CORPSE WHISPERER

Grandfather massaged his back with a fist. "Aiyah, this place chills the marrow. My old joints protest. Home. We'll talk there."

An hour later, settled in our kitchen, steam rose from mugs of ginger tea. Grandfather took a slow sip, the warmth chasing the graveyard's lingering shadow. "Yang'er," he began, "you must wonder: if our ancestors were coroners, why forbid us the path? There is a reason."

He spoke of the Southern Song Dynasty, of an exceptional Judge of Criminal Justice named Song Ci. A man whose brilliance in unraveling crimes was unmatched under heaven.

In a mere eight months as Overseer of Punishments and Prisons, Song Ci overturned every wrongful conviction and solved every cold case in his jurisdiction. Over two hundred killers were brought to justice. Not a single cry of innocence followed the verdicts. The court and common folk alike were stunned.

Yet Song Ci knew his power was solitary. Across the land, officials and coroners relied on torture, extracting false confessions, heedless of life. As the saying warns: "A single drop of ink upon the magistrate's desk spells a thousand drops of blood among the people."

So, he poured his lifetime of insights into the Washing Away of Wrongs. This work founded the science of forensic examination, predating the West by over three centuries. Thus, Song Ci is hailed worldwide as the Founding Father of Forensic Science.

After him, generations of Songs served in the Ministry of Justice and the Supreme Court, solving countless cases. They expanded the Washing Away of Wrongs, distilling its essence into a near-mystical art of deduction: The Judge's Manuscript.

But towering trees catch the fiercest wind. The Song mastery was a double-edged blade. On one side, killers feared and targeted them. On the other, their skills made them pawns. During the Ming Dynasty, a Song was ordered to investigate the bizarre Nine-Tailed Raccoon Affair. It entangled him in a prince's bloody struggle for the throne. He became the scapegoat, nearly causing the extermination of nine generations of kin.

Later, a Song ancestor, skilled in fate-reading, discerned a pattern. The family's profound knowledge, capable of piercing heaven's secrets, perhaps drew the envy of gods and ghosts. Any Song who became an official, a constable, or a coroner invariably met a violent, untimely end. Thus, the eight-word ancestral prohibition was forged: 'Serve no office, hold no post. Preserve wisdom, preserve life.' A shield, hoping the Song line would endure.

...

...

His tale left me deflated, yet skeptical. "But Grandfather... you help the police solve cases yourself?"

He sighed, the sound heavy with memory. "In my youth, I was headstrong, like you. Before Liberation, I shone in the police force. Solved major cases that shook the nation. But disaster followed swiftly. I was accused... my methods branded 'feudal superstition'." His knuckles whitened on the mug. "Dragged away to sleep in a stable. Tended horses for three wasted years. Every moment, I feared the axe would fall. Had rehabilitation not come... I might have ended it myself."

He took a fierce gulp of ginger tea. "Hardness breaks; suppleness endures. A mere flicker of my skill brought such calamity. Then, I understood the ancestors' wisdom. I retreated here. But reputation clings like burrs. Every few years, someone comes, begging me to return. It is not unwillingness, but impossibility. So, I cooperate... as you've seen. I thought our line might finally find peace in your generation. Yet today, you revealed your hand to Sun Tihu. It seems fate toys with us. This is the Song family's burden. Our inescapable mission."

His words tangled in my mind. Was this encouragement to walk the path... or a final warning against it?

He continued, his gaze sharpening. "Yang'er, having passed the test, I will teach you. Everything I know. Do you wish to learn?"

Excitement surged. "Grandfather, of course!"

"Don't mistake me!" His voice snapped. "I teach you because your fumbling with those books, your showing off, is like a toddler waving a razor-sharp sword before enemies. It invites danger. You haven't grasped a tenth of the Song essence. I won't see you die young. But I am old. I cannot shield you forever. All I can do is teach you the sword's true forms, so you may walk your own path."

"Moreover," his voice softened, "this art of reading wounds and corpses is a treasure passed down through blood. To let it die with me would be my unforgivable sin. I could never face our ancestors in the Nine Springs. But if the Song line finds its heir... then I may close my eyes in peace..."

Was it a trick of the light? Or did the words 'close my eyes in peace' send an icy finger of dread tracing my spine? It felt like... a last testament.

I pushed the thought away, nodding firmly.

From that day, I learned. Whenever time allowed, Grandfather taught me the secrets of the dead, the reading of crime scenes – mysteries beyond simple words. The path was arduous. Setbacks came, but I gritted my teeth, absorbing the precious knowledge like a sponge parched for water.

Three years flew. My college entrance scores were mediocre. I yearned for the provincial University of Science and Technology, but fell short by over a hundred points. "Apply," Grandfather said. "You'll be admitted."

I trusted his unseen influence. Securing an extra quota spot would be child's play for him. Confidently, I listed it as my first choice.

Aunt wished me to study economics, to eventually join her business. Frankly, I was an extremist. Crime-solving captivated me; commerce held zero appeal. Perhaps Grandfather's genes skipped a generation.

After much deliberation, I chose Applied Electronics – a safe, employable major. Only later, discovering my class held a grand total of three girls, would profound regret set in. But by then, I was aboard the pirates' ship with no turning back.

The long summer after exams was idyllic: lazy days online, movies, chess games with Grandfather.

Then came a farewell gathering at a friend's house. We demolished two crates of beer. Childhood comrades, facing separation, venturing into the wide world – our mood swung between bold bravado and clinging nostalgia.

After dinner, karaoke. I stumbled home late.

Eleven PM. The sight of the Song ancestral house blazing with light stopped me cold. In our town, people retired early. Such illumination at this hour meant only one thing: calamity. A death in the family...

Soberness hit like ice water. I sprinted, bursting through the door, calling out.

Silence. Emptiness.

I rushed to Grandfather's study. On his desk lay a plain envelope. No stamp. In its bottom right corner, drawn in stark lines: a blood-crimson curved dagger.

Something bulky shifted inside.

Curiosity warred with dread. I tipped the envelope onto my palm.

A slick, cold weight landed there.

It was an eyeball.