The eyeball that dropped from the envelope made my heart jolt—could it be Grandfather's? But that didn't make sense. He had received the letter before vanishing. That meant the eye had to belong to someone else.
Other than the sticky eyeball, the envelope held nothing. No note. No clue. It was bizarre. What was the sender trying to tell him? And why did Grandfather vanish so suddenly afterward?
The more I thought, the more tangled my thoughts became. I scratched my head furiously and sank into the chair.
Grandfather always said, "Look past the surface—if you don't understand something, start from the basics."
I looked around the study. Everything was in place. The door and windows were intact. There were no signs of a struggle. He hadn't been taken—he'd left on his own, after receiving the letter.
So if this was a message, then it held something only Grandfather could understand. But maybe I could see it too.
The message was in the eye.
I switched on the desk lamp and brought the eyeball under the light. The lens was only slightly clouded—meaning it had been removed less than three hours ago. A stub of optic nerve still dangled from the back.
After inspecting it carefully, I reached two conclusions: First, the victim had still been alive when the eye was extracted. Second, the procedure was immaculate. No ruptures, no damage—only surgical precision. It was the work of someone with serious medical training.
There were tiny particles stuck to the eyeball. I rubbed some between my fingers—wood shavings. I held them under my nose. Pine resin.
...
Then it clicked. North of town stood a lumber mill. They processed imported pine into furniture panels. That had to be it.
The message was clear: someone at the lumber mill was in danger. It was a silent threat. Grandfather had rushed out to save them.
I didn't waste a second. I grabbed a flashlight and ran. The night was pitch black, alley dogs howled, but I ran all the way to the north end of town.
The lumber mill loomed in the darkness. A wall surrounded the compound, but the heavy iron gate stood open. A broken padlock lay on the ground, a piece of wire still poking from the keyhole.
My hunch had been right. The sender was here. And Grandfather might still be inside.
But fear crept up my spine. Whoever sent that letter wasn't a good person. Should I call the police?
But I had no cellphone back then. Running back would waste too much time. Grandfather could be dying.
I picked up a wooden stick and crept into the mill.
One warehouse had lights on. I switched off my flashlight and tightened my grip on the stick.
Inside, stacks of lumber reached to the ceiling, covered with waterproof sheets. The silence was suffocating.
I turned a corner—and froze.
Two people lay ahead.
The first was a chubby middle-aged man I didn't recognize. He slumped in a chair, shirt open, head tilted unnaturally. A massive Qinglong serpent missing its left pupil sprawled across his chest in tattooed ink. A rag was stuffed in his mouth. His eye sockets were hollow, but strangely, not a drop of blood stained his face or clothes.
He held a black plastic bag in his lap. Something glimmered inside.
The second figure lay on the floor nearby. He wore a red tang jacket and thousand-layer soles.
It was Grandfather.
I rushed over, ignoring the other man completely. Dropping to my knees, I grabbed Grandfather's hand—cold as ice. His heart wasn't beating. His pupils were slowly dilating.
I held a finger under his nose. A faint, nearly invisible breath remained.
My eyes stung with tears. "Grandfather, hold on! I'll get help!"
I called to him, desperate to rouse his consciousness. His lips trembled. A whisper escaped: "Yang'er..."
"Don't talk! I'll get an ambulance. The best doctors!"
"No..." he rasped. "No time..."
His words sliced through me. I wept openly.
He spoke again, slowly, each syllable draining what life he had left.
"Yang'er... My time's up... If you become a coroner... I won't stop you... But if you ever hear the name 'Jiangbei Severed Blade'... you must... run... far away..."
I gripped his hand, voice choked by sobs. "Grandfather, who is it? Who did this? I'll get them—I'll avenge you!"
"No!" he said, eyes wide and fierce. With the last of his strength, he held me tightly. "Promise me."
I nodded.
He smiled faintly.
Then he exhaled one final time.
I collapsed, wailing.
Through my tears, I noticed something.
A shadow on the floor. Unmoving. Clear.
Someone was standing behind me.
I froze. Judging by the position and the sharp edges of the shadow, the person was right behind me. But I hadn't heard a single breath.
Was it the eyeless man—back from the dead?
No. This shadow was taller. Leaner.
The figure raised his right arm. Something shimmered in his hand—a curved blade.
I shot to my feet.
But before I could move, something cold and sharp pressed against my waist.
"Don't turn around," the figure said. "If you see my face, you die."
The voice was unnatural—neither male nor female, like it had been filtered through a machine.
Terror surged through me. Rage, too. This was the person who had lured Grandfather here—who had murdered him. And I could do nothing.
"What's your name?" the figure asked.
"S-Song... Yang."
"So Song Zhaolin had a grandson. Did he teach you anything?"
"No," I lied.
"Really?" A cold laugh followed. "Do you want to live?"
I didn't speak. I just nodded.
"Good. I'll give you a question. Answer correctly, and I'll let you go. Fail—and join your grandfather in hell."
I shook with fear and shame. My grandfather's killer stood inches from me, and I couldn't even face him.
Still, my will to live won out. I nodded again.
"The question is simple," the figure said. "Tell me—how did your grandfather die?"