment.
Sure enough, Atang continued, "In the beginning… they were very kind to me. Director Bai said I was a lost child, that Xiangci would give me a second life. She taught us to chant sutras and meditate, and taught us how to 'cleanse' our bodies and minds." Atang's voice was hazy, as if recalling a distant dream. "We ate only greens and plain porridge every day. At dawn we rose to bathe in ice-cold water, then knelt before the Buddha to pray. She said pain and austerity could wash away our karmic debts… and I believed her."
Old Zhou looked at the frail girl before him, his emotions complicated. Her words sounded absurd, yet sincere — like a child lured deep into the woods who still refused to admit the kindly old guide was in fact a wolf.
He gentled his voice. "And later? What happened last night?"
Atang didn't answer immediately. Her chest heaved a couple of times, and her eyes quickly grew red. Choking back a sob, she said, "Yesterday was supposed to be our 'Final Retreat' ceremony… The seven of us — chosen as the most devout incense-offering believers — were going to complete our sacrifice together." She bit down hard on her lip, and at last tears slid down her cheeks. "Director Bai said we would transcend the mortal world by doing this, but… but in the end…" She covered her face with both hands and burst into a shrill, broken wail, "In the end there was only fire! Only pain! No transcendence — nothing at all!"
The atmosphere in the interrogation room turned to ice in an instant. For a moment, Old Zhou didn't know what to say. His notebook was barely half-filled, and the questions he still had were stuck in his throat. He had wanted to ask who had organized this "sacrifice" ceremony, and who had lit the flame, but seeing the girl's complete collapse, a wave of compassion stopped him from pressing her any further.
It was a long time before Atang's sobbing gradually subsided, leaving only the faint sound of her ragged breathing in the room.
Old Zhou passed a few tissues over to her. She took them, but her hands were shaking so badly that a few fell to the floor. She hurriedly bent down to pick them up, and in doing so suddenly noticed her own bare feet under the table — she had lost her shoes while fleeing the fire, and now the tops of her feet were covered in scrapes and blisters, some of the wounds already festering.
Atang stared blankly at those injuries, her eyes empty. Just then, footsteps sounded in the corridor, and the interrogation room door was pushed open. A middle-aged man in a suit walked in. Old Zhou sprang up and gave a salute. "Chief Yuan."
Atang looked up. The newcomer had a square face and an air of stern authority that brooked no dissent. This was a Bureau Chief surnamed Yuan from the city's Political and Legal Committee.
Chief Yuan swept his eyes over the scene at the table, then gestured for Old Zhou to sit back down. He pulled a chair over and sat beside Atang. "Child," he said, pitching his voice low and squeezing a note of reassurance into it, "don't be afraid. We know you've suffered so much." He paused, then continued, "We've been fully briefed on what happened just now. You're tired, so let's get you some rest tonight." As he spoke, he shot Old Zhou a look that spoke volumes.
Old Zhou hesitated briefly, then said in a quiet voice, "Chief Yuan, the important clues this girl provided haven't been verified yet—"
"No need to rush," Chief Yuan interrupted, allowing no argument. He then turned to Atang with a small smile. "Atang, is it? Don't worry. We'll arrange for you to recuperate in a safe place. Once you're feeling better, we can talk again at your pace." His voice was gentle, yet it carried an unmistakable note of finality.
For a moment, Atang was stunned. She nodded, bewildered, wiped her tears, and fell silent. Old Zhou opened his mouth, but in the end said nothing. He understood Chief Yuan's message well — the case of the Xiangci Sanctuary was tangled and sensitive, and higher authorities had already instructed that the matter not be probed deeply. The girl before them was a minor, disposable figure; her words could be dismissed as the ravings of a madwoman, or buried forever. A flush of helplessness and anger rose in him, but he had to swallow it down.
He snapped his notebook shut and said to Atang, "Go with the nurse and get your wounds tended." At the doorway, a policewoman and a nurse were already waiting; they helped Atang up from her chair.
As Atang stood, Chief Yuan gently pressed her shoulder and said, with meaningful emphasis, "Take good care of yourself. Forget the unpleasant things. You're young — the road ahead is long."
Atang kept her head lowered and did not reply. Her face was white as paper, but at those words, her eyes flickered ever so slightly.
Forget… unpleasant things? She blinked slowly, her lashes casting shadows over her eyes. A moment later, she raised her head and looked toward the one-way mirror. The girl in the glass was blurred and broken, as if merged into the gray wall, no longer distinguishable.
