Chapter 25: The Corpse Bearer

Stepping out the door, the police officer sighed, pulling out a notebook densely packed with names. With a gentle swipe of his finger, most names vanished, leaving only Qin Ye's name starkly visible on the page.

“Captain Liu,” he spoke into the phone, “please check into the Xingfu Orphanage in Pingjing. Look up a young man named Qin Ye... Yes, the records say he’s nineteen, moved to Qingxi County seven years ago... No, I’m not suspecting anything specific, but right now, we can’t afford to overlook any lead, especially those involving non-locals. More importantly, our investigation shows Qin Ye was the last person to have contact with Wang Chenghao. Also, AC-285 handled an E-level paranormal incident involving both of them.”

“No matter how you look at it, he’s among the suspects.”

Unbeknownst to him, just behind the scene, Qin Ye stood behind a glass window, watching it all unfold.

“When did you become so soft-hearted, caring about others’ fate?” Arthas remarked indifferently. “There are countless wrongful deaths in this world—do you intend to save them all?”

Qin Ye shook his head, narrowing his eyes. “Corpse energy is different from yin energy. Only you, I, and a few with the second sight can see it. His corpse energy is so dense, yet there’s not a trace of yin energy, nor any scent of blood... He doesn’t look like someone who’s killed.”

Arthas couldn’t even muster the energy to ask. Matters like this didn’t interest the former provincial governor in the slightest.

“...Why are you so quiet? It makes me feel unfulfilled,” came the languid voice from within the Soul-Sealing Orb, Arthas rolling her eyes. “So?”

Qin Ye fell silent.

Arthas: “???”

“Don’t speak—I’m searching for a sense of achievement.” Qin Ye closed his eyes for a few seconds, then sighed. “It seems rather difficult.”

“...Forget it. Think about it—if he didn’t kill anyone, how did the corpse energy end up on him?”

Now Arthas understood. “Contagion.”

“He must have spent time with someone heavily shrouded in corpse energy. The time wasn’t long ago, and the contact lasted a while.”

Qin Ye asked deeply, “So... whose corpse energy is the most intense?”

“Naturally...” Arthas began, then abruptly paused, her tone growing serious. “A corpse-bearer? Or perhaps a thread-binder?”

Among the Seven Ghost Artisans, the paper effigy master rarely dealt with corpses, the Grass Witch was a poisoner, and the coroner and executioner’s arts were long lost. Only the corpse-bearer and thread-binder remained—both professions intimate with the dead. As for corpse-herders, that lineage is passed down strictly and would never appear here.

“Are you certain?”

“I can’t be sure. But as I’ve said before, ghost markets are itinerant. Since someone from the Seven Ghost Artisans is here, the ghost market has likely moved to Qingxi County!”

“Moreover, everyone is a creature of habit.” Qin Ye smiled. “I glanced at that ‘police officer’s’ notebook. He’s methodical—each page lists names from top to bottom, with addresses. I was last. Following most people’s logic, he’d investigate from the top down. There were only five names above mine. And, unfortunately for them, I have an excellent memory.”

The Ghost Artisan must be among those five!

Find him, and the location of the ghost market will be revealed. Even if this corpse-bearer isn’t the one who worked for that old ghost, simply asking around in the market for other corpse-bearers during this period could lead straight to their true identity.

No need to spell it out—there were no fools here. Arthas pondered for a moment. “Get some rest. This ghost market intrigues me—I'm rather interested in the lives of the lower classes.”

Qin Ye stayed in the room for a while, sitting quietly until four in the afternoon, before taking the Soul-Sealing Orb, slinging a bundle over his back, and hailing a pedicab toward the east side of Qingxi County—he remembered that three names from the officer’s notebook were listed there.

Qingxi County had a long history, said to stretch back a thousand years. Much of the old town still retained its ancient charm. Were it not scattered about in patches, its streets no wider than a few dozen meters, it might have been rebuilt as a tourist attraction long ago.

Their destination was Qingxi East Street—commonly known as Ethnic Street. Qingxi County sat on the southwestern edge of Xichuan, bordering Cangxi Province, home to many ethnic minorities. Here, it was common to see people with headscarves or silver headdresses, so the local government had designated this Ethnic Street.

“Designated” was perhaps too grand a word—they’d merely set aside a stretch of land. This street, two meters wide and sixty-seven meters long, was lined on both sides with old-style buildings of blue bricks and black tiles. The once-ornate doors and windows were now battered by age. Moss grew thick on the ground, and strings of red lanterns hung from both sides, giving the place a faintly eerie air after dark.

By the time Qin Ye’s pedicab stopped at the alley’s entrance, it was five o’clock. Many shops were preparing to close.

He paid the fare and slipped into a narrow alley. Some preparations were best not made before six o’clock.

