Synopsis: They say ghosts don't exist—but the dead never lie. Song Yang, a young man raised in secrets, inherits the forbidden craft of an ancient forensic art lost to time. With silver needles, crimson thread, and the last copy of The Divine Codex of Verdicts, he walks among corpses to speak for the voiceless and hunt those who kill in shadows. In a world where supernatural rumors veil bloody truths, one name will rise from the mist—The Corpse Whisperer.
Have you ever heard of a butcher so twisted, he ground his customers into meat filling for his best-selling steamed buns?
Or a doctor so deranged, he performed plastic surgery on his rival—reshaping him into a pig—and locked him in a sty for years?
Or perhaps a child raised by bats, surviving only on human blood?
I have.
My name is Song Yang, and while I currently serve as Chief Consultant to the Provincial Public Security Department, that's just my cover. My true identity? I'm a Wu Zuo—a forensic examiner in the ancient Chinese tradition, and the last heir of a profession buried by time.
Still confused? A Wu Zuo was more than a coroner. We used esoteric knowledge passed down over centuries. With items like rice wine, silver needles, pine resin, red parasols, and the last copy of The Divine Codex of Verdicts, we could make the dead speak—and lead us straight to their killers.
In my thirty years assisting the police, I've solved cases that chilled the nation to the bone. Crimes soaked in perversity, terror, and cold-blooded violence.
...
...
Now, I've decided to share my experiences—before they're lost forever.
Due to security protocols, some names and locations have been altered. I ask for your understanding.
Let's begin.
I was born in a small southern county town. My parents vanished before I could form memories, and I was raised by my grandfather in an old ancestral mansion steeped in silence and history.
Despite the lack of parents, I never felt unloved. Grandfather doted on me. In my entire childhood, he scolded me only once—and I never forgot his words:
"Yang'er," he said, the scent of preserved plums and grave earth clinging to his words, "remember this: when you grow up, you can be anything you want—except for three things. Never become an official. Never become a policeman. And never, ever become a forensic examiner."
At the time, I had no idea what a forensic examiner was. I just nodded.
But as I got older, I began to suspect—Grandfather wasn't just anyone.
He never worked the fields or held a job, yet we always had money. He sent me to school, bought me the best food, and gave me everything I needed. And every now and then, important-looking officials would show up—dressed sharp, trailed by junior officers. They brought gifts: Maotai liquor, premium Panda cigarettes, and other rare items.
They always addressed Grandfather with reverence, meeting with him in private for hours. Sometimes from dawn to dusk.
Then, a few days later, a major case would break in the province—murders that made national headlines. The Ghost Money Restaurant in Sichuan. The Dismemberment at Southwest University. Cases so notorious, even people in our remote town heard the news.
I started to wonder if Grandfather had something to do with those cases. But he never said a word.
Thanks to him, our whole family prospered. My aunt's business never had trouble. Once, she lost an entire shipment on the expressway—and police found and returned it the very next day.
Even my grades seemed to benefit. I failed the entrance exam for the best high school by several points—yet somehow, I got accepted anyway.
When I was twelve, the county decided to build a new highway. The path would run straight through our neighborhood. Most of the neighbors caved under pressure and moved. But Grandfather? He refused to leave our ancestral home. He became what people called a "nail house"—someone who wouldn't budge.
The construction foreman tried to intimidate him. Two massive excavators rumbled up to our gate and smashed part of our wall, trying to send a message.
I was terrified.
But Grandfather just sighed, picked up the phone, and made a brief call.
Ten minutes later, the excavators turned and left.
The next morning, high-ranking officials—and the very same foreman—showed up at our door. They bowed, apologized, and offered one hundred thousand yuan in compensation. That was a fortune in our town.
Grandfather waved them off.
The highway was still built. But right in front of our house, it swerved in a sudden, almost reverent curve—a silent tribute to the power he commanded. That curve smelled of wet asphalt and surrendered power.
That's when I knew: my grandfather had power. Real power.
