Chapter Two: The Prisoner

There were two men, one of whom appeared haggard, his tall and thin frame clad in a red cap and white collar, with a long black coat and boots. On his chest, a black garment bore the stark white character for “prison.” Coupled with the heavy iron door that had just closed with a muffled thud, it seemed clear that the man was a jailer. So, was this a prison cell? How had I ended up here, and why was I completely unclothed?

The body on the corpse rack—though, strictly speaking, it was not a corpse but rather a naked man—had a handsome face marked by confusion. His deep black eyes surveyed his surroundings with a searching gaze. The darkness of the cell posed little challenge to his vision; even though no light entered, he could clearly see the pile of dry grass in the corner and a brown clay jar, its purpose unknown.

Yet, more pressing than the questions swirling in his mind was another, far more severe: who am I?

The simplest yet most complex question in the world now weighed upon his heart and mind, a thick haze that would not disperse.

A moment later—

“His heart and pulse have both stopped. How could he possibly come back to life? Are you two trying to fool me?” Even through the heavy iron door, the man inside the cell could clearly hear the uneven footsteps in the corridor and the reprimanding voice tinged with fear outside.

This meant his hearing was also quite sharp.

As the cell door slowly opened, dim firelight squeezed through the gap, illuminating the darkness and revealing the pale skin and handsome face of the naked man sitting on the corpse rack.

“Old He, look! I told you, didn’t I?! He’s alive again! A dead man has suddenly come back to life!” Tang Feihong dared not enter the cell. He stood at the doorway, his voice shrill and trembling as he addressed the elder before him.

The elder wore a gray, worn long robe, patched in places but washed clean and tidy. In his hand was a talisman, deep yellow with cinnabar script resembling clouds and mist, the strokes intricate and unreadable.

Upon seeing the naked man on the corpse rack, the elder’s demeanor remained calm; he merely exhaled a heavy breath.

“Spirit Treasure Talisman... banish demons and bind evil, slay a thousand ghosts... disperse misfortune, preserve the way’s essence!” The elder’s face darkened as he held the talisman in his left hand, formed a secret gesture with his right, and chanted a forceful incantation toward the naked man.

But the man moved.

As the elder muttered, the man on the rack stood up, walked to the elder, and, still puzzled, took the talisman from the elder’s hand and gently kneaded it.

He could not understand why this old man was waving yellow paper and muttering at him.

Silence.

The cell fell quiet.

Tang Feihong, emboldened, quickly stepped in front of the elder, nervously swallowing. His left hand blocked the naked man’s advance with a torch, while his right hovered over the hilt of his knife, ready to strike.

“Old He, did you drink when you examined the body? This prisoner is clearly alive!” Qu Hanchen, standing nearby, seemed unafraid. He never believed in Old He’s talismans, nor in any tales of dead men rising.

So there could be only one answer: Old He must have indulged a bit too much last night when called to examine the body, becoming muddled for once.

“Impossible, I checked thoroughly. Although his body had no wounds or broken bones, I probed his throat with a silver needle—he did not die from poisoning. Yet he truly had no pulse or heartbeat.” Old He awkwardly rubbed his fingers with his left hand, the right lowering from its secret gesture. He looked nervously at the man kneading the talisman and shook his head.

“Did you drink that day?” Qu Hanchen glanced sidelong at the elder.

“Well... I did have a few cups.” The elder coughed lightly, his voice slow.

“It’s actually a good thing this Number One prisoner didn’t die. Otherwise, who knows how we would explain this to the Warden when he returns.” Qu Hanchen sighed.

“Impossible, he was clearly dead...” Old He refused to accept Qu Hanchen’s explanation. Since entering the coroner’s trade, he had never made a mistake. By observing the livor mortis, he could determine the time of death, and with scallion, water, and vinegar, he could detect invisible wounds and whether bones had been broken before or after death. Determining whether a body was burned alive or burned after death was a simple matter: if the throat was cut open and there was no soot in the airway, it meant the person was murdered and then burned; soot and burns indicated death by fire.

It was precisely because of Old He’s exceptional skills that he had been transferred here to serve as the prison’s coroner. To distinguish between the living and the dead, no matter how much he drank, he could never make such a mistake.

“I am Number One?” As Qu Hanchen was about to argue further, the man who had been silently kneading the talisman suddenly spoke, his tone confused.

“What else? You think I could mistake you? There are only three people locked up in this underground cell: you, the old man, and a woman who was sent here recently.” Qu Hanchen responded instinctively, his tone impatient.

“Hanchen, don’t forget they’re dangerous.” Tang Feihong, alarmed by Hanchen’s irritable tone, glanced at the naked man’s calm expression in the firelight and quickly interjected.

“Feihong is right. Since he’s alive, let’s not linger here.” The elder’s face was grave.

“He’s not as dangerous as you think. He’s much better than the prisoners held above.” Qu Hanchen retorted, unconvinced.

“There are things you can’t judge by appearances. I’ve examined plenty of jailers’ bodies here.” The elder warned Qu Hanchen earnestly. He’d seen enough corpses in his life and had no desire to someday examine the young man before him.

“Old He’s right. Think about it: which of those held above is a decent person? And the ones locked down here must be even worse. We’ve been here three years now. In two more, we’ll walk out with a hundred taels of silver, and perhaps other rewards as well.” Tang Feihong spoke softly, his hand never leaving his knife.

“For the sake of a hundred taels, I’ll do as you say.” Qu Hanchen’s eyes flickered at the mention of silver and he sighed again.

But as he raised his eyes, he caught the man still watching him. The man’s black eyes were clear, sincere, fixed upon him.

It was strange.

In three years of guarding this cell, Qu Hanchen had never seen this prisoner look at him with such a gaze.

“I am Number One?” the man asked again.

Qu Hanchen rubbed his forehead, glanced to see Old He and Tang Feihong had already left the cell, then lifted his torch and looked at the prisoner who so rarely spoke to him.

“I don’t know who you are; all the prisoner records are in the Warden’s study. You never speak to me, so ‘Number One’ is just the designation I use for you. I call the old man Number Sixty-One and the woman Number One Hundred Seventy-Seven, just the same.” Qu Hanchen spoke softly.

In this prison, none of the inmates had names, only numbers. So what the Number One prisoner was called, Qu Hanchen had no idea. Moreover, this Number One had never spoken to him—let alone revealed his name.

Qu Hanchen knew only one thing: prisoner numbers were assigned according to the order of arrival. This meant that Number One was the first inmate since the prison was built.

Or perhaps this prison was constructed specifically to hold him.

But that couldn’t be.

Every time this notion surfaced in Qu Hanchen’s mind, he would laugh at himself and brush away such fanciful thoughts.

The Prison of Bi Zhen had now stood for eight hundred ninety-two years, built upon an isolated island suspended above the sea. Sailing from the nearest port to Sangyu Island took at least half a month.

One could only imagine how arduous it had been to construct Bi Zhen Prison, with such immense demands on manpower and resources.

So was the original purpose of Bi Zhen Prison to confine this seemingly harmless Number One prisoner? Even if someone forced Qu Hanchen’s head underwater, he would never believe it.