Chapter 113: Dark Mark and Dawn Line

1:05 a.m. Lin Chen pulled open the dormitory door. The motion-sensor light in the corridor did not come on. He brought his right heel down hard against the concrete floor, and the tube flickered twice before casting a dim yellow light. The instant his left foot touched down, the wound felt as if it had been pierced through by fine needles, pain climbing up the muscles of his calf. He braced himself against the wall, adjusted his center of gravity, and shifted all his weight onto his right leg. His left served only as a balancing rod, the toe barely touching the ground as he dragged it forward.

Director of General Affairs Old Zhou lived on the first floor of Building Three in the teachers’ housing block. To get there from the Senior Year Two classroom building, he had to cross the athletic field and a stand of camphor trees. The night wind was hard, carrying the dampness of early autumn straight through his thin school jacket. He moved slowly, but with a steady cadence. There was no emotion in his head, only a route map: go around the pull-up bars, avoid the unpaved mud, stay on the hardened surface. Every step was a calculation of friction and load-bearing. The left foot could not take weight. He could only rely on the muscles at the front of his thigh to lift and pull, swinging the lower leg forward. On landing, the outer edge of the foot touched first, shifting quickly to the heel to avoid the wound in the arch. He had practiced this gait for three days already. It was like a preset mechanical routine.

A dim light showed through the window on the first floor of Building Three, the curtains drawn. He knocked. His knuckles struck the wooden door with a muffled thud. Three knocks, a five-second pause, then two more. Inside came the scrape of slippers across the floor, then a cough. The door opened a crack. Old Zhou stood there in an old military overcoat, hair disheveled, eyes half narrowed, a half-smoked cigarette pinched in one hand but still unlit. “Who is it? In the middle of the night.”

“Director Zhou, I’m Lin Chen from Senior Year Two, Class Three. The county admissions office just called. My design statement is missing the academic affairs review seal. It has to be resubmitted before ten tomorrow morning, or it’ll be filed as an absence. The key is with you.” Lin Chen’s voice was low, his pace even, not a word extra.

Old Zhou paused, then looked him up and down. His gaze settled on the mud and dust on his trouser leg and the faint tremor in his left leg. “This late? Isn’t the admissions office off work already?”

“They only notified us just now. The audit starts tomorrow morning.” Lin Chen held out the design statement with the missing seal, neatly clipped at the edge with a paperclip, the page flat and uncreased. “Just one stamp. Three minutes. I’ll return the key immediately after.”

Old Zhou let out a sigh and turned back inside. After a rustle of movement, he came back with a ring of brass keys and handed it over. “Academic affairs is at the end of the first floor of the lab building. Shut the door after you’re done. Don’t touch anything else. There are end-of-term exam packets in the drawers too.”

“Understood.” Lin Chen took the keys. The metal was icy cold against his palm.

The lab building was two hundred meters from the teachers’ housing block. He walked even more slowly. At night the campus was like a silent maze, with only the streetlights stretching the shadows long. When he reached the door to Academic Affairs, it took him three tries to get the key into the lock. The hinges gave off a dry scraping sound. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him.

The room smelled of old paper, ink, and mothballs. He found the switch on the wall and pressed it. The fluorescent tube buzzed to life, the light harsh on his eyes. He went quickly to the desk by the window and pulled open the rightmost drawer. Inside, arranged neatly, were the seal box, the ink pad, and the registry book. He took out the square copper seal of the Academic Affairs Office of County No. 1 High School and unscrewed the lid of the ink pad. The surface had already dried out, the edges hardened into a dark red crust.

He gently scraped away the top layer with a fingernail, exposing the slightly damp paste underneath. He spread the design statement flat on the desk and aligned it with the blank space in the lower right corner. His left hand pinned down the edge of the paper; his right gripped the seal and pressed it straight down. The pressure had to be even. It could not skew. He held his breath, put force into his wrist, counted three seconds, then lifted it.

The imprint appeared. But the edges were faint, and the character for “month” in the date field was missing one corner. The pad was too dry; the ink had not taken evenly. If he submitted it like that, the admissions officer might reject it as an “unclear stamp.” Rejection meant lining up again, going through the whole process again. He could not afford that cost in time.

Lin Chen did not panic. He picked up a blank sheet of draft paper from the side and pressed the seal into the pad several times, thoroughly working open the dried surface before inking it again. Then he stamped it a second time. This time he increased the pressure by half a degree, held it for four seconds, and kept his wrist absolutely still. Then he lifted it. The imprint was sharp, the border complete, the strokes in the date field continuous, the red color evenly soaked into the paper fibers.

