Chapter Three: The Midnight Summoning of the Severed Head

At the critical moment, Fang Mu quickly calmed himself, making sure not to reveal any sign of unease. The autopsy proceeded methodically, and once everything was completed, Fang Mu put away his tools one by one. Only then did he look toward Qing Ruowu, his expression tinged with regret.

Qing Ruowu’s brows knitted together, the teardrop mole at the corner of her eye fading in and out of view. “Was there anything unusual about the corpse? How did she die?”

“Poisoning can be ruled out. The fatal wound is still the one on her neck,” Fang Mu explained in detail. “It seems a sharp weapon severed her head, but for specifics, you’ll have to inspect the crime scene yourselves.”

He was only a coroner; his duty was to examine the body, not to investigate the case. That was someone else’s responsibility.

Qing Ruowu said nothing more and allowed Fang Mu to leave on his own. He gathered his things and departed the examination room without hesitation.

After Fang Mu left, Qing Ruowu gazed at the mutilated body before her. A faint white light rose from her body, and with a flick of her hand, the light sunk into the headless corpse’s chest. From the wound, a mass of inky black mist emerged.

As the black mist appeared, the white light in her hand transformed into the shape of a sword and pierced through it.

“Yin energy… there really is something sinister at work here…”

In the gloomy, chilling chamber, Qing Ruowu’s voice echoed softly.

…

After leaving the county yamen, Fang Mu returned straight to Great Wilderness Village. The strange events in the examination room troubled him; he wanted to hurry home and confirm his suspicions.

All along the way, he behaved as usual—just as he had the last time—leaving and returning in a perfectly ordinary manner.

That strange voice had come so suddenly. Fang Mu couldn’t tell whether it was good or bad, but he felt as if a door to a new world had been opened.

No sooner had he arrived in the village and headed home than he ran into the village chief by chance.

He had intended to pass by without greeting him, but the chief spotted him.

“Ah, Fang Mu, back from the autopsy?” the chief greeted him first.

Fang Mu had worries on his mind, but forced himself to appear normal. He stopped and made small talk. “Chief, where are you off to?”

“Oh, I just pickled a few jars of vegetables and was going to borrow a couple more jars from the villagers.”

“That’s nice. Save some pickles for me next time.”

“No problem, just come find me when you want some.”

After a brief, trivial exchange, Fang Mu took his leave. The chief watched him go, leaning on his cane as he walked away at a leisurely pace.

…

At home, Fang Mu shut the door behind him with a loud clap and hastily stripped off his outer garments.

Finding the room empty, Fang Mu sighed softly—just as he’d expected. “The Coroner’s Self-Cultivation” was gone; the emptiness he’d felt in his chest earlier had been a true omen.

Closing his eyes, Fang Mu focused inward. In his mind, three objects floated: a sachet, a bloodstained undergarment, and a mysterious iron spike.

It was as if a thread connected him to them. At a mere thought, he felt a weight in his hand—sachet, bloodstained undergarment, and ghost spike appeared before him.

“Well… I suppose this counts as a good thing.”

He placed the three items on the table, examining them closely.

Inside the sachet was a jade bead, clear and flawless—obviously precious. The voice in his mind had told him that, having examined five bizarre corpses, he’d triggered this mysterious phenomenon.

Carefully analyzing the situation, Fang Mu realized he could retrieve strange objects from these uncanny corpses.

What exactly were these uncanny corpses? He wasn’t sure yet, but the description of the ghost spike offered a clue.

“Ghost Spike: can inflict minor damage on Mystics and Uncanny Entities.”

There were martial artists in this world; Fang Mu had met them before. The constables in the county office were martial artists, though with only mediocre skills—Fang Mu could outsmart and overpower them with little effort.

But what were Mystics?

And what, exactly, were these uncanny entities?

Fang Mu pondered for a long time, concluding that uncanny corpses must be related to these entities.

“How strange… and Qing Ruowu too—could she be a Mystic?”

“There are things in this world I don’t know about. Uncanny… uncanny makes me think of… ghosts?”

He picked up the ghost spike and idly waved it about. It emitted a wailing, ghostly howl.

He tried to return the three items to his mind, but once he’d taken them out, they could not be put back.

After some thought, he placed the three items under his pillow and felt somewhat reassured.

Night fell.

Fang Mu lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The morning’s events had been too unsettling—he was still keyed up.

He rolled over, about to take out the ghost spike for a look, when something outside the corner of his eye caught his attention, making his hair stand on end.

In the moonlight, the window was cast with mottled shadows of tree branches, swaying like withered claws gently waving. But beyond the tree shadows, there was a round patch of darkness—its outline suggested a human head.

Yet beneath the shadowy head, there was only emptiness. Nothing else—just the head.

A chill crept down Fang Mu’s spine. He wasn’t afraid of the dead, but this was far more sinister.

No prankster could be at work; he’d offended no one in the village. Remembering the bizarre events of the morning, the image of the headless female corpse came to his mind.

A low, mournful wail suddenly rose—the spectral shadow vanished from the window in an instant.

At the same time, a chill spread through his body.

Drip… drip…

He heard droplets falling. Following the sound, he saw a blurred stain on the bed.

As a coroner, his keen sense of smell instantly told him—it wasn’t water. It was blood.

The blood was coming from above. Fang Mu looked up—and found a face staring straight at him.

It was the face of a woman, pale as death, blood streaming from all seven orifices. The blood was dripping from this ghastly visage.

Her eyes were just dull whites, yet she smiled at him—though her voice was a low, mournful weeping.

The smile and the weeping overlapped, doubling the eeriness.

Then, the head began to move, slowly descending toward Fang Mu.

The oppressive pressure from above made Fang Mu’s skin crawl. The closer the head came, the wider the smile stretched—its lips pulling all the way to the ears.

When the head was less than half a meter away, a rush of courage surged within Fang Mu. He reached under his pillow and pulled out the bloodstained undergarment.

A sudden gust of wind—the bloodstained garment enveloped the head, and both the smile and the weeping abruptly ceased.

“Five seconds—just five seconds!”

The bloodstained undergarment could paralyze the enemy for five seconds—an extremely brief time.

With his left hand, Fang Mu clutched the head to his chest. With his right, he drew the ghost spike from under the pillow and plunged it into the crown of the head with lightning speed.

A hissing, deflating sound filled the air as the seconds ticked by.

When five seconds had passed, the head, still wrapped in the bloodstained garment, remained motionless.

Summoning his courage, Fang Mu peeled away the garment…