One Corpse, Two Lives, Heaven's Price

Deep in the night, ghosts come knocking.

Under the hazy moonlight, the capital city settled into stillness.

Lin Shou walked through the empty streets, a leather-and-wood corpse-stitching case slung over his back, holding his stitching tools.

Silent and soundless, he arrived at the Bureau of Corpse Management's gate.

"Halt. Who goes there?"

The two guards at the entrance blocked his way.

"Shop No. 9's corpse-stitcher, Lin Shou."

His eerie, cold voice sent an inexplicable chill through the guards, stirring a flicker of fear. Their momentum faltered, and they stepped back.

"You—wait here. I'll report in."

One guard went inside to announce him, while Lin Shou stood at the gate, peering into the Bureau.

Inside, the buildings and halls were arranged in orderly layers. On either side, covered corridors stretched out, with a central passageway running through. Carved into the spirit wall at the entrance were scenes of the Ancient Tombs of the Underworld River and Old Yin-Protection Customs, with a large character for "Corpse" at the center, meant to suppress the sha of the through-hall.

The so-called "through-hall sha" was a concept from architectural feng shui—simply put, a front door aligned with a back door, open and unobstructed.

Old sayings spoke of qi: when qi entered through the door, it should linger within the house. But a through-hall, open at both ends, let qi rush in from the front and out the back, failing to gather energy or fortune—an ill omen.

Thus, large courtyards with through-halls often built a barrier in the middle, either a structure or, like the Bureau, a spirit wall.

Spirit walls were common in old mansions and estates. Beyond suppressing through-hall sha, elder tales claimed they could reflect ghosts and drive away yin.

In ancient times, people believed wandering spirits roamed the world, and one might drift into a home, bringing calamity. So they built a spirit wall at the entrance: if a ghost entered, it would see its own shadow on the wall and flee in fright. Hence, spirit walls were also called "ghost mirrors."

Of course, these were feudal superstitions, tales yin-yang masters used to profit from feng shui talk.

Years back, unscrupulous feng shui masters would even sneak pig's blood onto the doorsteps of wealthy homes without spirit walls, faking hauntings to drum up business.

Nowadays, spirit walls mainly served to adorn a residence's grandeur, with massive carvings—merchants favored blooming flowers and eternal spring for wealth, while officials chose tigers descending mountains or dragons commanding rain. But the Bureau's spirit wall...

Lin Shou studied the carvings of ancient tombs, yin-protection customs, and that enormous "Corpse" character, all radiating grimness and the underworld. He wondered what feng shui master designed this—did they not pay him enough?

Tsk, a grave at the entrance? Abstract art?

If it were me, I'd carve the Eighteen Touches spring palace painting on it—easy on the eyes...

Lin Shou waited only a short while before a clerk from the Bureau came out to greet him, leading him inside. They twisted and turned until they reached a side room.

Outside the side room, two officials were speaking. Judging by their robes, both held rank.

One was likely the Bureau's deputy director, Sun Xianfu, second only to the top director, overseeing internal affairs.

The other seemed to be from the Imperial Medical Academy—Lin Shou didn't recognize him.

"Sir, the man is here."

The clerk bowed. Sun Xianfu nodded and said:

"Take him inside. Notify the Public Mortuary to collect the body tomorrow morning. Official Lu and I have morning court and won't be coming."

The clerk acknowledged, watching the two officials depart.

Lin Shou stood to the side, thinking: Well, they've even booked my morgue bed for me. Really sending me to die, huh?

Creak—the side room's door swung open.

Lin Shou was shoved inside.

"Stitch that corpse in there tonight."

The clerk finished his order and slammed the door shut, as if the room held something terrifying.

Lin Shou clicked his tongue, looking around. The room was about the size of his own corpse-stitching shop, similarly laid out, with a cold bier in the center bearing a corpse.

It was the same corpse he'd seen half a month ago—the grave robber's.

But what made the room unsettling was the walls, ceiling, windows, and floor—all plastered with talismans, yellow paper marked with eerie ghost symbols in cinnabar.

The whole place looked like a Taoist priest had performed a ritual. With this many talismans, he wondered if they were suppressing some immense resentment or just caught a half-price sale at the wholesale market.

Lin Shou sighed, stepped forward, and examined the corpse. A ring of stitches circled its neck.

This grave robber had been decapitated. Earlier, Number Twenty, the first to die in the corpse-stitching shop, had stitched most of it, leaving five stitches unfinished before he died.

Now, looking at those five stitches, three had been sewn—crooked, uneven, each from a different hand.

Clearly, the three corpse-stitchers who died in recent days had each done one stitch. One stitch, one death.

Two stitches remained.

Lin Shou shook his head. A corpse-stitcher's life isn't a life, so they just keep feeding them to the meat grinder?

The first death could be called an accident, but the rest were clearly knowing the tiger was on the mountain and sending them in anyway—one, two, three, four, five, all tiger chow.

