Corpse-Stitching Needle Manual

The stitched corpse of the old cripple had been collected, and on the outer wall of Lin Shou's Corpse-Stitching Shop, an ugly wanted poster was now plastered.

With that, this matter was put to rest for now.

As for the fact that the criminal's portrait on the wanted poster was wrong, Lin Shou couldn't be bothered with it.

How would he handle it? Say, "You've got the gender all wrong—the Scalp-Cutter is a fair-skinned, red-lipped 36D beauty"?

If they asked, "How do you know? Are you an accomplice?"

And he couldn't answer? The Ministry of Justice's prison had recently acquired a new batch of massage chairs—would he like to try one out?

Lin Shou had no interest in making trouble for himself. He didn't want to be invited to the Ministry of Justice's prison for tea.

With so many high-ranking officials in the Three Judicial Offices and so many constables raised by the Six Fan School, could they really let a murderer roam free? Couldn't even figure out what he looked like?

If all the officials in the Capital City were such useless sacks of wine and rice, Lin Shou might as well say "no hope, farewell" early and flee overnight.

Although the Great Jing Dynasty was already on the verge of collapse, teetering in the wind and rain, it shouldn't have fallen to such a state yet.

Catching criminals was the business of the Three Judicial Offices. Lin Shou didn't draw a government salary or bear that burden—he was just a lowly corpse-stitcher in a small shop.

Rather than worrying about such distant matters, it was better to see what good things the Record of Selling Corpses had given him now.

The Yin-Yang Abacus clinked and clanked, setting prices for heaven, earth, and the realms between.

The old cripple's life was probably truly dull, not the least bit exciting, and not worth much.

The Record of Selling Corpses set the corpse's price at Yellow Grade, Seventh Rank.

Previously, the filicide Wealthy Master Gao was priced at Fifth Rank, and the shameless, thick-skinned Rogue Wang at Third Rank. This old cripple was the cheapest corpse Lin Shou had sold so far.

But the reward wasn't bad.

A Golden Corpse-Stitching Needle, paired with a miraculous Flesh and Skin Scroll that unfurled slowly like a painting.

Beneath the scroll's surface lay nerves, flesh, blood, and bones, its texture identical to a real corpse. The scroll was covered in wounds of all sizes—cuts from knives and spears, crushing blows from blunt weapons, burns from fire and scalding, poison damage, bite marks, and tearing lacerations.

Corpse-Stitching Needle Manual

Lin Shou picked up the golden needle, threaded it, and began stitching the wounds on the Human Skin Trauma Scroll one by one.

The lonely night deepened, wax dripped from the candle, and Lin Shou focused intently on stitching the human skin, his mind seemingly sinking entirely into the task, oblivious to the outside world. In a single night's work, he managed to stitch all thousands of wounds on the Human Skin Trauma Scroll shut.

Just as dawn arrived, thin morning light streamed through the window into the Corpse-Stitching Shop, falling upon the fully stitched Human Skin Trauma Scroll. Sparks ignited, and it burned cleanly away in a flash.

The corpse oil from the burning scroll soaked Lin Shou's hands, and the experience and knowledge of the Corpse-Stitching Needle Technique seeped into every inch of his body.

Previously, his stitching method had been rough and broad, no different from sewing a sack.

The Ministry of Rites did provide on-the-job training for corpse-stitchers, sure, but it was just a casual lesson. The standard was simply to stitch it closed without it coming undone—enough that you wouldn't sew the head on only for it to fall off before the family carried the body home.

Ugliness wasn't a concern. He was stitching for common folk, not nobles or high officials, and certainly not for the emperor. Word had it that when court officials or the emperor held funerals, the Ministry of Rites had Imperial Morticians to tidy up the remains and appearance.

So, the corpses Lin Shou had stitched before were sturdy and durable, but their appearance was mediocre. Whether they looked good or not didn't matter much—you were holding a funeral, not a wedding.