Time ticked by, and soon it was six. The familiar supernatural broadcast sounded once more. The sunlight faded, the street cooled, and a night breeze began to stir. Qin Ye sat calmly, eyes shut, waiting until eight o’clock before finally opening them.

With swift movements, he opened his bundle, revealing a set of pitch-black clothes and an oversized bamboo hat. Black gauze hung from the brim, completely obscuring his features. He waited another half hour before stepping out of the alley.

The street was cold and deserted, whitewashed walls and red lanterns the only color in the silence that sent a chill through the heart.

From within his robe, Qin Ye drew out a flute—snowy white, but not of jade. The flute was slightly bent, its holes drilled unevenly, the sort of item no one would bother to pick up from a street stall.

Arthas was surprised. “A bone flute? One made from a virgin’s leg bone, used for communing with the dead—a ‘Gangdong’ in the old tongue. I can’t believe you have something like that.”

Qin Ye smiled faintly. “I never imagined a lofty former provincial governor would know the name ‘Gangdong’.”

He walked slowly, playing the flute. A sharp, plaintive, yet ethereal sound floated from the bone flute. As he passed, the few spirits lingering on the street all fell to their knees, trembling in fear. A wisp of yin energy, visible to the naked eye, began to curl around his feet. As his playing grew more haunting, the energy thickened, until it seemed he was walking atop a cloud of darkness.

One house after another passed. Just as he neared the end of the street, two crows suddenly cawed in unison from the rooftops.

“Caw! Caw!!”

The pitch-dark street was otherwise empty—only those two crows.

“What’s this...” Arthas felt a rare thrill. In her century as a judge of souls, she’d never had to handle such matters personally—now she felt almost out of her depth. Indeed... to survive among humans as a monster for so long without being discovered, everyone has their own tricks. Was she really only suited to sit beautiful and unchanging upon the Frozen Throne?

“Domesticated,” Qin Ye said, halting the flute and giving it a shake. “This instrument is called a yin implement. Any of the Seven Ghost Artisans would recognize its sound instantly. Only a true yin implement’s music will prompt them to welcome a fellow. Crows are called the Ghost Artisans’ welcoming birds—if they’re willing to help, the crows will greet you from the rooftops.”

He glanced playfully to both sides. “Who would have thought... two Ghost Artisans here. The ghost market’s arrival in Qingxi County is all but certain.”

Creak... At that moment, the doors beneath the crows opened silently. To the left, an old man in a Taoist robe yawned as he stepped outside. “Which friend comes calling at this hour?”

On the right, a middle-aged woman, rotund and rosy-cheeked, with neat short hair and a bag of potato chips in hand, opened her door, grumbling, “Who is it? Playing the flute, are you? Can’t even watch my shows in peace at night...”

Both doors opening at once, both emerging at once—only to see Qin Ye, black-robed and veiled, standing wreathed in yin energy.

A hush.

Three seconds later, two simultaneous screams, “Ghost!!!” tore through the night, followed by the thud-thud of doors slamming shut.

...

It was now eight forty-five in the evening.

The location: No. 82-3, Ethnic Street, Qingxi County, Xiajiang City, Xichuan Province.

Huang Sanhe leaned against his door, trembling head to toe, teeth chattering. The night wind was not cold, but his spine was icy.

His mind was a tangle of chaos.

“I must have seen wrong... I had to have... Ha... There can’t possibly be someone with such dense yin energy in this world. When my grandfather’s grandfather summoned spirits, he only hung up a portrait of Impermanence, but the spirit never appeared... I must be mistaken—the dark has fooled my eyes...”

He muttered to himself, fingers nervously twitching. Black threads danced nimbly between them, weaving like a child’s string game.

These threads were strange—not silk, not yarn, but woven from strands of hair, processed through countless steps to achieve a dark, oily sheen.

Yet the faster his fingers moved, the more agitated his mind, for he knew all too well: this terrifying ghost could never have come to him by chance.

Thud! Suddenly, the door behind him made a soft sound. He leapt up as if pricked by a needle—one moment pressed tight against the door, the next, rabbit-like, barricading it with a cabinet, rasping, “D-d-don’t come any closer!”

“M-my family has never broken the law! Y-you won’t find me!”

A moment’s silence from outside, then a calm voice: “Thread-binder?”

Click... As the words fell, the lock opened of its own accord. He saw the fat woman, trembling violently, face ashen, standing behind the man in the black cloak—who drifted silently into the room.

Click... The door closed softly behind them. Qin Ye glanced around—the place was simple, an incense altar, couplets, various ritual implements and talismans. He snorted inwardly.

These charlatans who profit off the dead always looked dirt-poor, but every job earned them two or three hundred thousand at least—far wealthier than he’d ever been.