Grandfather entered slowly, hands clasped behind his back, and asked Officer Sun what we had been discussing.
I frantically signaled Officer Sun with my eyes to stay silent. But this thick-skinned uncle not only spilled everything—he even heaped me with praise.
"Old Song, your grandson is remarkable! This case dragged on for nearly half a month. We turned every stone but never found the murder weapon. Yet he spotted the truth with just one glance at a photo! This boy's destined for greatness. Honestly, after high school, skip university—there are graduates by the dozen nowadays, many unemployed. Let me write him a recommendation for the police academy! Gold must shine, right?"
Grandfather waved his hand dismissively, his tone icy. "You flatter him. He merely flipped through some ancestral texts and dared to show off before a master. Besides, the Song family has an eight-character ancestral decree: 'Bu Guan Bu Shi, Ming Zhe Bao Shen'—'No office, no service—preserve wisdom by self-concealment.' Save your schemes. This child will not be handed to you."
His gaze swept over me like an autopsy blade, forcing me to lower my head.
Officer Sun sighed. "Old Song, must you be so stubborn? So you slept in a stable for three years—that's long been cleared! It's the twenty-first century! Ancestral decrees? You're impossibly rigid!" He patted my shoulder, trying to recruit me. "Kid, when you grow up, want to catch bad guys with Uncle?"
Under Grandfather's watchful eyes, I didn't dare misbehave. I shook my head vigorously.
Grandfather's voice cut through the air: "Sun Laohu (lit. 'Old Tiger', a title mirroring his police brutality), you'll never understand the Song family's burden. I seek nothing but safe, ordinary lives for my descendants—far from these perilous paths."
Officer Sun opened his mouth to retort, but Grandfather raised a hand in dismissal. "Leave. Now. Or never cross this threshold again."
The Codex Trial
After Officer Sun's car vanished down the road, the atmosphere in the parlor thickened. Grandfather sat in his rosewood chair, sipping tea, while I stood before him, trembling.
"Yang'er, how much of those two books have you read?"
I stammered that I'd finished them. In truth, with no other reading material at home, I'd pored over them until their spines frayed.
Grandfather took a slow sip of tea and suddenly intoned:
"In inquests, nothing outweighs capital punishment;In capital cases, nothing outweighs the initial examination..."
I froze, then recited:
"…For herein lies the pivot between life and death,The mechanism to rectify injustice."
He continued:
"The first month of gestation: like dewdrops;The second: like peach blossoms..."
I responded:
"The third: sex distinct; the fourth: form complete;The fifth: tendons and bones solidify; the sixth: hair grows;The seventh: right hand moves—male, on mother's left;The eighth: left hand moves—female, on mother's right."
Both passages came from The Washing Away of Wrongs: True Manuscript. Grandfather was testing me. His teacup clattered to the floor.
"Yang'er... you memorized the entire book?"
"Most of it," I admitted sheepishly.
"A true Song heir." His head dipped in approval, then jerked sideways as if warding off a phantom—a contradiction that carved deeper into my confusion.
"Heaven mocks mortal plans!" he sighed, rising without another glance and retreating to his study.
I stood stunned—had I escaped a spanking?
Ghost Fire in the Burial Grounds
That midnight, Grandfather woke me.
"Dress. We're going somewhere."
Bewildered, I pulled on clothes and met him in the courtyard. He tossed me a pickaxe and strode out wordlessly. I followed.
Our town was small. Southward lay wilderness—no moon tonight, stars sparse. Grandfather moved through silent chestnut groves, our footsteps crunching on dead leaves. Unearthly wails echoed from the forest depths, chilling my blood.
Beyond the trees stretched a wasteland. My foot struck something—a human bone, rain-bleached and blackened.
I remembered: this was the mass burial ground where Ming dynasty bandits had dumped victims. Locals avoided it, refusing to face its direction when building homes. Unclaimed corpses or social outcasts ended here, wrapped in straw mats.
Around me flickered faint green flames, like ghosts dancing in the dark.
At first, I thought they were fireflies. But this barren ground gave no life.
These were 'departing-bone fires' (lihai zhi huo)—recorded in the Divine Codex as "phosphorescent ignition from decaying marrow." Knowing the science didn't stop my skin from crawling.
A shadow darted across the graves—ten meters away, green eyes glaring. I screamed.
Grandfather hurled a stone. The shadow yelped and vanished into the brush.
"A dog," he reassured.
I swallowed. "Grandfather... why are we here?"
"You'll see."
He led me to a cairn.
"Dig."
"Dig? A grave?"
"What else lies buried here?"
"But grave-robbing is illegal!"
"This isn't robbery. It's exhumation for autopsy. Dig." His voice brooked no argument.
Bones That Spoke
I swung the pickaxe. The stone tomb resisted fiercely. Raised in town, I'd never wielded anything heavier than a pen. Blisters soon blossomed on my palms, stained with blood.
Grandfather lit his pipe nearby. Smoke curled over us, acrid yet oddly calming—even the burial ground's chill seemed to ease.
Hours later, sweat soaking my shirt, I heard a crunch. I'd hit something solid beneath the soil.
Dropping the pick, I cleared stones with my bare hands, revealing darkened bones.
Grandfather smoked silently. I carefully extracted each bone, arranging them on a clear patch of ground.
Femur: too robust. Skull: too thick. Pelvis: a battlefield of contradictions.
This corpse was a patchwork of lies.
As I pieced the sacroiliac joint to the lumbar vertebrae, my fingers locked—the preauricular groove was too shallow for a female, yet the greater sciatic notch gaped wide, like a male's.