CORPSE WHISPERER

Three years had passed. I was now a senior at H City University of Science and Technology.

Life in the final year was leisurely. With only a few weekly classes, time stretched before us like an open field. My roommates burned the midnight oil playing League of Legends or lured wide-eyed freshmen to love hotels, always paired off.

Only I haunted the library, dark circles under my eyes, devouring every forensic medicine text I could find.

I had not forgotten that day—Grandfather's death, the promise made to Detective Sun. When The Phantom Blade of Jiangbei resurfaced, I would be the one to bring him down.

But I was not ready. Not yet. I needed to be stronger.

Returning books to the library, I ran into Wang Dali, my roommate and closest friend. His eyes gleamed with macabre excitement. "Yangzi! Heard the news? Someone died on campus!"

"Where?"

"The artificial lake! A guy hanged himself. Police cars everywhere. Weird, right? Girls hang themselves over heartbreak, but a guy? Flunked the Level-4 English exam? Lost a bet? Who knows!" He practically vibrated with lurid curiosity.

I shot him a withering look. "Show some respect, Dali. The body's still warm. Remember, those cut down before their time gather the fiercest resentment. Mock him tonight, and he might just pay you a visit."

Dali spat superstitiously. "Damn it, Yangzi! Wanna see the scene?"

"Lead the way."

The artificial lake lay distant from classrooms and dorms, a haven for lovers—now swarmed by police and gawkers. Yellow tape cordoned off an old locust tree. A belt dangled from a thick branch. The body had been lowered; a white-coated forensic examiner crouched over it. Through the crowd and dense trees, I glimpsed nothing but the man's hunched back.

"Odd," I murmured.

"What?" Dali craned his neck.

"The lake's right there. Why hang himself when he could drown?"

"Simple! He chickened out. Autumn nights are cold—who wants to die wet and shivering?" Dali puffed his chest. "My deduction's flawless, eh?"

I couldn't resist. "Detective Dee would retire. Sherlock Holmes would starve. You've cracked the art of detection, Master Wang."

Dali beamed, missing the sarcasm entirely. "Exactly! Let me—"

"Wait. Need a better angle."

We circled the scene. As I strained to see the corpse, Dali jabbed my ribs. "Holy hell, Yangzi—check out that policewoman!"

She stood by the tape: tall, pale skin, full-figured, legs endless in tight jeans. A leather jacket hung open over a crisp blue uniform shirt, hands planted on her hips—a striking blend of authority and poise. Her short crop framed a face with a youthful complexion, early twenties at most. Swap the uniform for a dress, and she'd pass for an influencer.

Dali drooled. "I've seen beauties, but this… I wanna commit a crime. How many years for assaulting an officer? Asking for a friend."

"With your build?" I snorted. "She'd break you in half."

While Dali stared, I shifted position. Call me twisted, but corpses fascinated me more than beauties.

Finally, I saw the dead man.

Early twenties. Average face. A hoodie. Eyes bulging like a goldfish's. A deep ligature mark ringed his neck—ghostly white above, congested purple below. A vibrant red tongue lolled over his chin.

Not all hanged men show their tongues, I recalled from Washing Away of Wrongs: The Original Manuscript. Only when the noose sits below the Adam's apple. The hyoid bone shatters under weight, freeing the tongue's full length. This wasn't movie theatrics—this was biology at its most brutal.

The face was grotesque. Yet instead of fear, a thrill sparked in my chest.

Involuntary defecation and urination stained his pants—classic signs of hanging death. Suicide seemed obvious.

But something felt wrong.

As police moved to bag the body, a cold certainty seized me. Ignoring Dali's frantic whispers ("Yangzi! Are you insane?!"), I ducked under the tape.

Officers closed in. "Student! Crime scene—stay back!"

Their shouts faded. The world narrowed to the body, the forensic examiner, and the sharp-eyed policewoman. I pointed at the old examiner, my voice cutting through the murmur:

"He's wrong. This wasn't suicide. It's murder."

The policewoman spun around, her gaze locking onto mine—surprise and sharpening suspicion in her eyes.