Chapter Twenty-Three: A Corpse

"Creak!"

The chair emitted a teeth-gritting sound before being set straight. Ren Ye sat up straight and asked instinctively, "Is that important character a Daoist priest?"

His father, who had been reciting the plot, was taken aback by the question. "Why are you so worked up?"

"I'm asking you, is the important character who gets written to death a Daoist priest?" Ren Ye asked urgently.

"Yes, he is a Daoist," his father nodded.

Ren Ye stood up with a start and followed up: "Is the prince in the royal mansion a complete good-for-nothing?"

"Yes, he is." His father’s expression was dull, his eyes fixed steadily on Ren Ye.

"Is the main plot about the old emperor dying, the two sons fighting for the throne, and then the feudal prince losing?" Ren Ye’s voice trembled as he spoke.

"How do you know?" His father looked astonished.

"Damn it!" Ren Ye slapped his thigh in excitement.

"?" His father frowned and scolded, "Who are you cursing? Have some respect."

"Quick, let me see the outline; I'll help you study it." Ren Ye urged immediately, "I think this story is very interesting... hurry up, I want to see it."

His father rose slowly, habitually adjusting his glasses. "Why is your complexion so poor, and why are you jumping at shadows? Son, are you being bullied in the cell? If there really are prison bullies, we can use the law to protect ourselves, we can bleed them dry..."

"No, no. Heh, I just thought it sounded interesting..." Ren Ye pushed his father’s back, walking with him toward the bedroom.

Ren Ye's home was originally a two-bedroom, one-living-room layout with a usable area of less than seventy square meters. Years ago, this would have been considered a luxury home, but now it felt slightly cramped for a family of three.

After both children grew up and needed their own space, living together became inconvenient. Plus, his father wanted them to have an independent study area, so he gave up his master bedroom and repurposed some living room space, turning the two-bedroom into a three-bedroom.

The rooms with the best light and ventilation were given to his son and daughter, while his father lived in the smallest, least sunny room. In his words, "I just need a bed and a bookshelf. As long as the internet speed is fast and the movies don't buffer, I can work in any environment."

But Ren Ye knew that his father, having written for years, was somewhat melancholic. He kept the lights on while writing during the day and hated dim, cramped spaces; they made him feel stifled and oppressed.

Therefore, while Ren Ye was at his previous job, he had dreamed of getting a large house. But the conditions for housing distribution were harsh, and the crackdown on corruption was strict... it was just a case of being born at the wrong time, you know?

As everyone knows, a geek’s room has a peculiar scent—not unpleasant, just faintly salty... In this regard, his fifty-something-year-old father was no exception.

The father and son entered the room, and Ren Ye sat on the bed, urging, "Quick, hurry."

His father pulled out the chair and, from a pile of contracts, materials, and books beneath the computer cabinet, pulled out a stack of printed drafts. "Here, have a look."

"Why is it a paper draft?" Ren Ye asked, puzzled.

"My cervical spine has been bothering me lately. Sitting for too long makes me feel like an idiot. It’s more comfortable to read lying down." After handing over the draft, his father rested his chin on his left hand and used his right to navigate the mouse, opening a social media app.

Inside the app, a bunch of avatars of mature women all had red notification dots for unread messages. His father glanced at them, a joyful and satisfied expression appearing on his face as he began typing rapidly.

Ren Ye glanced at his father, then sat on the bed to read the manuscript and outline, his brow furrowing deeper the more he read.

...

Suzhou-Hangzhou City, No. 2 Morgue at Qianhu Island Hospital.

Under the bright lights, a row of mortuary slabs reflected a silvery sheen. The two iron doors were tightly shut, and an icy chill permeated the room.

"Thump... thump...!"

Suddenly, several muffled sounds arose from the left, as if something living were knocking against the metal plate, breaking the silence and peace of this final station of life.

"Thump, thump...!"

The sound did not fade; instead, the frequency increased.

If anyone were here, they would surely have been terrified, for the entire bank of mortuary cabinets on the left was visibly shaking.

...

"Bang."

Suddenly, with a dull thud, a large drawer containing a corpse slid open without warning.

"Swish!"

The light blue plastic sheet covering the corpse made a friction sound, and then, it was instantly flung aside as a figure sat up abruptly.

Under the light, the corpse that had suddenly sat up had a very clear face—a man of about forty. His remains were well-preserved with no external injuries, and a tag with personal information hung from his right ankle. The cause of death was listed as—sudden heart attack.

"He" was exuding a cold, chilling aura; his eyebrows, cheeks, and sparse hair were covered in a layer of thin frost. Moreover, obvious post-mortem lividity had appeared on the corpse's limbs and torso.

Quiet. For less than thirty seconds, the corpse sitting on the large drawer suddenly opened its eyes. At first, they were dull and unfocused, but they quickly regained their vitality.

A few seconds later, the sound of a heartbeat returned...

"Crack..."

He twisted his stiff neck, the cervical spine making a teeth-gritting sound. His eyes scanned behind him, finally resting on a wall where several white lab coats were hanging.

