Cold Little Hands Ask for Cuddles

Leisurely days of comfort know no taste of sorrow.

In the blink of an eye, Lin Shou had been in this world for over half a month.

The Great Jing Dynasty enjoyed peace and prosperity, a glorious age where crooked tree branches often hung heavy with burdens, and addicts slept soundly across the streets.

Lin Shou lived his small, steady life in the Corpse-Stitching Shop.

Every night, he stitched a corpse, squeezed some rewards from the Record of Selling Corpses, cultivated his mind and body—utterly at ease.

But unexpectedly, this evening.

Lin Shou had just been pestered by Ning Luowei into eating a bowl of her sweet tofu, then sent her off.

In the Corpse-Stitching Shop, a clerk from the Bureau of Corpse Management delivered a new corpse. Lin Shou was a bit surprised when he saw it.

"Isn't this the corpse stitcher from Shop No. 20?"

Lin Shou looked at the delivered corpse with confusion and asked the Bureau clerk.

This No. 20 corpse stitcher was the one the Obituary Bird had called out that rainy night when Lin Shou first crossed over.

Lin Shou remembered going to check the next morning; the clerk said he'd stitched a tomb raider's corpse and something went wrong.

That incident had happened a full half-month ago—why was the corpse only now being buried?

"The Bureau was investigating and gathering evidence. Now that's done, stitch him up for burial."

The Bureau clerk followed procedure, handed the corpse over to Lin Shou, and left.

Lin Shou looked at the body, covered in scratch marks from fingernails, and thought to himself, What bad luck, another corpse that died in a sinister way.

Still, the corpse was preserved absurdly well.

A body from half a month ago showed no signs of drying or oozing yellow fluid, no bloating at all—it looked like it had only been dead a day or two.

He really had no idea what methods the Bureau used to preserve corpses.

Late into the night, he lit incense and got to work.

Lin Shou watched the incense burn steadily to ash, then prepared to stitch.

The corpse's face and body were covered in scratches. Lin Shou checked the fingernails—there were shreds of flesh inside, probably self-inflicted.

Could this be some infectious disease?

Lin Shou put on a mask and gloves made from sausage casing, tied his clothes tight so no skin was exposed, and grabbed the alcohol disinfectant spray he'd made with strong liquor a couple days ago.

Fully protected inside and out, he began stitching.

The stitching needle flew up and down, but this time, compared to when he'd stitched Ning Luowei, it was much rougher.

After all, stitching a living person was different from a dead one. Once buried, you'd never see them again—no need to be as meticulous.

Lin Shou held back, keeping his skill reined in, but his ability was too high to fully suppress. Even this casual stitching far surpassed the "work" of other corpse stitchers.

Lin Shou felt that since that night he'd stitched twenty-three thousand nine hundred stitches into Ning Luowei, his technique had improved again.

It seemed the skills rewarded by the Record of Selling Corpses, though they'd pushed his proficiency to the peak, still left some room for growth—maybe even a chance to break through the limit.

Now, whenever Lin Shou immersed himself in stitching, he even felt like he was listening to a sage expounding scripture. After finishing, his mind was full of life insights and universal truths, as if his soul had been cleansed.

Could this be what they called skill transforming into the Dao? Entering the Dao through craft?

Tsk, Lin Shou thought this pumped-up state would be perfect for getting on a stage and giving a rousing motivational speech.

The stitches fell evenly, and he cut the thread.

The No. 20 corpse stitcher's body was finished.

The whole process went smoothly, with no strange occurrences.

Ghost money, the River of the Underworld—the Record of Selling Corpses appeared.

Lin Shou watched as the Lantern of Life began to run.

The No. 20 corpse stitcher's life was utterly unremarkable.

Overall, no different from No. 6 last time.

The first half of his life was miserable—almost starved to death.

Then he saw the Bureau was recruiting, but only for the disabled. In a moment of desperation, he smashed his own leg, got the chance.

Then, before he'd even worked two months, something went wrong, and he died.

Lin Shou didn't care much about any of this.

Stitch enough corpses, see enough lives—a hundred years of scrambling, all just passing smoke.

He was more interested in what happened the night the No. 20 corpse stitcher died so bizarrely.

The Lantern of Life reached that night.

After the autumn executions, the beheaded bodies from the execution ground were sent to the corpse-stitching shops. Shop No. 20 received the tomb raider.

Number Twenty the corpse-stitcher bustled about in the shop, his face flushed and his spirits sluggish—he'd been drinking during the day.

Three incense sticks were lit.

The corpse-stitcher sat and waited a while, feeling his body grow weary, wanting to finish stitching the corpse quickly and get to sleep.

He glanced at the three incense sticks; they had already burned past the halfway mark.

All three were perfectly even, steady as could be.

The corpse-stitcher figured there was nothing to worry about, so he didn't even wait for the incense to burn out completely before starting to stitch the corpse.

He threaded the needle between the neck and the head. At first, nothing went wrong, but when the corpse was more than half stitched up—

Just five stitches left to finish—

Suddenly, a great gust of wind howled outside!

Bang! The door of the Corpse-Stitching Shop was blown open! The fine rain outside drifted in, and in the dimness, the candle flame flickered wildly, nearly snuffed out.

The drunken corpse-stitcher frowned, thinking to himself that he remembered latching the door—how strong a wind could it be to blow it open?

But when he turned his head to look, he saw the three incense sticks placed before the corpse's head.

According to corpse-stitcher custom, you had to watch the incense burn steadily all the way down before confirming it was safe to stitch the corpse.

But as luck would have it, today this corpse-stitcher was drunk and weary, wanting to finish early and sleep, so he hadn't waited for the incense to burn out.

As the old saying goes, the coincidences of this world can bring promotion and wealth, or they can cost a man his life.

There are always coincidences in this world.

A man who's never bought a lottery ticket in his life goes to buy cigarettes, the shopkeeper has no change and says, "How about a lottery ticket instead?" He buys one, and every single number hits—tens of millions of dollars land on his head. That's a coincidence that brings promotion and wealth.

A train has run for decades without a single accident. Today you come to stand five hundred meters from the tracks, the train derails, thousands of people packed nearby are all fine, and bang—it kills only you. That's a coincidence that costs a man his life.

Tonight, Number Twenty the corpse-stitcher was exactly that.

He just had to be drunk. He just had to not wait for the incense to burn out. He just had to run into this corpse of a grave robber.

The corpse's neck and head were connected, just five stitches away from being done.

The wind blew the door open. The corpse-stitcher turned his head and saw the three unfinished incense sticks in front of the corpse—two short, one long.

Two short, one long!

The corpse-stitcher's drunkenness vanished in an instant.

Ah! The incense!

The corpse-stitcher slapped his thigh and gritted his molars, a bad feeling rising in him—he feared great calamity was about to befall him.

Panicked and at a loss, he looked left and right, spotted the door blown open by the gale, and thought to himself: I... I'd better run!

All corpse-stitchers were Heavenly Cripples and Earthly Maimed. This old cripple, lame in one leg, was so terrified he couldn't even bother with his crutch. He lifted his backside, swung his leg, and was about to flee for his life.

But he felt a strong grip on his wrist, as if he'd been caught, unable to break free.

The old cripple turned his head to look—hey!

The corpse's hand was grabbing his wrist.