When I was fifteen, I found an old wooden chest in the attic. Inside were two ancient books. One was The Washing Away of Wrongs, written by Song Ci during the Southern Song Dynasty in 1247—the founding text of forensic science in China. The other was far stranger: a worn volume titled The Divine Codex of Verdicts (断狱神篇), with no author.
My classical Chinese was poor, but I could make out the illustrations—detailed anatomical diagrams, corpse examination techniques, and mysterious symbols.
The books pulled at me, as if enchanted. I couldn't stop reading. I studied them in secret, slowly deciphering their meaning like an ant gnawing at a bone.
Those books opened a door I never knew existed.
Forensics no longer seemed frightening. They were fascinating—challenging, intricate, and full of secrets.
Then came my first chance to apply them.
It was summer. Grandfather had gone out early. I was home, on break from school, chasing cicadas in the garden with a bamboo pole.
Suddenly, a black Jetta screeched to a halt outside our gate.
A huge man stepped out—square-jawed, sunburned, with eyes like iron. I recognized him as a police officer who'd visited Grandfather before. His name was Sun.
He looked hot and flustered, carrying a bulging briefcase. "Kid," he barked. "Your grandfather home?"
"No. He's out."
He grumbled about the heat.
"Uncle, come inside! I'll get you a cold drink," I offered.
"Good lad!" He settled into the living room, gulped down an iced Coke, wiped his brow, and lit a cigarette.
"You in high school yet?"
"Just started."
"Anyone bullying you?"
"No."
"Good. If anyone does, tell me—I'll teach them a lesson!"
I hesitated, then asked, "Uncle, how do you know my grandfather?"
He smiled. "Your grandfather? He's a legend. The government's been begging him for years to work with us. Just last year, the provincial chief offered him 50,000 yuan a month in retirement—just for one year of help. He refused without blinking. So… we found another way to work with him."
"Another way?" I asked.
He opened his mouth—then caught himself, eyes widening. "Ahh, my stomach! Must've been that cold Coke. Where's your bathroom?"
"Back courtyard," I pointed.
He rushed off. In his hurry, his briefcase snapped open. A photo slid out onto the table.
I glanced around.
No one.
My heart pounded.
I told myself: just one look.
I picked up the photo.
A man in a blood-soaked suit slumped in front of an open safe. His head hung down. A pair of glasses dangled from one ear. His throat had been slashed deeply.
Cash was scattered all around him. Bloody cash. The tang of pine resin from Grandfather's workshop suddenly pricked my memory—a passage in the Codex about objects that cut without blades.
I felt no fear—only a strange excitement. I know it sounds wrong. But something in me stirred.
Suddenly, the photo was snatched from my hand.
Detective Sun stood behind me, frowning.
"You know it's a crime to look at police evidence?" he said sternly.
"I just… glanced…" I stammered.
He studied me—then grinned. "Tell you what. I'll give you a chance. Answer a question, and I'll forget this. Fail, and we'll take a little trip to the station."
I nodded.
He handed me the photo again. "How was this man killed? What was the murder weapon?"
I studied the image.
"The throat wound is the cause of death," I said. "Clean, deep, and sharp-edged. But it's not a knife. If it were, you wouldn't be asking me."
He leaned in. "Then what was it?"
I handed the photo back.
"It's right here. The money."
He blinked. "The money?"
"Yes. Bind a stack of crisp banknotes tightly enough, and the edges can cut like blades. The killer slashed him with the bills—then scattered them around. The murder weapon disappeared."
He whistled. "Incredible. Just like your grandfather."
Truth is, I didn't figure it out alone. The Divine Codex of Verdicts described a case exactly like this.
Detective Sun packed up the photo, chuckling. "Guess the Song family's legacy isn't ending after all. Excellent…"
Then a voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Sun Laohu, what legacy are you babbling about?"
We both turned.
Grandfather stood at the door, the scent of yellow rice wine sharp on his clothes. His eyes locked onto mine—cold as grave soil, sharp as an autopsy blade. In that breathless instant, I tasted copper on my tongue.
He knew everything.