Chapter 23: A Corpse

“Creak!”

The chair emitted a teeth-grating sound as it was adjusted back into position. Ren Ye straightened up instinctively and asked, “That important character… was he a Daoist priest?”

His father, who had been muttering about the story plot, paused, startled by the question. “Why are you so worked up?”

“I’m asking you—was that important character you mentioned, the one who got killed off, a Daoist priest?” Ren Ye pressed urgently.

“Yeah, he was a Daoist priest,” his father nodded.

Ren Ye shot up from his seat. “And the prince in the royal mansion—is he completely useless?”

“That’s right,” his father replied, his expression wooden as he stared at Ren Ye in confusion.

“And the main plot… it’s about the old emperor dying, and then his two sons fighting for the throne, with the prince losing in the end?” Ren Ye’s voice trembled as he asked.

“How do you know?” His father looked utterly surprised.

“Holy crap!” Ren Ye slapped his thigh in excitement.

“What’s with you? Who are you swearing at?” His father frowned, scolding him. “Watch your manners.”

“Quick, let me see the outline. I’ll help you analyze it.” Ren Ye urged eagerly, “I think this story is really interesting… Come on, I need to see it.”

His father got up slowly, habitually adjusting his glasses. “Why do you look so pale and jumpy? Son, are you being bullied in there? If there’s someone in charge lording over you, we can use the law to deal with them—make them pay dearly…”

“No, no. Hehe, I just think it sounds intriguing…” Ren Ye said, pushing his father from behind as they walked toward the bedroom together.

The layout of their home was originally two bedrooms and a living room, with a usable space of less than 70 square meters. Years ago, that would have been considered a luxury home, but now, it felt cramped for a family of three.

As the children grew older, living together became inconvenient. Ren Ye’s father had wanted them to have their own study spaces, so he gave up his master bedroom and repurposed part of the living room, turning the two-bedroom apartment into a three-bedroom one.

The brighter, more ventilated rooms were allocated to his son and daughter, while his father moved into the smallest, least sunny room. According to him, all he needed was a bed, a bookshelf, and a stable internet connection so he could work and stream without lagging—everything else was negotiable.

But Ren Ye knew better. His father, who had been writing for years, had a reserved personality and strongly disliked dimly lit, cramped spaces. Working in such an environment made him feel stifled and depressed.  

It was because of this that, back at his old workplace, Ren Ye had always dreamed of getting a bigger house. Unfortunately, the housing allocation policies were now extremely strict, and anti-corruption efforts were intense… It was just bad timing, you know?

As everyone knows, a recluse’s room has a peculiar smell—not unpleasant, but faintly salty. Even at over fifty years old, Ren Ye’s father was no exception.

Father and son entered the room, and Ren Ye plopped down on the bed, urging, “Hurry up, come on.”

His father pulled out his chair and retrieved a stack of printed manuscripts from among a pile of contracts, documents, and books beneath the computer desk. “Here, take a look.”

“Why is it in paper form?” Ren Ye asked, puzzled.

“My neck’s been killing me lately. Sitting for too long feels like I’m losing my mind. It’s more comfortable reading while lying down,” his father explained as he handed over the manuscript. Then, resting his left hand on his cheek, he started scrolling through his social media with his right hand, moving the mouse.

On the screen, a slew of profile pictures of mature, graceful women bore unread message indicators. His father glanced at them briefly, a cheerful and satisfied smile appearing on his face as he began typing furiously.

Ren Ye gave his father a quick side-eye before diving into the manuscript and outline. The more he read, the tighter his brows knitted.

…

At Suhang City’s Thousand Lakes Island Hospital, inside Mortuary Room No. 2.

Under the bright lights, a row of autopsy tables gleamed, their metal surfaces reflecting the cold ambiance. The two steel doors were firmly shut, and a chilling air filled the space.

“Thud… thud…”

Suddenly, dull thumps echoed from the left side, as though something alive was striking the metal panels. The sounds broke the quiet, unsettling stillness of this final destination.

“Thud, thud… thud…”

The noises grew faster in frequency, intensifying.

If someone had been there at the time, they would have undoubtedly been scared out of their wits, because the entire row of mortuary cabinets on the left was visibly trembling.

“Bang!”

Abruptly, one of the drawers containing a corpse shot open with a loud crash.

“Clatter!”

The pale blue plastic sheet covering the body made a rustling sound before being flung aside. A shadow abruptly sat upright.

Under the light, the corpse’s features became distinct—a man in his forties, his body well-preserved without any visible injuries. A tag attached to his right ankle listed the cause of death as sudden cardiac arrest.

He exuded an icy chill, with a thin layer of frost covering his eyebrows, cheeks, and sparse hair. The corpse’s limbs and torso bore clear signs of livor mortis.

For a brief thirty seconds, everything was silent. Then, the corpse sitting on the drawer suddenly opened its eyes. At first, they were vacant and unfocused, but soon, a spark of awareness returned.

Moments later, a heartbeat resumed…

“Crack…”

The man twisted his stiff neck, a sharp sound breaking the silence as his eyes scanned his surroundings. Eventually, his gaze fixed on a wall in the distance, where a few white lab coats hung.

