Chapter 32.2: The Dead Sinker’s Kneel

Of course, if you didn’t care about logic, it could be said that the victim surnamed Zhou’s corpse had been moved, dumped, and processed anew, and Jiang Dongping’s death was just the result of in-fighting within the Jiang family. After all, none of them were decent people, and pinning the blame on them wouldn’t be too far-fetched.

But none of that concerned him anymore. With the case progressing this far, he could finally deliver an acceptable report.

Tan Yunlong, cigarette pinched between his fingers, found his thoughts drifting back to the pond—one that had recently remained untouched and undisturbed. He couldn’t help but wonder: how had Jiang Dongping’s fresh corpse ended up buried there?

Not many people knew the truth of it, and even with the site carefully preserved back then, everything that could be excavated had already been turned over. It would be nearly impossible to prove whether the pond had been disturbed recently.

“Captain Tan, everything’s sorted.”

“Mm.”

Tan Yunlong took the file, flipped through it, and nodded. “Dig deeper. Don’t let any of them slip through the cracks.”

“Understood.”

“Is Old Li still here?”

“Yeah, he’s chatting away with our young forensic expert, Little Wang.”

“Really?”

“I just went to pick up some documents from the morgue, and there he was, pointing at the corpse, while Little Wang took notes like a student in class.”

Forensic Examiner Little Wang was quite young and had only recently joined the force. Her presence was the reason the local station even had a forensic room now. Before, they had to borrow staff from hospitals or neighboring departments.

But Little Wang was cold and indifferent. A few of the station’s single young male officers had tried to strike up a conversation, only to be flatly and mercilessly rejected—no room for flirtation or false hope.

Tan Yunlong thought back to the scene of young Li Zhuiyuan unearthing a corpse and could only sigh, “Sometimes, these folk experts really do have skills. We shouldn’t dismiss them all as mere superstition.”

The desk phone rang. Tan Yunlong picked it up, answered with a string of affirmatives, and hung up.

He stood, smoothing down his uniform.

“The city bureau’s special investigation team is here. Let’s go update them on our progress.”

…

Before the tombstone, the black mist coiling around the Dead Sinker thickened and surged faster.

Li Zhuiyuan knew it was nearly free.

What puzzled him was what had triggered this sudden acceleration in the dissolution process.

Could it be that the police were finally cracking the case?

But… were they really that efficient?

Plap! Plap! Plap!

As the black mist dissipated, the Dead Sinker’s body began to shrink. Its tai sui blistered and split, oozing foul pus.

A stench, thick and gag-worthy, spread across the area.

Li Zhuiyuan recognized it immediately. This was the infamous water corpse stench his great-grandfather often talked about.

Fresh floaters were easy to retrieve and didn’t smell too bad. It was the ones that had been soaking for ages, turning into gelatinous pork skin, that were truly gut-wrenching.

Even after scrubbing with soap seven or eight times, the stench could linger for days.

With the tai sui splitting open, the Dead Sinker’s body lost cohesion. Rotten flesh began sloughing off, and like an ice sculpture melting, it shrank further.

Among the foul bubbles, Li Zhuiyuan noticed something: a black, round object tumbling inside.

A copper coin.

Then the unexpected happened.

The Dead Sinker stretched out a hand—now reduced to bare bone—and pointed toward Brother Bao and Zhao Xing, who were still kneeling.

It seemed to want to end this ritual by dragging the two ghost-substitutes with it.

But it had miscalculated. Its body was deteriorating too fast. The raised hand faltered and dropped.

In contrast, that black cat had been far more clever. When its own mist began to rise, it had the foresight to suppress it, biding time for revenge.

It had even shown confusion and disbelief at Li Zhuiyuan’s help, following some unspoken rules of the righteous path.

But this Dead Sinker lacked such finesse.

It… had lost.

Released from its binding force, Brother Bao and Zhao Xing, though battered and broken, rose to their feet.

They now looked like cracked and battered mannequins from a vandalized clothing store.

But the hatred in their eyes had only grown deeper. Clearly, the pain they endured had awakened their full malice.

They didn’t come toward Li Zhuiyuan. Instead, they turned toward another tombstone.

It stood empty, but Li Zhuiyuan knew that was where the two thugs were kneeling in the real world.

Crack…

The Dead Sinker was nearly dissolved, now just a head wrapped in bits of tai sui and flesh. It twisted weakly, a skeletal arm dragging toward Li Zhuiyuan.

He blinked. Somehow, he understood what the dissolving creature was trying to say.

Just like how he could read Ah Li’s subtle expressions and gestures.

