Orange lanterns hovered through the morning fog of San Francisco's Chinatown, like tiny suns suspended above Dupont Street. Claire stood beneath them, watching droplets slide down the neon sign of "Golden Gate Bakery," pooling on the bluestone pavement in rivulets that mirrored dragon-carved eaves overhead. In her coat pocket, the black crystal pulsed faintly—almost alive—resonating with the Big Dipper mark imprinted on her palm.
"Back in 1855, the first ship of Blade Runners docked at Fisherman's Wharf," Jones's voice came from behind, carrying a weathered customs document sealed with a red stamp. "List shows seven Chinese men listed as 'cutlery merchants,' but no knives—only seven sealed wooden crates."
Claire accepted the fragile pages, barely one touch away from crumble. One sketch depicted seven robed men under the steam crane at the wharf, each holding a blade whose edge reflected light forming a line on the water.
"Do they have names?" she asked.
"No names," Jones replied, pointing to notations in the margins: "C‑1 through C‑7." Like experiment IDs. The immigrant inspector wrote in a diary: "Their eyes were like eagles', their handshakes cold as ice. At moonlight, their blades would 'sing.'"
They ducked into a narrow alley, graffiti giving way to faded Chinese ads: "Lee Kum Kee Oyster Sauce," "Wing On Tong Apothecary." At its far end, a carved wooden door stood with twin brass tiger-head knockers worn bright.
Jones rapped: three quick taps, two slow—PPEU's secret code.
A single bloodshot eye glared through the crack."You from PPEU?" a hoarse Cantonese-accented voice demanded.
"Here for Mr. Chen." Jones flashed credentials. The eye flickered to Claire's palm, lingered two ticks—then the door swung open.
Inside, the air was thick with sandalwood and herbal mist. A shrine carved in red lacquer held a statue of Guan Yu, candlelight dancing. On the wall, slash marks glinted.
An elderly man in black Tang suit sat in a high-backed chair, rolling two polished walnuts between his fingers. A crescent-shaped scar on his left temple matched the rancher's."I've been expecting you," he said in accented Mandarin. On the table were seven knives, replicas of the ones in the Rio Grande shrine—but their handles were wrapped in red silk. "The originals were buried in 1906 during the earthquake."
Claire's gaze landed on the ivory-handled paper knife. Symbols etched there matched her grandfather's contract.
"You know the Blade Runners?" she asked.
The walnuts rolled to a stop."My grandfather apprenticed under C‑7. He recorded the trades." From his coat he withdrew a thread-bound ledger of rice-paper, full of brush-stroke Chinese and scribbled English."They didn't come to America to trade knives—they came to chase debt evaders."
A ledger illustration showed a suited man arguing with a Chinese worker beside the Pacific Railroad site."That man was your great-grandfather, a supervisor on the Central Pacific Railroad. He owed seven Chinese laborers their lives—left them to perish in tunnel collapses."
Jones inhaled sharply. On his tablet, he found the 1869 autopsy files: seven supervisors died at the completion banquet, cause: "acute hemorrhage," with no wounds reported.
Mr. Chen picked up the paper knife; its blade gleamed blue in the candlelight."The Blade Runners' creed: no debtor escapes, even across oceans. Your ancestor faked his death under Masonic protection, became 'Hamilton.' But the debt remained."He began coughing, blood staining his handkerchief dark red."My grandfather's last entry references 1955: your grandfather signed at the dam site, offering 'the left eye of the seventh-generation direct descendant.'"
Claire's left eye burned. In her vision, the Rio Grande's whirlpool formed seven silhouettes—each holding a blade—and the lead figure wore a Masonic emblem. She clutched her face and stumbled back, tipping over the incense burner. Its ash fell in the shape of the Big Dipper.
"The mark has awakened," Mr. Chen whispered."The Blade Runners will come at the next full moon to take your eye and fulfill this centuries-old deal."He pressed an iron box into her hand, engraved with the Chinese characters Tianming (Mandate of Heaven)—matching the tag on the pirate cutlass."It's a token of C‑7. It suppresses the mark, but must be fed with 'blood-relative memory.'"
