CORPSE WHISPERER

Detective Sun exhaled a plume of smoke, the memory heavy in his eyes. "Ten years ago," he began, his voice low. "I was just a precinct captain then. The position I hold today? I owe it all to your grandfather."

He described Grandfather as fiercely independent, reluctant to intervene. But when he did… the case cracked.

"It was a night without stars," Sun recalled. He'd been dropping off documents at a local station when a middle-aged man staggered in. Clutching a plastic bag, face flushed, he swayed like a drunkard. "Someone's trying to kill me!" he slurred, then collapsed to the floor.

Sun assumed intoxication. But a check revealed no pulse. The man was dead.

They opened the bag. Inside: a human heart.

The body bore no wounds. His expression was peaceful, almost asleep. No signs of struggle, no toxins. His car idled outside the station, keys in the ignition. Only his fingerprints inside. He'd driven himself there to report his own murder… then died.

Investigation revealed his identity: a municipal judge.

The Provincial Bureau mobilized instantly. Top detectives, forensic examiners – an elite task force formed. Days bled into frustration. No leads. Not even a cause of death.

...

...

The task force was packed with egos. Arguments flared, theories clashed. Coordination crumbled into chaos. Sun, the lowest-ranked, felt powerless.

Desperate, he suggested consulting Grandfather. Laughter erupted. Experts sneered. "An over-the-hill coroner? We might as well hire a Daoist priest!"

Then, the second murder struck. The victim: a wealthy businesswoman recently returned from overseas.

Same pattern. A heavy plastic bag beside her corpse. Another heart.

The investigation stalled completely. Sun, backed into a corner, grabbed the case files and went to Grandfather. Grandfather agreed to help. But when Sun brought him to HQ, they found both bodies… dismembered. Autopsied.

Forensic teams had dissected them "down to the bone," Sun said grimly. The only finding: the hearts in the bags were indeed the victims' own. The killer possessed a method – surgically removing the heart without breaching the chest.

Grandfather immediately refused. His condition for cooperation: no one touches the bodies before him.

Sun begged. Pleaded. Finally, Grandfather relented – but demanded to see the female victim's home.

The house had been swept clean. Repeatedly. Only police footprints and prints remained. The killer's hallmark? Utter cleanliness.

Motive? Method? Trace evidence? All pristine. No clues.

But Grandfather wasn't ordinary. He closed all curtains, lit bundles of mugwort, and filled the rooms with thick, pungent smoke. Slowly, eerily, eight blood-red characters materialized on a wall:

江北残刀,吊民伐罪!

(The Phantom Blade of Jiangbei, chastising the wicked for the oppressed!)

"Jiangbei Candaо" was clearly the killer's moniker. "Diaomin fazui" declared his twisted purpose: punishing the corrupt on behalf of the people. Sun rushed back to HQ. Deep dives into the victims' pasts revealed damning truths:

The Judge: Took bribes, framing two innocent men – uncle and nephew – for murder after they intervened in a crime.

The Businesswoman: Invested in pharmaceuticals, using unethical tactics to inflate the price of a cheap cancer drug from mere tens to tens of thousands of yuan, profiting obscenely from the sick.

The killer deemed them guilty. He had appointed himself judge, jury, and executioner.

Then, strike three. The victim: a university professor. His sin? Serial sexual exploitation of female graduate students, using recorded videos for blackmail.

He died during an academic conference. Surrounded by journalists. The story exploded.

Media frenzy erupted. Shockingly, online hordes began idolizing this "people's avenger." Police were vilified as protectors of evil. The task force buckled under immense public pressure.

"Injustice exists. Loopholes are exploited," Sun said, his voice tight with frustration. "But law and system can be mended. No one has the right to wield terror as justice! Murder is murder. As police, we had to stop him."

This time, Grandfather demanded immediate access to the body. Sun, defying furious colleagues, secured the morgue. Grandfather locked himself inside with the professor's corpse. For twenty-four hours. Sun stood guard, barring all intrusion.

During a brief bathroom break, a rookie forensic examiner accidentally opened the door. What he saw froze him in terror: Grandfather and the corpse, both wearing strange, shamanic-looking masks. Grandfather had suspended the body with ropes, seemingly re-enacting the murder scene.

Emerging after the full day, Grandfather let out a sudden, sharp laugh. Sun rushed in. "Did you find anything?"

"The method…" Grandfather admitted, a rare note of awe in his voice, "…eludes me. Extracting the heart alive? I cannot unravel it."

But he hadn't come away empty-handed. "The corpse spoke," he stated flatly. "The killer: Height, 1.8 meters. Lean build. Triangular eyes. Blade-sharp eyebrows. Prominent nose bridge."

Having partnered with Grandfather for years, Sun trusted this implicitly.

He mobilized every officer in H City. A door-to-door manhunt commenced. While the killer remained elusive, they found a crucial witness: Zhang Bao. A former gangster who'd beaten a man to death, served only three years through shady means. Zhang Bao claimed a man matching that exact description had been lurking near his home. Terrified of becoming the next target, he begged for protective custody.

Grandfather scrutinized Zhang Bao's statement, cross-referenced it with the three murder files, then spread out a map of H City. His finger traced patterns, marking locations with arcane symbols. "Search these streets. Now!" he ordered.

Sun pressed for an explanation. Grandfather offered none, only urgency.

Police flooded the marked neighborhoods. Door by door. And struck gold. A landlord confirmed renting an apartment to a man matching the description. He had the contract – with the tenant's information.

Elated, Sun dispatched two officers with the landlord to retrieve the contract. The rest stormed the suspect's apartment.

Inside, the walls told a grim story: News clippings of the three victims… and Zhang Bao. Each photo was pinned to the wall with a dagger.

There was no doubt. This was the lair of The Phantom Blade of Jiangbei.