However, after learning this Corpse-Stitching Needle Manual, it truly enhanced Lin Shou's professional skills as a corpse-stitcher.

Lin Shou looked around, casually grabbed a cabbage drying by the window, tore a leaf into pieces, and picked up the golden stitching needle.

The needle and thread flew in a blur, and the cabbage leaf, originally torn to shreds, was stitched back together as if it had never been damaged. He picked it up and brought it close to his eyes—no stitches or thread ends were visible.

If he showed this to someone else, they would never believe the leaf had been torn apart and then stitched back together.

Such a masterful, near-divine skill—even a tailor with heaven-granted talent and ingenuity, practicing their whole life into old age, might not be able to develop it.

But Lin Shou, through the reward from selling a corpse, had mastered it in a single night.

Tsk tsk, this Record of Selling Corpses was truly terrifying.

Unfortunately, this was a corpse-stitching technique, still stuck within the corpse-stitcher trade. If only he could get a skill in cooking, painting, music, or calligraphy... he could switch careers and become a master to rake in money.

But even if that day came, it might not matter. With this Record of Selling Corpses, Lin Shou wasn't sure he'd be willing to give up corpse-stitching.

Setting those fantasies aside, life went on day by day.

In the following days.

The Capital City was in an uproar over the Scalp-Cutter's appearance.

Rumor in the underworld had it that the Minister of Justice had received orders to capture the Scalp-Cutter within two months, or else resign and return home to plant sweet potatoes.

This rumor wasn't baseless. During the day, patrols of yamen runners on the streets had indeed increased, and at night, one could often hear night patrols passing by.

But judging from the new wanted poster Lin Shou had seen.

Aside from the bounty rising to a thousand taels, the portrait was still that same fierce-faced man with a hairy mole.

He could almost see a rising sweet potato magnate in the making.

Of course, this had little to do with him, a commoner.

Though the Great Jing court was in turmoil day and night, Lin Shou's life as a corpse-stitcher was quite comfortable.

Recently, he'd taken on a few corpse-stitching jobs at night.

Judging by the Lantern of Life, most were from gang fights among the Canal Gang porters near the docks—all of them battered and bruised.

The reason might be that a new group of refugees fleeing famine had recently arrived from the north, looking to put down roots at the Capital City's canal port—they needed to claim territory and snatch business.

Word was that the north had seen much war and chaos lately, with demonic invaders breaking through the passes and taking cities one by one, where for three days heads fell like rain. These were the ones who escaped; those who didn't died there in the massacres.

The corpses were priced at standard rates.

Not as good as that lame old corpse-stitcher; most were eighth or ninth rank.

The rewards from the Record of Selling Corpses were just things like Turtle Fist, Groin-Kick, Eye-Gouge—that sort of Amateur Kung Fu.

After a few days, Lin Shou had practiced a set of dirty tricks.

If you called it a proper martial art, it was too crude and ugly, truly unfit for the stage. But if you said it was useless, it packed both lethal power and a hefty dose of humiliation.

At least now, if he ran into a thug and got into a fight, Lin Shou not only held his own but could even make the thug clutch his crotch and curse. In all his years on the streets, the thug had never seen such dirty, underhanded moves—more thuggish than a thug, more hoodlum than a hoodlum.

Lin Shou wasn't greedy.

He never expected to become a martial arts master overnight.

This set of "Amateur Kung Fu" scraped together from the Record of Selling Corpses was at least a little skill for self-defense.

Days flowed by like water, the wind bleak and chilly, late autumn deepening.

One day, a fine rain began to fall over the Capital City.

The Corpse-Stitching Shop grew damp and started to smell musty.

Lin Shou opened the door to let in some air and saw a row of disabled people sitting against the wall of the teahouse next door, taking shelter from the rain.

Among them, most were lame, followed by those missing arms and mutes who couldn't speak, plus one elderly blind man.

Lin Shou was familiar with this bunch.

Heavenly Cripples and Earthly Maimed—they were all corpse-stitchers from various shops.