Chapter One: The Corpse

The cold, damp cell was filled with gusts of wind that seemed to have been blown straight from the depths of hell, casting such a chilling atmosphere that Tang Feihong had no desire to linger there any longer than necessary.

Especially since someone had died in this cell.

Thus, Tang Feihong was desperate to carry out the corpse covered by a white sheet on the bier behind him as quickly as possible, so he could leave this gloomy, death-ridden place far behind.

Of course, as a prison guard, it was impossible for him to truly escape the cells altogether.

“Qu Hanchen, did you feel the bier just move a moment ago?”

Gripping the handles on either side of the bier, Tang Feihong sensed a strange motion from behind and immediately turned to the tall, thin man with a nervous question.

Qu Hanchen, as he was called, was nothing if not straightforward. He simply lifted the sheet and looked at the pale, naked body lying flat on the bier.

The corpse was unnaturally pallid, without the slightest mark or birthmark. Every muscle and limb was exquisitely shaped, as if a master craftsman with callused hands had painstakingly carved out a work of art.

It was real, yet with a hint of unreality.

Tang Feihong knew well that on the back of this corpse was a bizarre pattern.

The pattern ran along the spine, dividing the back into two sides, each covered in strange, intricate black designs that spiraled upward from the lower back to the shoulders like a staircase. From afar, they resembled a pair of wings, modest and poised to spread; but upon closer inspection, they looked more like an inverted mountain range, as though suppressing something beneath.

Even more peculiar, every muscle of the corpse was inscribed with dense, golden ancient runes, their meaning obscure and unfathomable.

The first time Tang Feihong saw those sinister black patterns and the profuse golden runes on the corpse’s back, he’d thought the prisoner must be some evil monk or sorcerer from a forbidden cult.

Seeing Tang Feihong still uneasy, Qu Hanchen shook his head helplessly and, with a total lack of reverence, patted the dead man’s face.

“See? He’s well and truly dead.”

After waiting a moment and seeing the corpse remain utterly inert, Qu Hanchen spread his hands and sighed at Tang Feihong.

“Wait, the golden runes on his body are gone?!”

Tang Feihong’s eyes widened, his pupils shrinking sharply. Though there was still no sign of life in the corpse, the dense golden runes had vanished.

No one else could have entered this cell!

“Those fancy tattoos you mean? Maybe Old He cleaned them off. You know how Old He, though a coroner, is also a devout Daoist. Pity for him, no temple would ever take him in. He always says things like ‘Let all disasters turn to dust.’ I bet he scrubbed the body thoroughly before. Look, he even took away the clothes.”

Qu Hanchen shrugged, his words tinged with mockery.

The living were worthy of some fear, but this was only a corpse—hardly likely to leap up and bite him like a zombie from some novel or play.

If corpses really could transform, then all the bodies buried beneath this prison would be clawing their way out to bite him by now.

Qu Hanchen had often scavenged these dead prisoners for items that even the jailers scorned, tossing their bodies indifferently into the graves he’d dug.

“But…”

Tang Feihong still felt something was off, though he couldn’t put his finger on what. He just stood there, frustrated, his finger trembling and pointing at the pale, perfect body on the bier, wanting to speak but unable to form the words.

“Enough with your ‘buts.’ If you’re so uneasy, let’s just carry the corpse out quickly, dig the grave with some effort, and bury it fast. Dead is dead—there’s nothing strange about it.”

Qu Hanchen didn’t mind carrying corpses, but he did mind that there was nothing valuable to be gained from this one. Seeing the naked body lying in the cell had soured his mood; it meant there was nothing left to loot.

“Did he move?”

Tang Feihong’s timid mumbling only irritated Qu Hanchen further. If they didn’t see each other every day as fellow guards, Qu Hanchen would have ignored him long ago.

“A dead man cannot move. The only possibility is that your hands shook when you lifted the bier, giving you an illusion.”

Once again, Qu Hanchen slapped the corpse’s cheek for emphasis. The cold, rigid sensation beneath his palm only made him more certain the man was truly dead.

Truth be told, Qu Hanchen felt a tinge of envy toward the corpse’s perfect physique and handsome features. If this man weren’t a prisoner, with looks like that, he could easily have found himself a comfortable life, if only he’d have sacrificed a little dignity.

After all, no one dislikes beautiful things.

In Qu Hanchen’s memory, neither the most celebrated actor nor the most famed courtesan he’d seen could outshine this dead man.

It was a pity he was already dead.

A pretty corpse was like a shattered vase; it had lost even its most basic value for appreciation—utterly useless.

Of course, that excluded the perverse tastes of certain depraved individuals.

With so many people in the world, it was inevitable that some would stray beyond the bounds of normal decency, both twisted and vile. And such people often came with strong connections and influence.

This was precisely why Qu Hanchen didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits. If there truly was retribution in this world, with good rewarded and evil punished, with vengeful souls and wandering ghosts, then all the wicked would have perished long ago.

“Why are you grabbing my wrist?”

Qu Hanchen’s gaze dropped; his expression grew bleak, clearly recalling unpleasant memories. Yet suddenly, he felt a strong grip and glanced at Tang Feihong in confusion.

There were only two living people in the cell—himself and Tang Feihong.

But then he realized something was wrong.

The bier was nearly two meters long, and Tang Feihong, standing in front, was shorter than himself, with an arm span far less than two meters. There was no way Tang Feihong could have reached his wrist without bending over—yet the hand gripping him was icy cold, as though plunged into a winter tomb.

Bitterly cold.

“It’s a corpse uprising!”

Compared to Qu Hanchen’s calm reasoning, Tang Feihong’s reaction was immediate and visceral. His pupils contracted, his voice quavered with panic, and he staggered out of the cell in terror, leaving Qu Hanchen to snap back to his senses.

“Old He really botched the autopsy. You’re clearly alive.”

Unlike Tang Feihong, who had already fled, Qu Hanchen remained preternaturally calm. He glanced down at the corpse, now sitting up on the bier, mumbled as he removed the cold hand from his wrist, and then strode unhurriedly out of the cell.

Bang.

The prison door slammed shut.

Outside, Qu Hanchen’s face was ashen, his legs trembling. He clutched the key tightly, turning the bronze lock again to make sure the iron door was fastened.

He might not fear corpses, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t afraid of one that suddenly sat up.