Chapter 2: The Dead Man's Knife

3:00 AM. The city had been drained of its last breath, leaving nothing but the occasional rumble of cars passing on the elevated highway in the distance—sounds that resembled the rattling death-rattle of some dying beast. The cold in the morgue wasn't uniform; it felt alive, seeping into Chen Jiujin's pores in layered, suffocating waves. It wasn't just low temperature, but a damp, moldy oppression that burrowed into the spaces between his bones.

He stood at the far end of the corridor, his back pressed against the cold metal door. Beneath the once-smooth skin of his palm, a chilly energy from the depths of the earth was churning. The Cinnabar Seal was gone. The mark that had once warded off evil in his home had vanished completely last night, replaced by a black brand seared deep into the flesh. Every time his heartbeat skipped a beat, the chill would crawl up through his veins toward his fingertips, bringing a stinging pain sharp as a needle prick.

Right then, a crisp metallic clank cut through the silence.

*Clack.*

It sounded like someone gently tapping the back of a blade against a cabinet, the rhythm slow and stubborn. In the dead of this silent night, it was jarringly loud. The sound punched through the wall, striking Chen Jiujin’s eardrums directly, sharpening his frozen thoughts into something acute.

Zhou Dehai popped out of the shadows, half his body visible, holding an unlit cigarette in his teeth. His slick face was written all over with impatience, his eye bags hanging low like they’d collected a day’s worth of dust. He sized up the dazed Chen Jiujin up and down, the corner of his mouth twitching as he cursed.

Zhou Dehai: “Jiujin, did you get cursed? Did the ghosts hook your soul and drag it off somewhere, or are you just standing here spacing out? Get your ass moving and check the seals on the cold storage unit number three. Those coffins need to be moved to the hall before dawn.”

Chen Jiujin didn’t turn around. He just tilted his head slightly, his fingers absently rubbing against his palm. The motion was light, but it betrayed an impossible to hide tension. His voice was low and steady.

Chen Jiujin: “Uncle Dehai, do you hear that? There’s movement in unit number three. That noise isn’t the cooling system. It’s a blade tapping. He’s waiting for me to come take his knife.”

Zhou Dehai let out a scoff, tapping the cigarette stick at the ground with a look of total disdain, drawing a crooked circle in the air with it.

Zhou Dehai: “Hmph. Rain on a clear day. This place has heavy yin energy, you get sounds like that all the time. Stop making up scary stories, and get to work. Don’t delay my mahjong game tonight.”

Despite his complaints, Zhou Dehai gritted his teeth and cracked open the cold storage unit number three. A burst of frigid air spilled out, white fog flowing like liquid across the floor and instantly forming a layer of thin frost. The corpse inside was wearing an apron stained with old blood, a heavy Cleaver tucked into its waistband. The blade glowed with a faint, eerie blue light under the cold illumination, as if it had been waiting for its master’s call all along.

Chen Jiujin stepped forward, his gaze locking onto the knife. As the distance closed, the chill in his palm instantly turned into a burning heat, and a burst of imagery exploded in the depths of his brain. It was the memory of thousands of knife strikes, the feel of muscle fibers snapping during deboning, the precise moment of cutting through flesh and bone without a single deviation. The Butcher's Blade took root in his nerves, waking up some slumbering primal instinct.

Su Wan crashed through the side door holding a laptop, her heels tapping out an urgent rhythm on the tile floor, like a frantic drumbeat. Her brow was furrowed tight, her cold eyes sweeping over the chaos of the morgue, her voice carrying a warning that admitted no argument.

Su Wan: “Chen Jiujin, do you even know what you’re doing? The Criminal Investigation Detachment’s seal was put on there only two hours ago, and you’re already trying to dissect it? Stop this immediately. That’s evidence, not some private practice material for you.”