He lifted the page and checked it against the light. The seal sat in the designated place. It did not cover the main text. It did not overlap. It met the admissions office requirements.

He quickly returned the seal to its place, closed the ink pad, and locked the drawer. The ring of keys swung in his hand with a crisp metallic chime. Lights off. Door open. Door locked. The motions flowed together without a wasted pause.

When he got back to the teachers’ housing block, Old Zhou was still standing in the doorway, coat wrapped tightly around himself. “Done?”

“Done. Thank you, Director.” Lin Chen handed back the key ring. Old Zhou took it and muttered, “Students really do go through a lot,” before turning back inside. The door closed, and the corridor fell dim again.

Lin Chen headed back. The pain in his left foot had become a continuous dull throb, as if a bar of red-hot iron had been pressed against his ankle. He knew the infection was spreading. His body temperature had likely already begun to rise. But he could not stop. The timeline in the ledger was still moving.

Back in the dormitory, he pushed the door open softly. His roommates’ snoring was even and steady. Feeling his way through the dark, he went to his bed and sat down. From his schoolbag he took out the ledger and a pen. Unscrewing the cap, he added an entry beneath today’s date: 01:05–01:42, retrieved seal. Ink pad dried out; second stamp applied. Imprint clear. Key returned. Left foot pain worsening, possible low fever.

He closed the ledger and lay down. His left foot remained suspended, propped up on a pillow. In his mind he ran through tomorrow’s sequence: up at 6:30, treat the wound, change the dressing. Leave the dorm at 7:10 and catch the 7:30 early minibus. Arrive at the county admissions office at 8:15. Line up, submit the materials. Complete filing before 9:00. Then hurry back to school and prepare for the afternoon science review session.

The schedule was packed tight. If the minibus ran late, or if the admissions office line was too long, the margin for error would drop to zero. He had to reserve at least fifteen minutes of buffer.

3:00 a.m. The dormitory was very quiet. Lin Chen suddenly opened his eyes. His throat was dry, and swallowing brought a faint stabbing pain. He reached up and touched his forehead. There was unmistakable warmth at his fingertips. A low fever. Not a misperception.

He sat up, fished half a bottle of mineral water from under the bed, unscrewed the cap, and drank in small sips. The cold water slid down his esophagus and pressed down the heat in his throat. He lay back again and stared at the cracks in the ceiling.

A fever would accelerate his metabolism and drain his strength. The inflammatory response in his left foot would intensify. When he hurried to the station tomorrow, his pace frequency might drop. If it dropped, he would miss the 7:30 bus. If he missed it, he would have to wait for the next one at 8:10. That would push his arrival at the admissions office to 8:50. Queueing, verification, form submission—everything would be compressed into ten minutes.

He could not gamble on probability.

He pulled out his phone. An old Nokia, the screen glowing with a ghostly blue light. He flipped through the contacts and found Old Zhao’s number. Old Zhao was the town passenger transport dispatcher, someone he had met last week while selling scrap. Lin Chen dialed and put the phone to his ear.

It rang four times, then connected. A groggy “Hello?” came from the other end.

“Uncle Zhao, it’s Lin Chen. The 7:30 minibus to the county tomorrow morning—did they switch drivers, or is it still Old Li?”

“Switch drivers for what? Old Li’s on the night run. Tomorrow morning it’s Driver Wang.” Old Zhao’s voice was thick with sleep. “Why’re you asking?”

“Driver Wang is steady, but he likes to wait until the bus is full before leaving. If I’m the only one there at 7:25, will he wait?”

“Wait my ass. He’s rushing to hand over his shift. Seven-thirty sharp, and if you’re late, you’re left behind. What are you up to now, kid?”

“Nothing. Thanks, Uncle Zhao.” Lin Chen hung up.

The screen went dark. He put the phone back beside his pillow.

Driver Wang would not wait. He had to be at the station by 7:25. From the dormitory to the town passenger station took eighteen minutes on foot. If the fever slowed his walking speed, it might take twenty. That meant he had to leave by 6:50. Which meant changing the dressing and eating breakfast would have to be compressed into twenty minutes.

He closed his eyes. His breathing gradually evened out again. His temperature was still rising, but the gears in his head had not stopped. Variables were stacking up. The path was narrowing. He only needed to pin every single node exactly to its mark on the scale.

Outside the window, the sky began to gray. A rooster crowed in the distance, hoarse and brief. A new day was about to begin its calculations again.