The moment the box touched her palm, Claire saw 1955 in living color: her grandfather at the dam foundation, a blade dripping with blood, three hard-hat workers collapsed with lifeless eyes. A beach photo peeked from a pocket: a woman holding an infant—Jones's grandmother.
"You killed my grandfather!" Jones's revolver clicked into place, aimed at Chen."Are you both in on it?"
Chen cracked the walnut apart—revealing its pit."I stayed here to stop the ritual." He opened his Tang suit, revealing a full Big Dipper scar on his chest."My grandfather failed to stop C‑7. My father failed in 1955. Now it's my turn."
Outside, sirens wailed. Chen shoved the iron box at Claire."The immigration agents? Masonic enforcers. The 1906 earthquake fires—they erased their own tracks. Get out the back, through the garden, to Portsmouth Square. There's an 1855 time capsule there."
Moments later, they dashed down the alley as gunfire erupted. Chen's screams were drowned by steel wheels and sirens, sandalwood mixing with smoke in the wet air.
Portsmouth Square's monument glowed under the rain's eerie blue light: "In memory of the Chinese laborers of 1869." Claire dug beneath a hibiscus bush and unearthed a rusted iron box. Inside were seven miniature blade models, each numbered; the final one—C‑7—still had its red thread handle.
Jones carefully pried out a sheepskin scroll: Chinese characters written in cinnabar read:
"The seventh debt: an eye for an eye, blood for blood. On full moon night, the contract concludes."
Her left eye snapped agony again—she saw the Blade Runner's face: no features, only voids where eyes should be, a spinning star map in each socket.
She clutched the Tianming box as it resonated with her palm and the mark. A thin hum filled the air.
Seven hooded figures materialized in the misty plaza, steel swords connecting their blade-edges to enclose them. The lead figure raised his blade—etched onto it was her grandfather's signature, matching the contract's ink stroke.
"Run!" Jones yanked Claire toward Grant Avenue. Their footsteps thundered on bluestone, in step with the approaching phantoms.
Claire glanced back to see Mr. Chen's shrine blazing—its blue flame burning without smoke—as the silhouettes aligned with the 1855 customs sketch.
Rain intensified; lanterns swung violently, like drowning hearts. The resonating hum from her palm and box grew louder.She realized: this debt was her responsibility—and its settlement was near.
They ducked into the "Tung Tak & Company" apothecary. A copper bell jingled sharply as they pushed inside.
Inside, a matron in blue powdered herbs in a stone mortar, the scent of angelica mixing with dampness. She looked up and stared at Claire's palm."As Guan-yi protects—finally the one who can end it." She tapped the mortar on the floor; the panic was real.She lifted a trap door under the counter, revealing steep stone stairs."Down there is a passage to the Tin How Temple cellar—the refuge before 1906 quake."She handed Claire a little red cloth bundle."It's 'soul-binding incense.' Blade Runners fear it—C‑7 used it to suppress the mine tunnel spirits."
Claire felt warmth through the cloth: incense powder shifted inside."How do you know all this?" she breathed.
The matron caressed a cabinet label: "Angelica." A tiny knife-etched symbol by it matched the sketch in Mr. Chen's ledger. She pulled back a half-silver bangle: the Big Dipper."My grandmother—C‑7's wife—hand-sewed those red silk-wrapped handles."The bangle's star glowed softly, guiding their path to C‑7's remains beneath Tin How Temple's incense burner.
A crash—blades shattered the door as shadow-figures burst in. Claire glimpsed their true blades: real, original blades, iced black. When they smashed the floor, the bricks cracked.
Jones raised his runed revolver and fired—the bullet hissed as it struck the nearest figure, which blurred and faded.
"Move!" he shouted, pushing her down the trap door stairs. The floor slick with moss; Claire's knee slammed hard. The copper box scorched, slipping almost from her grasp.
The cellar smelled of mildew and sandalwood. Rows of clay jars lined wooden shelves, labeled in brushstroke "Niuhuang," "Shexiang"—some broken, dark medicine shards visible.
Claire felt along the wall—her hand found a loose stone slab. Beneath it, a human-sized tunnel mouth exhaled icy air.Faint carvings lined the walls—names and dates of miners: "'Ah Ming, 1867'," "'Ah Choi, 1868'." A square-and-compass emblem was carved near the bottom, with the words "Hamilton was here."