Chen Jiujin ignored her accusations and walked straight to the body. His movement was devoid of hesitation. With one hand, he gripped the Cleaver, and with the other, he gently placed his palm on the corpse’s shoulder. The moment his fingertips touched the cold, stiff skin, his eyes went hollow and focused. The blade fell. There was no spray of fresh blood, only a soft, muffled thud as rotten flesh separated from bone. He cut through the necrotic tissue of the corpse’s arm in a single slice. The incision was smooth as a mirror, perfectly avoiding the nerve bundles that hadn’t fully rotted yet.

Su Wan froze in place, her laptop nearly slipping from her hands. She stared at the overly熟练 incision, the doubt in her eyes slowly dissipating, replaced by a near-obsessive, data-driven scrutiny. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the autopsy report. The cold light from the screen reflected on her expressionless face as she spoke in a frigid tone.

Su Wan: “Your technique is wrong. If it were an accidental fall, muscle spasms would have caused the incision to be an irregular tear. This cut here was made within two hours of death, in a conscious state. Who are you trying to cover for?”

Before her sentence had even fully landed, another person appeared at the entrance. The Black-Suited Assistant pushed the door open, wearing a polite but fake smile on his face. His gaze roamed the morgue with undisguised scrutiny. He was a representative from the Gu Group, currently inspecting his subordinates with an air of authority. His leather shoes squeaked against the damp, cold floor, creating a friction sound that set people’s teeth on edge.

The Black-Suited Assistant: “I hear there’s been some ‘abnormal loss’ here? Master Chen, the Group cares about employee ethics. That knife and that piece of meat need to be taken away for further appraisal. We can’t afford any incidents that might affect tomorrow’s listing press conference.”

Chen Jiujin wiped the water stains off his hands and let out a cold laugh. His gaze dropped to the Livor Mortis on the corpse’s back. The purple-black bruises spread like vines, revealing the truth of the death.

Chen Jiujin: “Take it away if you want, but look at the Livor Mortis first. The distribution is on the lower limbs, and the color is dark purple. That means the body hasn’t been moved since death. And the blood flow on the ‘appraisal subject’—the Cleaver—contradicts the physics of a fall from a height entirely. This wasn’t an accident. It’s murder. What you’re trying to wash clean is probably too dirty to scrub.”

The Black-Suited Assistant’s face changed instantly. The smile in his eyes drained away, revealing the dark, ominous color beneath. He lashed out to snatch the Cleaver, his movement fast as lightning. His fingernails scraped against the metal surface, creating a shrill, piercing sound.

The Black-Suited Assistant: “You insolent piece of trash! You wouldn’t take the drink I offered, so now you’ll have to swallow the punishment! Take it away!”

The instant that hand was about to touch the hilt, Chen Jiujin redirected the force. He didn’t dodge. Instead, he flipped his wrist, and the blade of the Cleaver, like a snake striking from a cave, lightly grazed the assistant’s outstretched wrist. No blood was drawn, but a clear white mark appeared, accompanied by a sharp whistle that exploded in the air. The Black-Suited Assistant let out a shriek, throwing the hilt away. He stumbled backward, his leather shoe dragging a long black scuff mark across the floor.

Zhou Dehai had somehow circled behind Chen Jiujin at some point, his arms locked tightly around his waist, pinning him in place. The old cigarette stick bonked the side of Chen Jiujin’s head, leaving a bump, while his curses shook the room, thick with the stench of smoke.

Zhou Dehai: “You troublemaker! That blade is sharp enough to cut people—why didn’t you cut off my loose tongue first? If I don’t stop you, I swear I’ll shove you in the freezer for a nap! Those guys are coming to get it, don’t give them any handles!”

The Black-Suited Assistant held his wrist, standing at the doorway, his eyes fixed on Chen Jiujin like a venomous snake. He didn’t look狼狈 despite the pain. Instead, he pulled the corners of his mouth up in the shadows, leaving behind a whisper that only Chen Jiujin could hear, a voice squeezed through clenched teeth, laced with coldness.

The Black-Suited Assistant: “Mr. Gu said that some people’s lives aren’t protected by a single Cleaver. We’ll be back.”