Five stitches, five lives.

They'd rather sacrifice five corpse-stitchers than leave this body unburied, all for some unknown reason.

But Lin Shou had no intention of dying so miserably.

Lin Shou opened the leather-wrapped wooden corpse-stitching box and took out his stitching tools.

He first lit three incense sticks, then took protective measures, tightening his clothing and wrapping himself up tightly from head to toe. Finally, he pulled out his prepared "secret weapon."

Lifelike finger joints, connected by precision suture nerves, could be remotely controlled from up to twenty meters away—a set of wooden Medical Mechanical Hands!

Lin Shou had deduced that morning at the Bureau of Corpse Management that he might have to stitch the grave robber's corpse.

He had spent an entire afternoon using the Art of Prosthetic Substitution combined with his modern knowledge to cobble together this device, allowing him to stitch corpses via remote operation.

The twenty-meter operating distance was enough to prevent the corpse from suddenly grabbing his hand mid-stitch, something he had seen in the Lantern of Life.

He had clearly witnessed how the No. 20 Corpse Stitcher died, so he naturally prepared this countermeasure.

The three incense sticks had burned down unevenly—two short, one long.

He knew this corpse was problematic, but he still had to stitch it. The Bureau of Corpse Management had forced the task this time, and refusing would likely bring severe consequences. After all, corpse stitchers like him had no rights to speak of.

Lin Shou adjusted the Medical Mechanical Hands into position, then stood far away, manipulating the threads to begin remote stitching.

Two stitches. Not many. Very few.

But he had only just finished the first stitch.

Crack! A wooden Medical Mechanical Hand was seized tightly by the corpse!

Lin Shou reacted quickly, immediately letting go and cutting all the threads. The wooden hand fell to the ground.

In no time at all, the entire wooden hand began to rot and blacken, emitting a puff of smoke before breaking down.

Lin Shou swallowed his saliva. If a person touched it, they'd die. Even wood rotted on contact. He had no idea what this thing was.

Still, fortunately, he was used to preparing multiple contingencies.

Lin Shou took another wooden Medical Mechanical Hand from his corpse-stitching box. He had a spare.

He manipulated the wooden Medical Mechanical Hand, threading the needle.

The last stitch on the grave robber's corpse.

Sewn!

Buzz! The Yinchuan Paper Treasure appeared, and the Record of Selling Corpses manifested!

Lin Shou saw the grave robber's Lantern of Life.

He had originally been a Grave Robber from the Xiang Region, active locally, making a living by dragon-seeking, tomb-raiding, and selling funerary goods.

Later, the local authorities put a bounty on his head, forcing him to flee to the Capital City. But he was still caught.

According to the Great Jing Law, privately robbing tombs meant decapitation.

He was beheaded after the autumn harvest, and his corpse was sent to the No. 20 Corpse-Stitching Shop—the day Lin Shou had transmigrated here.

But the Grave Robber was already dead. Why could his corpse still move? And it seemed to carry a strange poison? One that caused itching and eventually death, and could corrode wood. It had killed four unsuspecting corpse stitchers in succession.

If Lin Shou hadn't had the Record of Selling Corpses' Lantern of Life, and through the dead corpse stitchers discovered the corpse's grabbing trick, he would have fallen for it too.

Lin Shou watched the Lantern of Life for a long time, only finding one detail that seemed relevant.

Before the Grave Robber left the Xiang Region for the Capital, he had robbed a prince's tomb. He camped out overnight, and when he woke up the next morning, he found himself lying inside a bronze coffin. Terrified out of his wits, he scrambled out and fled.

That tomb raid was cut short, but in his panic, he had grabbed a funerary object by accident and brought it out.

Later, in the Capital City, it was while trying to fence that very object that he was caught and lost his head.

The Lantern of Life ended.

Lin Shou reviewed it. Aside from waking up in the bronze coffin at the prince's tomb, there was nothing else unusual.

He wondered if the corpse's inexplicable strange behavior now was related to that.

The Yin-Yang Abacus clinked and clanked, Heaven and Earth, Dark and Yellow, a good price.

Corpse valuation: Yellow Grade, First Rank.

Oh, the price was quite high.

Lin Shou raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. This trip wasn't a loss.

A Burial Shovel appeared in his hand.

But before Lin Shou could examine it closely.

The Yin-Yang Abacus clinked and clanked, Heaven and Earth, Dark and Yellow, a good price.

Huh? What does that mean? Another round?

Corpse valuation: Heaven Grade, Third Rank.

Heaven Grade valuation?!

Lin Shou was dumbfounded.

Heaven, Earth, Dark, Yellow—the highest valuation he had ever gotten before was only Yellow Grade. Where did this Heaven Grade suddenly come from?

At the same time, Lin Shou was even more curious: why had the Record of Selling Corpses given him two rewards for stitching one corpse?

He looked from a distance at the corpse lying cold on the platform.

One corpse, two lives?