CORPSE WHISPERER

I was born in a small southern town, never knowing my parents. My grandfather raised me in an ancestral home—a place of worn timber and quiet echoes.

Though orphaned, I lacked for nothing in his care. Only once did his voice turn to iron: "Yang'er, remember this. When you grow up, chase any dream you wish—except three paths. Never become an official. Never a police officer. And never... a forensic examiner."

I was young then, barely knowing what a "forensic examiner" was. I nodded, wide-eyed.

But as years passed, strange clues piled up. Grandfather's life defied logic.

He never toiled in fields, yet coins flowed like water—sweet treats, school fees, all covered. High-ranking officials, trailed by junior officers, often appeared at our gate. They bowed as if to a lord, bearing gifts: premium Moutai, Panda cigarettes reserved for state banquets.

They'd vanish into his study for hours—sometimes dawn till dusk. Days later, news would break: another major case solved. The "Ghost Money Diner Murders." The "Southwest University Body Parts." Headlines screamed nationwide, echoing even in our secluded town.

I sensed Grandfather's shadow behind these triumphs. Yet his lips stayed sealed.

His influence shielded our family. Aunt's business thrived; when a truckload of her goods vanished on the highway, police recovered it within a day. Even my middle school entrance—grades falling short—ended with an acceptance letter from the top academy.

When I turned twelve, the county planned a new highway. It would slice through our neighborhood. Neighbors succumbed to relocation offers. Not Grandfather. He became the lone "holdout," rooted to ancestral soil.

The construction boss, no soft touch, sent bulldozers. They roared to our gate, claws ripping through a wall—a show of force.

Terrified, I nearly wept.

Grandfather sighed. One call. Three quiet sentences. Minutes later, the bulldozers fled.

Next dawn, officials and the boss himself arrived, apologizing. The boss offered 100,000 yuan—a fortune in our town. Grandfather waved it away like smoke.

The highway bent around our home like a river avoiding a rock. That day, a seed of awe took root: What power did Grandfather wield?

At fifteen, I found them. Hidden in an old trunk: two crumbling books.

One: Washing Away of Wrongs: The Original Manuscript (Authored by Song Ci, 1247 AD).

The other: The Judge's Manuscript (Author unknown).

My classical Chinese was feeble. I mostly deciphered anatomical sketches—muscle, bone, wounds. Yet these books pulled me. Secretly, obsessively, I devoured them, character by stubborn character.

They opened a door. A world where "coroners" (wǔ zuò—ancient death-readers) unraveled truth from flesh. To me, it wasn't horror. It was a thrilling puzzle.

My chance came at sixteen.

Dog days of summer. Grandfather was out. Bored, I stalked cicadas with a bamboo pole when a black Jetta screeched to our gate.

Out stepped Detective Sun—square-jawed, bronze-skinned, uniform swapped for sweat-drenched polo. He'd visited before.

"Kid! Grandfather home?" he barked, wiping his brow.

"Gone."

"Tch. Weather's hell itself."

"Come in, Uncle! I'll get you something cold."

He downed the cola I offered in one gulp, lit a cigarette. "High school yet?"

"First year."

"Grades?"

"Passable."

"Bullies?"

"None."

"Point 'em out. I'll educate them." He grinned. "Your grandfather... he's a once-in-a-century mind. And stubborn as bedrock. Offers? A director promised him 50,000 a month retirement—just work with us a year. He refused. So... we found another way to collaborate."

"Collaborate how?"

He paled. "Ah—stomach's revolting! Too cold, too fast. Restroom?"

I pointed. He bolted.

His briefcase gaped open. A photo slid out. Crimson. Emerald. Curiosity burned.

Just one look.

I reached. Heart drumming against my ribs. Police files are forbidden. But the pull was too strong.

The photo: A man in a blood-soaked white shirt, slumped by an open safe. Throat slit ear-to-ear. Scattered banknotes, speckled red. Glasses dangling from one ear.

No revulsion. Only electric fascination. Like a starving man seeing a feast. (A crude analogy, disrespectful, yet true.)

A hand snatched the photo.

Detective Sun loomed, eyes hard. "Kid. That's a felony."

"I—just one glance—"

His glare softened. A sly smile. "Test time. Answer right? We forget this. Wrong? Enjoy a police station vacation."

Calm washed over me. I knew his question.

"What killed him?"

"Photo." I took it. "Throat wound. Angled blade. But if it were a knife, you wouldn't ask. So... something unusual."

His eyes lit. "Not bad. So?"

"It's in this photo."

"Bull! My case. We turned that place upside down. No weapon. We have the killer, but—" He caught himself. "What. Is. It?"

"The money. Specifically... the bills."

His jaw slackened. "Bills? Impossible!"

"Bind fresh bills tight. The edge cuts like a razor. Then unbind them. Scatter them." I tapped the blood-stained cash. "The weapon dissolves into the crime scene."

He inhaled sharply. "Song Zhaolin's grandson indeed."

(Truth? I'd cheated. The Judge's Manuscript detailed a "paper blade" murder. The blood-spattered notes screamed the answer.)

"Thanks, kid. Mission accomplished. Visit the city; I'll buy you KFC. Got a daughter your age—you'll click." He pocketed the photo, muttering, "Old fox Song lied. Said the Song line of coroners ended. Yet here he is... training his heir."

"Heir to what, Sun Tihu?"

The voice froze my blood. Grandfather stood in the doorway. His gaze—first on Detective Sun, then on me—turned piercing, knowing.

He knew.

Terror, pure and absolute, seized me.