Strength Pill and Dog Skin Plaster

"What did that little idiot from the Corpse-Stitching Shop do now? Running through the streets with half the town chasing him."

"Another bout of madness, I reckon. Stops people on the street and tells 'em they gotta come to his shop for stitching when they die. Eh, happens all the time."

"Haha, that fool's good for a laugh. Look at Huang Xiaoliu with his Strength Pills—can't even catch the kid, and he's worn himself out. And he's always bragging those pills make his woman scream all night."

"You believe that junk? Pure cornmeal balls. Can't even handle his own business. Soon as he sets up his stall, his wife starts inviting men home. Everyone two streets over knows she's hospitable—everyone but him. If you ask me, if you really need something, Zhang Pizi by the bridge sells a 'One-Patch Straight' Dog Skin Plaster. That stuff actually works."

"Who needs it? I don't need that kind of thing. But you sure know your stuff, brother—used it a lot, have you?"

"Not me, never touched it. Just heard from a friend, from a friend."

"Right, right. Neither of us needs it. I was just asking for a friend too, hahaha."

"..."

In the streets and alleys of Caishikou, the common folk went about their business and their lives—a full spectrum of everyday existence.

Lin Shou had recently run a little advertisement for his Corpse-Stitching Shop.

It didn't exactly draw a crowd of well-wishers—more like a bunch of folks loitering outside to curse him out—but he didn't care. The actual business results should be there, since corpses had been coming in every day lately.

These past few days, Lin Shou had stitched out a Dog Skin Plaster, a Strength Pill, a Cloud-Probing Hand, and a Lock-Picking Technique.

The Dog Skin Plaster was a fine thing too—promotes blood flow and dissolves stasis, drives out cold and poison, sharpens the mind, purifies impurities, and tempers the body.

Lin Shou wore it for one night. By morning, a layer of impurities had seeped out of his whole body. After relieving himself, he drew well water and bathed. Old grime and dead skin sloughed off, leaving his skin tight and solid. Impurities were flushed from his organs and blood vessels, and his blood surged unimpeded.

His entire body had been thoroughly forged and refined, inside and out, like a complete renewal.

Lin Shou had some old injuries and hidden ailments on this body—leftovers from when he'd been beaten fighting for food in the refugee camp. They used to ache on rainy days. Now they were all healed.

Dog Skin Plaster—tempers the body, beautifies the skin, boosts immunity. Good stuff!

Cloud-Probing Hand and Lock-Picking Technique—nothing special to say about those. Petty thief skills for stealing and lock-picking. Lin Shou figured he probably wouldn't need them much.

Then came another Strength Pill.

This one, Lin Shou liked a lot.

Simple, crude, and obvious in its effect.

To be fair, Lin Shou had gotten plenty of good things from the Record of Selling Corpses. Never mind the flawless "Corpse-Stitching Needle Technique" that could revive the dead or the deduction ace "Subtle Perception"—the "Art of Prosthetic Substitution" and "Beast-Making Art" were lost arts of the underworld, known to few.

If you judged by quality, these skills were certainly good.

But the thing about such crafty arts was that you only appreciated them when they came in handy. When you weren't using them, you didn't feel their value.

The Strength Pill was different.

One Strength Pill down, and your whole physical quality shot up dramatically.

The force in your fists, the power in your legs, the increasingly defined abs and V-lines on your waist—this was something you could feel every single moment.

That rush of getting stronger—it was addictive.

And Lin Shou was in the middle of it now, his second Strength Pill down.

He could clearly feel his entire physical constitution rising steadily, already far beyond the frail little bean-sprout build of his predecessor.

Under the coarse linen clothes, nothing showed on the surface—his body still looked on the thin side—but the perfectly taut muscles, the agile and streamlined physique, the near-maximum control over his body, the freakish muscle toughness and bone strength—he'd long since secretly shed his old shell.

Lin Shou did push-ups—two hands, one hand, one finger—effortlessly. A hundred reps, and his breathing was still steady, not a single heavy pant.

Handstands, splits, backflips, aerial pull-ups, double pull-ups, triple pull-ups—Lin Shou executed these moves with the ease and grace of a top gymnast, his terrifying core strength, flexibility, and balance on full display.

Lin Shou clenched his fist. He felt he was getting close to the physical limits of the human body as he'd known them in his past life.

He wondered what would happen next time he took one—whether he'd hit the ceiling and stop improving, or break through it.

Ah, no use overthinking. He'd find out when he got there.

For now, he had business to attend to.

Lin Shou watched the three incense sticks in front burn down steadily, then picked up his corpse-stitching needle, ready to sew a body. But then—

"Corpse-Stitcher vacancy at Shop Fifteen! Corpse-Stitcher vacancy at Shop Fifteen!..."

The Obituary Bird's harsh, grating cry rang out from outside.

Lin Shou frowned slightly. How many does that make?

If it were just this one call tonight, he wouldn't think much of it—a few had died before, and this wouldn't be unusual.

But the day before yesterday, yesterday, and today—that was three.

For three days straight, corpse-stitchers had been dying. That frequency seemed a bit high, didn't it?

He'd have to go check it out tomorrow and see what was going on.

The night passed without incident. The next morning.

Lin Shou got up early, took down the door planks, and opened his shop.

He was just about to head over to Shop Fifteen to have a look when a night-soil man came by, hauling a cart of pungent five-grain-cycle waste. The smell drove Lin Shou straight back inside.

In the shop, Lin Shou pinched his nose, his face green. Well, every trade has its hardships, he thought. This night-soil work isn't for just anyone.

Once the carriage had gone far enough and the smell had mostly dissipated, Lin Shou hurried toward the No. 15 Corpse-Stitching Shop.

But normally, when a corpse stitcher died, a clerk from the Bureau of Corpse Management would come to collect the body.

Today, when he arrived, there was no one there.

The Corpse-Stitching Shop was locked. Lin Shou peered through the window. The furnishings were neatly arranged, the cold bier had no corpse on it, and there was no corpse on the floor either.

There was simply no one inside the No. 15 Corpse-Stitching Shop.