There were no surveillance cameras here. He tried to support his body with his hands and slowly moved his legs, standing down from the drawer.

After taking two or three minutes to adapt, he pushed the drawer shut and walked toward the wall with a stiff gait, taking down a white lab coat and draping it over his naked body.

"Creak!"

The door to the No. 2 morgue was pushed open. The man, wearing only the white coat, walked quickly through the hallway, muttering to himself: "Bo, po, mo, fo... ah, o, e... ni hao, ni hao... hello... hmm... this... this body will still work."

He flashed through the second basement level and slipped into a stairwell with a surveillance blind spot, escaping the hospital in broad daylight. Some people did notice his strange attire and bare feet, but no one would suspect a corpse of walking out of a mortuary drawer on its own.

About ten minutes later, this "corpse" hailed a taxi on a small street next to the hospital and sat in the back.

The driver looked at his complexion and attire and was stunned. "...What... what is going on here?"

He looked at the driver and replied calmly, "Took a lunch break, got caught... left in a bit of a rush."

The driver was stunned for a long time, then immediately caught on. "Your wife came?"

"No, her husband came," he replied, pulling the white coat tight across his arms.

The driver nodded knowingly, turned around, and asked, "Where to?"

He thought for a moment and replied, "Minxing Residential Area behind the Shuangshengyuan Restaurant."

"Got it." The driver started the meter and drove off.

"I... I don't have any money on me. You can come upstairs with me later to get it, I'll give you an extra fifty."

"Haha, sure." The driver smiled, chatting idly, "Brother, you’re something else... doing this kind of thing, and you don't even go further away from your office?!"

"Addicted." He turned to look out the car window as the street scene flew by, his eyes appearing slightly unfamiliar.

...

Shanghai, Shijiapu.

It took Ren Ye nearly two hours to finish reading the draft. "Dad!"

"Did you finish?" His father turned his head and asked, picking up his teacup.

"Yeah." Ren Ye nodded and asked curiously, "Why is this story incomplete? This Daoist priest's clone dies... and that's it, what about the rest?"

"The rest isn't written yet. I'm helping an editor revise a commissioned piece. The plot direction and creative ideas are theirs; I'm just responsible for refining the outline, fixing loopholes, and working on the opening." His father took a sip of tea.

"So the story in the opening part, did you write that?" Ren Ye asked.

"Pretty much, but the editor gave some suggestions, too," his father nodded.

"Where did you get the inspiration for this story?" Ren Ye blinked, asking persistently, his expression very serious.

His father sat with his legs crossed and habitually adjusted his glasses. "Got it by blending tropes from the internet."

He spoke of the plagiarism very calmly. Ren Ye stared into his eyes but couldn't detect anything unusual.

"Hey, son, what do you think of the setting of this story? Is it somewhat interesting?" his father said with great ambition. "Let me tell you, if this work gets approved, I can get thirty thousand in royalties! That’s not a small amount... it’s been years since I've taken a thirty-thousand-dollar contract."

"…!"

Ren Ye scrutinized his father, an indescribable sense of horror rising in his heart.

When his father was telling the story in the living room earlier, Ren Ye felt it was very similar to the plot of the Qingliang Prefecture Star Gate he had just experienced.

Now, after reading the opening outline and content, that feeling hadn't diminished...

His father's manuscript and the plot of the Qingliang Prefecture Star Gate had significant differences in settings and details. For example, in his story, there were no characters like princesses or royal guards.

But!

In the entire direction, structure, and core of the story, they were almost identical!

Both told the story of an old emperor dying, two sons fighting for the country, the feudal prince eventually losing, and the useless son being imprisoned... even the size and format of the prince’s fief were almost the same!

Most importantly, both plots got stuck at the part where the emperor's advisor, the Daoist priest’s clone, died.

What was going on?

Did his father plagiarize a story that happened to have a "collision of ideas" with the plot of Qingliang Prefecture?

But that was too damn coincidental, right?

...

Suzhou-Hangzhou City.

After the "corpse" returned home, he took a hundred yuan and gave it to the taxi driver, keeping his promise and refusing the change.

He changed his clothes at home and went to the café downstairs.

In front of the floor-to-ceiling window, the post-mortem lividity on his body had faded, and his complexion had become much more normal.

He pulled out a mobile phone that had been released at least seven years ago, plugged in a charger, turned it on, and opened the social media app.

After searching for a long time, he dialed a friend's voice call.

"Beep... beep...!"

After a long while, the other party answered the call and asked softly, "Who is this?"

"Heh, I'm a friend of Yang Feng," the corpse said with a smile.

"…Yang Feng from Suzhou-Hangzhou?" the other party asked.

"Yes."

"He's been missing for more than half a year."

"I want to buy a stack of burner SIM cards from you, nothing else," he took a sip of coffee, his tone very flat.

"Oh, buying cards?" The other party was silent for a moment before asking, "And how should I address you?"

He turned to look out the window, paused for a moment, and then replied with a smile on his lips: "My friends... all call me Little War Wolf."