Bureau of Corpse Management

Morning mist and thin dawn light, the golden rooster announced the day.

Last night's rain had washed the dust from the alleyways, and the night-soil man was hauling a cart of the five grains' cycle through the streets.

Lin Shou took down the door planks and stepped out of the corpse-stitching shop.

The shop was small, with the number nine written on the lintel outside. The Ministry of Rites had built twenty-four corpse-stitching shops in the Capital City; this was his No. 9 Corpse-Stitching Shop, directly across from the Caishikou execution grounds.

Whenever death-row prisoners were brought for beheading, his business opened for the day.

It was still early, so Lin Shou left his own shop and took to the street.

Last night he'd heard the Obituary Bird cry in the dark—someone had died at No. 20 Corpse-Stitching Shop. He figured he'd go take a look.

Crossing one street, he saw from a distance two clerks standing at the entrance of No. 20 Corpse-Stitching Shop. From their official robes, they should be from the Bureau of Corpse Management under the Ministry of Rites.

Lin Shou's predecessor had seen this uniform before. All corpse stitchers in the Capital were managed by the Bureau of Corpse Management under the Ministry of Rites, who selected disabled people from refugee camps, gave them business training, and put them to work.

Last night, the corpse stitcher at No. 20 had died. The Obituary Bird had sent word back to the Bureau, and by this morning, clerks had arrived to handle the aftermath.

The clerks also spotted Lin Shou and waved him over.

"Honored officers."

Lin Shou performed a hand salute, keeping a simple, honest look on his face. His predecessor's persona was that of a mentally disabled simpleton.

He could manage daily life, but his intelligence was limited.

"Which shop's corpse stitcher are you?"

"No. 9 Shop, Lin Shou."

"Good, you came at the right time. We're officials and it's inconvenient for us to handle this. You help take care of it."

The clerk pointed to a cart nearby, on which sat a basin of reeking, foul black dog blood.

Black dog blood warded off evil, drove away yin and repelled Sha.

Following the clerk's instructions, Lin Shou carried the basin of dog blood and splashed it into No. 20 Corpse-Stitching Shop.

A sizzling puff of scalding smoke rose, then all went still.

Lin Shou took the chance to peek inside. A beheaded corpse lay on the cold bier—likely yesterday's "business" sent over after the execution.

On the ground lay another corpse, that of a cripple. It should be the corpse stitcher who had died last night. His body was covered in bloody scratches from fingernails, a miserable death.

Meanwhile, the two clerks were talking at the door.

"Has the origin of that beheaded corpse been found?"

"We checked the case files at the Ministry of Justice. A grave robber, caught while fencing stolen burial goods. Executed under Great Jing law."

Grave robbing—that was tomb raiding.

During the Eastern Han, with constant warfare, the Chancellor Cao established positions like General of Grave-Opening and Colonel of Tomb-Raiding to make up for military funding shortfalls, specializing in digging up tombs for wealth to supplement the army's pay.

In this dynasty, such "illegal archaeological groups" had long been abolished. Tomb raiding under the law meant execution.

"No wonder, then. He must have stirred up some unclean thing while down in the tomb. Seal the shop for three days to purify the Sha. When a new corpse stitcher takes over, both bodies will be transferred to the Bureau of Corpse Management together."

The two clerks pasted seals on the corpse-stitching shop, rolled the bodies in straw mats, placed them on the cart, and returned to the Bureau of Corpse Management.

Lin Shou watched the two clerks leave, seeing the corpse of the miserably dead corpse stitcher taken away, his heart still uneasy.

This was the fate of most corpse stitchers.

This was also why corpse stitchers were recruited from refugee camps outside the city. What normal person would take this short-lived job? Only those who couldn't even get a meal, on the verge of starving, would sell their lives for it.

Of course, the current Lin Shou was not one of them.

He had the Record of Selling Corpses. He could lie low in the corpse-stitching shop, stitching bodies, and there were benefits to be gained.

After this morning's commotion, the sky was fully bright. The neighboring shops along the street had all opened for business, and Lin Shou went back as well.

Although someone had died in the corpse-stitching shop, by rights, no matter the scale of a human life lost, the yamen should send someone to take a look. But from start to finish, none of the Three Judicial Offices had come.