The room had no surveillance cameras. He tried supporting himself with both hands, cautiously moving his legs before slowly standing up from the metallic drawer.  

After adapting for two or three minutes, he slid the drawer shut, walked stiffly to the wall, and took down a white coat, which he then draped over his bare body.  

“Creak!”  

The door of Morgue 2 swung open. The man, dressed only in a white coat, walked briskly through the hallway, muttering to himself, “Bo, Po, Mo, Fo… Ah, Oh, Uh… Hee low, He low… Hello… Hmm… This body is still usable.”

He disappeared into a staircase within a blind spot of the surveillance system, slipping out of the hospital in broad daylight. Though a few people noticed his unusual attire and bare feet, no one thought to question the possibility of a corpse walking out on its own.  

About ten minutes later, the “corpse” flagged down a taxi on a small street near the hospital and sat in the back seat.  

The driver, taken aback by his pale complexion and odd attire, stammered, “Wha… what’s going on with you?”  

The man glanced at the driver and calmly replied, “Caught napping during lunch break… had to leave in a hurry.”  

The driver paused for a moment before coming to a realization. “Your wife caught you?”  

“No, her husband did,” the man said, tugging at the white coat draped over his shoulders.  

The driver gave a knowing nod and asked, “Where to?”  

“Minxing Residential Area, behind the Shuangsheng Garden Restaurant,” he replied after a brief thought.  

“Got it.” The driver checked his watch and drove off.  

“I… I didn’t bring any money. You’ll have to come upstairs with me to get it later. I’ll tip you an extra fifty.”  

“Sure,” the driver chuckled, striking up small talk. “Brother, you should pick a place farther from work next time!”  

“Hard to resist,” the man replied, gazing out of the window at the rushing street scenes, his eyes tinged with unfamiliarity.  

…

In Shanghai, Shijia Pu.  

It took Ren Ye nearly two hours to skim through the manuscript.  

“Dad!”  

“Done reading?” His father turned around, tea cup in hand.  

“Yeah,” Ren Ye nodded, then asked curiously, “Why isn’t the story complete? The old Daoist’s avatar dies… and then nothing. What happens after that?”  

“The rest hasn’t been written yet. This is a custom job for an editor. The story direction and ideas are theirs. I just refine the outline, patch the plot holes, and work on the opening,” his father explained, sipping tea.  

“So, this opening part of the story—it’s all your writing?” Ren Ye asked.  

“Mostly, though the editor gave some suggestions too,” his father admitted.  

“Where did the inspiration for this story come from?” Ren Ye pressed on, his expression unusually serious.  

His father crossed his legs and habitually adjusted his glasses. “Melded it together from ideas online.”  

He said this with such casual frankness that Ren Ye couldn’t detect anything suspicious in his father’s demeanor.  

“Hey, son, what do you think of the story’s concept? Interesting, right?” His father sounded motivated. “If this piece gets approved, I’ll earn 30,000 yuan! That’s no small amount… I haven’t gotten a 30,000-yuan gig in years.”  

“…!”  

Ren Ye scrutinized his father, a creeping sense of unease gnawing at him.  

When his father first described the story’s premise in the living room, Ren Ye had already felt it resembled the recent events he’d experienced at the Star Gate in Qingliang Prefecture.  

Now, after reading the outline and content, that sense of similarity hadn’t diminished.  

His father’s manuscript and the events at the Star Gate differed significantly in terms of settings and details—there were no princesses, no guards, and none of those characters in the manuscript.  

But!  

In terms of story trajectory, structure, and core, they were nearly identical!  

Both were about an emperor’s death, two sons vying for the throne, a vassal prince’s ultimate defeat, and the confinement of the inept son… Even the scale and structure of the vassal prince’s territory were strikingly similar.  

Most importantly, both narratives stalled at the point where the emperor’s advisor, the old Daoist’s avatar, died.  

What on earth was going on?  

Did his father’s plagiarized story just happen to collide with the Qingliang Prefecture’s Star Gate narrative?  

But wasn’t that an insane coincidence?  

…

In Suhang City.  

After returning home, the “corpse” gave the taxi driver 100 yuan, keeping his promise to let the driver keep the change.  

He then changed clothes and headed to a café downstairs.  

By the floor-to-ceiling window, the corpse-like mottling on his skin gradually faded, and his complexion returned to normal.  

He pulled out a phone that was at least seven years old, connected it to a charger, and powered it on. After opening a messaging app and searching for a while, he dialed a contact.  

“Beep… Beep…”  

After a long wait, the call connected, and a soft voice asked, “Who is this?”  

“Heh, I’m a friend of Yang Feng,” the “corpse” replied with a grin.  

“…Yang Feng from Suhang?” the voice asked.  

“Yes.”  

“He’s been missing for over six months now.”  

“I just want to buy some black-market SIM cards, nothing else,” he said calmly, taking a sip of coffee.  

“Oh, buying SIM cards?” The person on the other end paused briefly before asking, “What should I call you?”  

He turned to gaze out the window, his expression briefly contemplative before his lips curled into a faint smile. “My friends… call me Little Wolf Warrior.” [Changed Little Battle Wolf to Little Wolf Warrior since it seems to be referencing the movie, Wolf Warrior.]