Li Zhuiyuan nodded.

“Go in peace. Trust that the police will get justice for you.”

Then he added, “And those two? I’ll handle them for you.”

The moment his words landed, the last of the Dead Sinker’s flesh sloughed off. It fully dissolved into white bones in front of its parents’ grave.

Li Zhuiyuan hated the cliché of innocent people dying and others waxing poetic about justice delayed.

But sometimes, as a witness to horror, you beautify the moment for your own comfort.

Like now—he chose to believe this family was finally reunited.

That was the boy’s kindness and blessing.

Because he still wasn’t entirely sure.

Sure that the Homecoming Net could really conceal them from the likes of Brother Bao and Zhao Xing.

But what about a Dead Sinker who could control ghost-substitutes?

If the net had truly worked, why did it look back at them?

Was it possible…

That it had seen the two boys hiding behind the tombstone all along?

Ding…

With a crisp sound, the jet-black copper coin rolled off the bones and came to a stop before Li Zhuiyuan.

He didn’t dare touch it. He suspected the coin had triggered everything they’d just witnessed.

He didn’t want to end up with tai sui all over him.

Suddenly, dizziness hit. His body ached.

He had a feeling he knew what was happening outside.

Then he heard Runsheng’s voice:

“Xiao Yuan! Don’t sleep—wake up, wake up!”

Li Zhuiyuan opened his eyes to see Runsheng shaking him hard.

“Phew… you’re finally awake.”

“Runsheng-ge, do you even know your own strength?”

“Ah, sorry, it’s just—they got up.”

Li Zhuiyuan looked over. The two thugs had risen and were walking toward them. They were close now, but thanks to the Homecoming Net, they couldn’t see the boys.

“Xiao Yuan, what should we do?”

Runsheng tightened his grip on the Yellow River Shovel. He’d been itching to act.

“Runsheng-ge, cripple them.”

“Got it!”

With a low roar, Runsheng’s muscles tensed. He flung off the net and charged forward with the shovel raised.

The thugs were startled by the sudden appearance of a living person and stumbled back.

But Runsheng didn’t hesitate. He smashed the shovel into one thug’s arm.

Crack!

Bone snapped. The arm was useless.

But the thug didn’t scream. Instead, he lunged, locking Runsheng in a grappling hold with his head wedged against Runsheng’s waist.

Runsheng tried to bring the shovel down on his head, but remembered Li Zhuiyuan’s instructions—not to kill.

So he flipped the shovel, wedged the handle between them, and used his chest as leverage to pry the thug off like a bottle cap.

But the second thug rushed up and bit into Runsheng’s arm like a mad dog.

“Hiss…”

Runsheng sucked in a breath, pain flashing across his face—but so did something else: excitement.

This wasn’t the same quiet farmer-boy Runsheng who pushed carts.

He bared his teeth, ducked his head, and bit into the thug’s neck.

Tear!

The thug used his teeth, but Runsheng ripped with his jaw.

He yanked back, tearing off a chunk of flesh.

Runsheng’s face was smeared in blood, but his battle frenzy only grew.

Truth be told, being a ghost-substitute was a disgrace.

And the ones behind these thugs—Zhao Xing, the frail playboy, and Brother Bao, the cowardly middle-aged thug—weren’t exactly fearsome.

Li Zhuiyuan remembered a family dinner once, where Northern Grandpa scolded a cousin for fighting at school.

He’d said, “Looking for heroes in the world of street punks is like panning for gold in shit!”

If you had guts, you wouldn’t stoop to this kind of thuggery.

Now these two were so spooked by Runsheng’s aggression that they turned and ran—forgetting they were the ghosts here.

But Runsheng was truly something else.

Li Zhuiyuan couldn’t help thinking: if Runsheng had better gear, maybe even the Dead Sinker wouldn’t have stood a chance against him.

Earlier, Li Zhuiyuan had stayed back, knowing when not to get in the way.

But now—it was his turn.

In his right hand, he gripped the Guide Hook. His left thumb pressed into the inkpad, then smeared a mark along the tool’s shaft.

With a shout, the Guide Hook sprang into seven segments, each glowing red with the ink imprint.

He dropped into a low stance and channeled power from his waist.

The hook swept out, catching a thug by the ankle. The final segment snapped open like a mantis’s claw, locking onto the bone.

Thud…

Li Zhuiyuan stumbled from the counterforce, barely steadying himself.

The thug, caught mid-step, slammed face-first into the dirt.

This was a move from the second volume of Demon-Smiting Chronicles—used for capturing Dead Sinkers.

“Ah!!!”

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