"You're very grandpa's not-so-secret ally," Jones whispered, bleeding, ice-black drops falling and freezing instantly.
Black-ice crystals formed where his drops hit the floor. PPEU data called it a "Contract's Poison"—the antidote needed Blade Runner blood.
Claire remembered the ledger drawing: C‑7 slicing his finger by moonlight, his blood dropped into a copper bowl that turned silver.She gripped the Tianming box; its carved characters Mandate of Heaven warmed. Together with Jones's icing wound, the silver light amplified.
They crawled through the tunnel, surf sounds and faint daylight ahead—exiting behind Tin How Temple.On the courtyard, three Daoist priests chanted before a smoking censer, their voices ancient and unnerving—calling to forces beyond.
"These are C‑7's descendants, guardians of this temple," Jones said, pointing to a pedestal inscribed "Year Guangxu 3". A slot matched the Tianming box exactly.She slid it in; the stone slab slid with a whisper, revealing a dark opening. Steps down were covered in ash, each footing whispering like countless creatures.
At the bottom, a lacquered camphorwood coffin lay in the center. Its lid bore the Big Dipper inlaid with rubies that flickered in torchlight.Jones pried it open. Inside, no bones. Instead, a bronze box with a miniature blade stand lockholding seven small knives—an enlarged version of the ones from the time capsule.
"This is the Debt‑Contract Box," Claire murmured, recalling Chen's ledger.She placed the box near her. When she tried to insert the Tianming token, the box vibrated—knife replicas sprang open to reveal parchment scrolls embroidered in gold thread: names of every debtor from 1855 to 1955—and at the end: Claire Hamilton.
Heavy footsteps approached at the tunnel mouth. Jones gripped her hand and forced her fingertip to his bleeding shoulder."PPEU research says the carrier's blood can drive them away—now!" he breathed.
Her blood dripped onto his wound. It evaporated into golden mist. The rubies blazed as blade echoes dissolved into radiant daylight.She seized the bronze box and found an inscription:
"To break a debt: not with blood, not with life—but with acknowledgment and confession of the sin."
"I admit this debt," she said, voice echoing through the cellars."My great-grandfather's seven lost lives… my grandfather's three… I will repay them—all."She raised the bronze box."But not with my eye—by unveiling the truth. I'll expose their crimes."
The lead Blade Runner halted. Ruby flames softened to white. Silhouettes shimmered transparent. The bronze lid opened. Names on parchment turned to golden dust that drifted aside. In its wake, seven translucent laborer spirits bowed deeply to Claire, then dissipated.
When Tin How Temple's chime struck midnight, Claire and Jones stepped into the courtyard. The rain had ceased. A full moon glinted between clouds, lighting the wet stones like spilled silver. Mr. Chen's shrine still burned in azure flame—smoke gone.
The herbalist stood at the temple door, draping a red silk mantle around Claire. Ravens embroidered on it, the word Tianming glowed bloody bright. The matching glimmer from her bangle connected the red thread of moonlight between them."That contract transfers under the full moon," the herbalist whispered. "You may settle it with truth—but you will carry these memories forever."
Claire wrapped the mantle around herself and picked up the bronze box."This isn't the end—it's just the beginning," she said. "These buried truths, these unsettled debts—they'll live again through my revelations. And the Big Dipper mark on my palm will bear witness forever."
Jones checked his phone—PPEU alerts showed drops in "Contract-Blood" levels across seven states, but Chicago's supernatural index soared."There's another Blade Runner deal brewing," he said, resolve in his eyes.She looked west toward the Pacific, its waves shimmering under moon and lantern light—countless eyes waiting to be seen.Claire slid the box into her coat and tightened the new mantle."Let's go. We've got debts to clear."
They disappeared into Chinatown's mist. Seven solemn church bells tolled—marking both the end of a century-old debt and the start of a new journey.Deep in the temple's silent basement, the camphorwood coffin lid closed by itself. Its rubies dimmed to black—leaving only the Big Dipper's outline, quietly waiting for the next soul in need of redemption.