A silent tear slid down her cheek. Nobody knew that at this very moment, a resolute voice in her heart was answering: Some things, I will never forget. They say I'm lying. But I remember… I truly remember…
— The tape stopped at this point, cutting off abruptly. The recorder's reels gave a shrill squeak as they halted, and the echoes of the interrogation room and the girl's weeping were swallowed into silence. Lin Qishan's eyelid gave a violent twitch. "Everything she said back then was true," he whispered, his voice rasping, "yet it was treated as a lie." His heart felt as if an iron fist had clenched around it; a wave of anger and remorse churned in his chest. If ten years ago someone had been willing to believe Atang's testimony, perhaps the truth would have come to light far sooner, and her life wouldn't have sunk to this depth. But unfortunately, at that time everyone — himself included — had chosen to turn a blind eye. He remembered how he himself had once deleted all those posts and audio files about "0024," and a bitter laugh escaped his lips. That laugh was uglier than a sob.
Wei Zhiyuan gently patted Lin Qishan's shoulder. "Mr. Lin, we believe her now. And we'll make sure more people know the truth," he said. With that, he switched off the recorder and carefully gathered up the stack of transcripts. "With these, we have the key evidence. The financial corruption within Xiangci's system, the crimes of Bai Jingci and others — we can trace it all from here."
"Next, we'll report to our superiors and request a full investigation into the Xiangci Foundation," another investigator added. "At the same time, we'll apply for arrest warrants to detain the suspects involved, like Bai Jingci and Pang Sinan."
Lin Qishan nodded. "We've delayed too long already — I'm afraid the longer we wait, the more time they have to cover their tracks. They've probably sensed something by now." He recalled the distorted mechanical voice on that mysterious phone call, and Pang Yunxiu's warning to him in the ruined temple; a thread of vigilance still pulled taut in his mind.
Wei Zhiyuan frowned. "Agreed. In fact, our team noticed someone tailing us these past two days." As he spoke, he pulled a simple cell phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen, his expression darkening. "I've just gotten word: one of Xiangci Foundation's accountants 'died unexpectedly' last night — supposedly a suicide leap, with a note claiming he'd embezzled funds. Clearly, they're cutting off their loose ends."
Hearing this, Lin Qishan's face turned even colder. "No more waiting. We move tonight." His tone was calm, but it brooked no argument. Wei Zhiyuan thought for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. I'll contact trusted colleagues at the city bureau right away and organize an overnight operation."
It didn't take long for everyone to reach a consensus. Before they parted, Lin Qishan carefully placed that "0024 Abandoned Offering List" scrap into an evidence envelope and handed it, along with all the other evidence, to Li Chongping for safekeeping.
"Make sure these things get safely to the Prosecutor's Office," he said. Wei Zhiyuan accepted the packet solemnly. "Don't worry — I'll escort it myself."
With brief final arrangements, the investigation team filed out into the night. As he left, Wei Zhiyuan turned back and said quietly, "Mr. Lin… take care." Lin Qishan understood his meaning.
He gave a slight nod. "I'll wait for your signal." The door closed, and the room fell back into silence. Lin Qishan stood there a long time without moving. Outside the window, a night wind swept over the deserted outskirts, carrying the distant barking of dogs and the rasp of insects. Lin Qishan walked to the window and pushed it open a crack, lighting a cigarette. He inhaled deeply — the tip glowed red, illuminating half his face in darkness and half in the pallid moonlight.
By tomorrow, everything would be settled. He slowly exhaled a plume of white smoke, and it seemed he could see, far off in that "Spiritual Healing Valley," a similar red glow flickering in the darkness — perhaps the last ember of incense in a dying brazier, or perhaps a pair of eyes unwilling to stay closed.
Lin Qishan gazed out in silence for a long while, then stubbed out his cigarette and stepped back into the shadows behind him. His clenched fists loosened, then tightened again. He was ready to face the clash that was coming. The wavering red glow would soon be exposed by the light of dawn, and the darkness before the dawn was the final test. By night's end, all was as quiet as any ordinary night — yet on the wind, a faint breath of coming change had already begun to stir.
Lin Qishan murmured to himself, "The truth will not die." The words fell into the air without a sound, yet they stirred echoes in his heart. When the first light of dawn appeared, perhaps the ashes in the mirror would finally burn out, bringing forth a single ray of clarity.