It had been three years since that night.
Now, I was a senior at H City Institute of Technology, drifting through my final year. Life was easy—just a few classes a week and endless free time. My roommates spent theirs partying, pulling all-nighters on League of Legends, or luring naive freshmen to cheap motels under the guise of "tutoring."
Me? I was the weirdo buried in the library's forensic section, eyes ringed with insomnia, devouring every textbook I could find.
Because I hadn't forgotten.
I hadn't forgotten the night Grandfather died. Or the vow I made with Officer Sun—that when River North's Severed Blade resurfaced, I would be ready.
But I wasn't ready.
Not yet.
That's why I trained in silence, preparing for a battle that might never come—or come too soon.
One overcast afternoon, I was returning some overdue books when my roommate Wang Dali came sprinting up to me, eyes glittering.
"Yangzi! You hear the news? Someone died on campus!"
"Where?"
"By the artificial lake. A guy hanged himself. Police are crawling all over. I mean, girls hang themselves over love stuff all the time, but a guy? First I've heard of that."
He was grinning like it was juicy gossip. I shot him a cold glare.
"Dali, watch your mouth. The guy's barely cold. People who die by hanging leave behind Yin residue—vengeful energy trapped by violence. Mock them, and you might get a visit tonight."
He spat three times toward the northeast—an old folk ritual to ward off hung-ghosts who linger where violence stains the earth.
"Come on, aren't you curious?" he asked. "Let's check it out!"
That's how I ended up at the artificial lake.
The place was secluded—usually reserved for couples seeking privacy. Now, it buzzed with students, cordoned-off yellow tape, and officers in uniform. A leather belt swung from a locust tree, its bark scarred by rope fibers too coarse for a student's belt. The body had been taken down. Forensic officers crouched beside it.
Something felt off.
"This is strange," I muttered.
"What is?"
"The lake's right there. Why hang himself when drowning's easier?"
"Maybe he came to drown himself but chickened out," Dali said. "Water's cold. Hanging's quicker."
"Brilliant," I deadpanned. "Di Renjie would hang up his badge. Sherlock would starve."
Oblivious to sarcasm, he grinned. "Told you I was a genius."
We found a better vantage point.
Dali nudged me. "Yo, check her out."
A young female officer stood by the tape—tight jeans, cropped jacket, sharp features. Her gloved hand snapped on a UV flashlight, scanning the victim's nails.
"She's got presence," Dali whispered. "Like, beat-me-up energy. I think I'm in love."
I ignored him. Beauty fades. Corpses speak louder.
I finally glimpsed the body.
Male, early twenties. Tongue protruded 4cm past the teeth. Petechial hemorrhages clustered in both conjunctivae—over 15 per square centimeter, confirming venous obstruction. His eyes bulged like overripe grapes. A deep V-shaped ligature mark encircled his neck, converging below the left mastoid. Below the mark, the skin was a dark purple-black. His pants were stained—clear post-mortem incontinence from violent asphyxia.
It all looked textbook. But something itched at me.
The Washing Away of Wrongs—the Song family's wuzuo bible, the world's first forensic text centuries before Europe abandoned trial-by-combat—warned: "Hanging causes U-shaped marks rising behind the ears. Strangulation leaves V-shaped furrows, darkening below."
This mark was V-shaped. Too deep. And his tongue protruded far—suggesting fractured hyoid cartilage at a 45° angle, typical of strangulation via thumb pressure.
I looked again. The grass beneath his fingers was crushed, chlorophyll streaked.
Cadaveric spasm. Death in mid-struggle.
The killer strangled him. Then staged the scene.
My fingers itched to palpate the thyroid cartilage—Grandfather's ghost snarled: "Measure the fracture! 45° means murder!"
Forensic Qin stood and peeled off gloves—stained with chlorophyll that matched grass crushed beneath the victim's grip.
"No struggle. Suicide," he declared.
"Then we'll call it," said the female officer. "No autopsy?"
"No need. Clean case."
Bullshit.
My gaze dropped. The victim's right fist clutched something—a blue plastic button.
Identical to the one missing from Qin's coat.
The victim's clenched fist burned in my vision—that blue button screamed Qin's guilt.
I stepped under the police tape.
"Yangzi, what the hell!" Dali yelped. "Don't flirt with her now!"
Officers shouted. I didn't hear them.
I walked straight to the female officer, pointed at Qin, and said clearly:
"He's wrong. This wasn't a suicide. It was murder."
She froze. Her hand hovered near her sidearm. Her UV light revealed subungual fibrils—"No defensive tissue?" she murmured, then whirled at my accusation.
The crowd fell silent. Qin's scalpel gleamed—its edge nicking his ungloved thumb. Blood dripped.
Onto the blue button—Qin's guilt staining the evidence he would later claim was planted.
The UV lamp clattered to the grass.
Huang's radio crackled: "Second victim in dorm 7B. Identical ligature. Hyoid shattered into fragments—"
From the locust tree, the whetstone shrieked in triple rhythm—a death sentence carved in sound.
The Blade's calling card from Grandfather's murder night.
And from the shadows, a voice hissed through clenched teeth like a beast's jaw:
"Old Song's cub thinks he hunts me?"
To be continued...