The iron door of the morgue slammed shut with a loud *bang*, shutting out the outside world’s noise. Only the low hum of the refrigeration compressors remained, echoing in the empty corridor. Chen Jiujin was escorted by Zhou Dehai toward a treatment chair in the corner. Old Zhou muttered unglamorous curses while rummaging through a first aid kit for alcohol swabs and gauze, his movements rough but precise.

“If it hurts, keep it to yourself. Don’t howl. That damn knife of yours tore through my sleeve—can you even afford to pay for it?” Zhou Dehai pressed the blood-stained gauze onto the white mark on the assistant’s wrist—no, that was the mark Chen Jiujin had shown off earlier on the other man’s wrist; the assistant had long since left. Old Zhou grumbled as he yanked off his own jacket, tearing off a piece of fabric to wrap Chen Jiujin’s stinging wrist.

Chen Jiujin hung his head, staring at the un-dried bloodstain on the carpet, but his mind was crystal clear. The Cleaver felt like an extension of his own body, the metallic chill flowing from his fingertips into his bones. For that brief moment, he had genuinely felt a residual “inertia” from the dead man. The force was heavy and violent; if Zhou Dehai hadn’t stopped him in time, he might have been devoured by that killing intent himself.

“Jiujin, stop spacing out.” Zhou Dehai lowered his voice, pointing toward the exit. “Gu Changgeng’s men have left, but their eyes are still on you. In this damn place, one extra glance is enough to bring disaster.”

Chen Jiujin slowly straightened his back, his gaze passing over Zhou Dehai’s shoulder, looking toward that tightly shut iron door. His pupils contracted slightly, his vision piercing the gap in the door to land on a black shadow in the distant lobby. It was another of Gu Changgeng’s lackeys, leisurely flipping through a record book. The corner of his mouth held a faint, barely there sneer, his gaze like a searchlight, firmly locked on Chen Jiujin’s position.

The feeling of being watched was nauseating, but Chen Jiujin didn’t look away. Instead, the corner of his mouth curved into an extremely faint arc. It wasn’t a provocation; it was a near-instinctive prediction.

“What they’re investigating is ‘abnormal loss,’” Chen Jiujin suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse. “But this corpse… something’s off.”

Zhou Dehai blinked, stunned. “Off? The autopsy report is already out. Heart failure, natural death. Are you trying to overturn the case?”

“It’s not about overturning a case. It’s about a murder.” Chen Jiujin’s fingers absently rubbed the fabric on his wrist, as if touching that invisible Cleaver. “The Livor Mortis distribution is too uniform, but the signs of struggle before death were faked. More importantly, on the second joint of the dead man’s right index finger, there’s a very fine scratch, almost invisible to the naked eye. That’s the kind of muscle memory distortion left by years of holding heavy tools, but the deceased didn’t have that professional background.”

He looked up, a flash of sharp, cold light glinting in his eyes. “He’s been ‘fixed.’ Gu Changgeng’s people tampered with him before putting him in the morgue. They aren’t covering up a murder; they’re using my ‘intuition’ to turn me into the scapegoat for their whitewash. If I point out it was an accident, I become their perfect shield. If I don’t, the killing intent on me will expose the dead man’s true state, attracting even deeper attention.”

Zhou Dehai gasped in shock, his old face turning red. “Did a donkey kick your brain out? That old fox Gu Changgeng is using you as a gun!”

“I know.” Chen Jiujin let out a cold laugh, leaning forward slightly. That violent, butcher-like aura of his quietly filled the small space. “That’s why they don’t dare make a direct move on me. I need to stay alive. I need to stay alive with this ‘knife,’ until I find the one who truly deserves to be slaughtered.”

Just then, a burst of harsh static came from the speaker at the end of the corridor. Following it, a cold, magnetic male voice echoed through the amplifier in the freezing morgue, each word driven into Chen Jiujin’s eardrums like a nail.

“Mr. Chen Jiujin, your talent is impressive. However, the game has only just begun.”

Outside, that black shadow closed the file folder. His finger tapped the cover three times, the rhythm slow and unsettling, like a countdown.