The rain had been pouring for three days straight.
In the deep mountains of the southwest, Longevity Village seemed to be swallowed by the darkness. It was midnight, the hour when the boundary between the living and the dead was at its thinnest.
At the end of the village stood a dilapidated wooden shack. A white lantern hung under the eaves, swaying in the wind, casting a ghostly pale light.
On the lantern, a single character was written in black ink: [Stitch].
Inside the shack, the air was thick with the scent of burning sandalwood and the metallic tang of rust.
Jiang Daolin sat on a wooden stool, polishing a black, ruler-shaped instrument with a piece of oiled cloth. He looked young, barely in his early twenties, with a face as pale as porcelain. His fingers were slender and steady, perfect for wielding a needle.
"Grandfather said, once the thread is threaded, there is no turning back," Jiang Daolin whispered to himself, his eyes reflecting the cold glint of the ruler. "I've been hiding here for three years. It's time."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Suddenly, violent knocking shook the wooden door, drowning out the sound of the rain.
"Open up! We know you're in there!"
A rough voice shouted from outside.
Jiang Daolin didn't flinch. He slowly placed the black ruler—the Corpse Suppressing Ruler—back into a worn-out red wooden box.
" The door isn't locked," he said, his voice calm but piercing through the noise.
The door was kicked open. A gust of wet, cold wind rushed in, followed by three burly men in black suits. They looked out of place in this impoverished village, their expensive leather shoes stained with mud.
Behind them, a middle-aged man in a raincoat walked in, covering his nose with a handkerchief as if disgusted by the smell of the shack.
"Are you the 'Little Stitcher' the villagers talked about?" the middle-aged man asked arrogantly, looking down at Jiang Daolin.
Jiang Daolin didn't stand up. He picked up a cup of tea and took a slow sip. "I mend bodies, not egos. If you're here to talk nonsense, get out."
"You...!" One of the bodyguards stepped forward, raising his fist.
"Stop," the middle-aged man signaled his subordinate to back down. He sneered, "Kid, you have an attitude. I like that. But in this world, attitude requires capability."
He snapped his fingers.
Two bodyguards carried a stretcher into the room and placed it heavily on the floor. They pulled back the white cloth covering it.
A foul stench instantly filled the room.
It was a male corpse. Or rather, what was left of one.
The body was shattered, likely from a car accident or a fall from a great height. The limbs were twisted at odd angles, and the head was barely attached to the neck.
"My young master liked to race cars," the middle-aged man said coldly. "He had a little accident. Tomorrow is his funeral, and the family wants him to look decent. Fix him up. Make him look like he's just sleeping."
He threw a thick stack of cash onto the table. "Here is fifty thousand. Finish it before dawn, and I'll double it."
Jiang Daolin glanced at the money, then at the corpse.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"I can't stitch this," Jiang Daolin said flatly.
"Not enough money?" The man frowned.
"It's not about money," Jiang Daolin stood up and walked to the corpse. He pointed a slender finger at the corpse's neck. "Look closely."
The middle-aged man leaned in. Under the dim light, he saw something that made his blood run cold.
In the mangled flesh of the corpse's neck, there were tiny, white wriggling things.
Maggots? No.
They looked like hair. White, fine hair growing out of the fresh wounds.
"Corpse Hair," Jiang Daolin said, his voice dropping an octave. "This man didn't die from a car accident. He died because he touched something he shouldn't have. His soul is trapped inside, turning into a wraith. If I stitch him up, the needle will seal the evil spirit inside. By tomorrow night, he won't be lying in a coffin—he'll be standing by your bedside."
The room fell into a dead silence.
The middle-aged man's face turned pale, then red with anger. " Bullshit! You're just trying to scam more money! I warn you, if you don't sew him up today, I'll smash this shop of yours!"
He waved his hand. "Teach him a lesson!"
The three bodyguards lunged at Jiang Daolin.
Jiang Daolin sighed. "Why does no one ever listen to the doctor?"
As the fist of the leading bodyguard came crashing toward his face, Jiang Daolin moved.
He didn't retreat. He took a step forward.
His movement was like a ghost, leaving a blur in the air.
Swish!
A silver flash cut through the dim light.
The bodyguard froze. He felt a cold sting on his neck. When he tried to move, he found his body wouldn't obey his commands. He stood there, stiff as a statue.
Jiang Daolin was already standing behind him, holding a silver needle attached to a nearly invisible silk thread. The thread was wrapped around the bodyguard's neck—not cutting it, but pressing against a specific acupoint.
Stitcher's Art: Soul-Locking Needle.
"You..." The other two bodyguards backed away in terror. They hadn't even seen him move.
"I told you," Jiang Daolin said, gently pulling the thread. The burly bodyguard collapsed to the ground, paralyzed but conscious. "I mend bodies. But sometimes, I have to take apart the living to keep things quiet."
He turned his gaze to the trembling middle-aged man.
"Pick up your money. Take the body. And leave."
The middle-aged man was shaking. He realized he had kicked an iron plate. This was no ordinary villager; this was a master of the dark arts.
"Wait! Master! Please!" The man suddenly fell to his knees, his arrogance gone. "You're right! Young Master... he did go to that island! He went to the 'Paradise Island' before he died! Please, you have to help us! If his corpse transforms, the whole family is doomed!"
Paradise Island.
Hearing those two words, Jiang Daolin's pupils contracted violently.
Three years.
He had been searching for clues about his missing sister, Xiaoyu, for three years. The only lead he had was a rumor about a mysterious place called "Paradise Island," where the rich bought organs and "human medicine" to extend their lives.
Jiang Daolin grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him off the ground with surprising strength.
"Say that again," Jiang Daolin's voice was icy, filled with a terrifying killing intent. "Where did he go?"
"Paradise... Paradise Island!" the man stammered. "He bought a 'Heart' there! But after the surgery, he went mad and drove off a cliff!"
Jiang Daolin loosened his grip.
He looked at the shattered corpse again. Now, he understood why the body was growing Corpse Hair. It wasn't just a dead body; it was a vessel rejected by a stolen organ.
"Open the red box," Jiang Daolin ordered the man, pointing to the table.
"What?"
"I said open it. I'll take the job."
Jiang Daolin walked to the door and looked out at the pouring rain. The darkness of the night seemed to be hiding monsters, but for the first time in years, he saw a path.
"But the price has changed," Jiang Daolin said, turning back. The candlelight reflected in his eyes, sharp as a scalpel.
"I don't want your money."
"I want the ticket to that island."
Tonight, the Stitcher would come out of hiding. And for those who treated life as a commodity, their nightmare had just begun.