He was used to it. A corpse stitcher's life wasn't counted as a life.

Not long after Lin Shou returned to the corpse-stitching shop, the relatives of the corpse he had stitched last night arrived. The body was claimed, taken home for burial and funeral rites, and that was the end of it.

As for how Wealthy Master Gao killed his kin, how the Gao daughter died unjustly—none of that had anything to do with Lin Shou. Just as the Record of Selling Corpses wrote: When a man dies, his lamp goes out; the coffin lid seals the verdict. Good and evil lie with me; praise and blame rest with others.

Justice and right and wrong were all matters for the lords of the Three Judicial Offices to decide. He, Lin Shou, was just a lowly corpse stitcher.

After working all night, drowsiness set in.

Lin Shou climbed onto the cold bier and lay down to sleep, as peaceful as a corpse.

Corpse stitchers worked by night and rested by day. He slept straight until the sun set in the west, when someone called at the shop door.

Lin Shou sat up from the cold bier. Business had arrived.

The weather is dry, beware of fire.

In the dead of night, the night watchman struck his bamboo clapper, startling the earth dog raised by the tea house next door into barking without end.

Lin Shou watched the three incense sticks on the altar burn steadily to ash before he began threading his needle, ready to stitch the corpse.

The burning of three incense sticks before sewing a corpse has its own significance.

Sewing corpses is a trade of the shadowy arts, and countless senior practitioners have died along the way before finally distilling a set of taboos and industry standards—naturally, these must be followed.

Before sewing a corpse, three incense sticks must be lit at the head of the body.

If the three sticks burn down smoothly together, all is well. But if they go out for no reason—no more than three times before one should stop—or if they burn unevenly into two short and one long, then the corpse should not be sewn either.

As the old saying goes, people most dread three long and two short; incense most dreads two short and one long.

If the incense burns poorly, it means the corpse has a problem. Anyone without sufficient experience and skill who dares to sew such a corpse will surely meet with disaster.

Lin Shou valued his life and sought stability in all things. Seeing the incense burn normally, he began sewing the corpse steadily.

This corpse was easy to sew, unlike last night's decapitated body, which had required a heavy workload.

Tonight's corpse only had a knife wound in the center of the chest, a large gash that just needed to be stitched up.

Of course, it still required some delicate work—the outer flesh had to be sewn, and the inner heart organ as well.

Threading the needle, stitching flesh and blood, applying powder to the seams, combing the hair and brows, dressing the body in burial clothes—a night of sewing and preparing the corpse for burial.

Lin Shou felt a sudden daze, and the Record of Selling Corpses appeared before his eyes.

At the same time, the corpse's Lantern of Life began to play out.

In life, the body had been a rogue and scoundrel named Wang from Shallow Water Pier. By day he bullied men and violated women, committing every crime imaginable, doing all manner of evil, stirring up resentment among the common folk.

The Capital City had nine rivers, teeming not only with crabs but also with bustling canal transport.

At the canal docks, gangs of porters carrying heavy loads constantly formed factions, and fights and brawls were everyday occurrences.

The rivers and lakes ran deep, the Canal Gang's territory was a tangled mess—an entire large-scale underworld that even the authorities found difficult to meddle in. In such a chaotic place, it naturally bred plenty of rogues and bullies.

The one now lying cold on the mortuary slab was exactly that—the deeds he'd done while alive were utterly despicable.

When a mother left her son a house, he'd led a gang of thugs in to seize it. When the owner tried to drive them out, they'd dump night soil into the house. When the authorities came, they'd flee; when the authorities left, they'd return and keep dumping until the owner was driven away.

If he set his eyes on a decent, innocent young woman, he'd secretly have someone kidnap and defile her, driving the girl to drown herself in the river in shame. When her parents were heartbroken with grief, he'd even go to their door and curse them out.

A trail of misdeeds, deeds inhuman.

Scum like this could be said to be hated by gods and men alike, not worth regretting even in death.

Now, the knife wound in his chest was also a cycle of cause and effect, a fitting retribution—brought on by his own wicked deeds.

To be specific, it started yesterday, when this Rogue Wang went out to extort money on the street...