Corpse Retriever

Li Zhuiyuan knew that Qin Li’s clothes weren’t something you could buy off a rack. These days, Western fashion dominated the market, and anything traditionally Chinese was seen as old-fashioned, even tacky. Qin Li’s outfits, though—each was precisely cut and impeccably made, clearly tailored at one of those old workshops with actual craftsmanship. Definitely expensive.

But then again, Granny Liu had gifted a jade thumb ring worth a three-bedroom in Beijing just as a “hello,” so money clearly wasn’t a problem in that household.

The ends of Qin Li’s hair glistened with dew. Li Zhuiyuan couldn’t help himself—he reached out and touched her head. A hint of dampness met his fingers.

“You been waiting here long?”

She said nothing, just looked at him.

“Next time, once I’m up, I’ll call you over to read in the east wing. That way, you don’t have to just stand here, alright?”

The light in her eyes dimmed a little.

“Okay, then I’ll try to wake up earlier. If you get here and I’m still asleep, just come in and wait on the chair. I don’t lock the door anyway.”

The gleam returned to her eyes.

Li Zhuiyuan walked to the clothesline and took down the towel he’d hung out the night before. Still damp, but usable.He went over to the stool from yesterday, wiped it down, then laid the towel across it. “Have a seat. I’m gonna wash up.”

Qin Li sat down.

Li Zhuiyuan went to wash up.

As Qin Li sat on the stool, her eyes landed on the towel, still clean. She reached for it, then hesitated and drew her hand back.

He’d just finished brushing his teeth and was drying his face when he looked up—and jumped. Granny Liu stood right in front of him.

“Xiaoyuan, hehe, I’m so sorry for the trouble.”

It was the first time he’d seen Granny Liu come into the main house, let alone up to the second floor. She must’ve waited here with Qin Li the whole time her granddaughter had been standing guard.

“Granny, I like hanging out with A-Li.”

“Well then, you two have fun. If anything comes up, just holler for me.” Granny Liu beamed and went back downstairs.

Li Zhuiyuan returned the washbasin to the room. It was still early—sun hadn’t even risen yet. He didn’t feel like reading.

His gaze wandered the room until it landed on a small wooden box. He picked it up and went outside.

“A-Li, wanna learn to play Go?”

She said nothing, just stared at the box.

Li Zhuiyuan opened it. His great-grandfather had given Uncle Qin money for snacks and school supplies, and Uncle Qin had tossed this in too—a Go set.

The board was a translucent oil-paper sheet with a printed grid, the pieces tiny plastic discs the size of ladybugs. Cheap, flimsy, but affordable. No way the stationer’s in Shigang Town would stock a proper set—who’d buy it?

“Let me teach you the rules of Go first…”

Before he could finish, A-Li picked up a black piece and placed it on the board.

Li Zhuiyuan fell silent and countered with a white stone.

Move after move, it became clear—she already knew how to play.

He couldn’t help but smile and dive into the match.

They played fast, barely pausing to think.

Bit by bit, Li Zhuiyuan started to feel the pressure. Finally…

“I lost.”

He hadn’t gone easy. He really did lose.

He’d never studied Go formally, but he was quick at mental math. Go was a game that favored that. Among casual players, he wasn’t bad.

But the girl was better—faster, more composed. She must have had some proper training.

Still, he felt no frustration. He knew he picked things up fast, but that didn’t mean he could skip the actual learning part.

In many fields, brains weren’t enough—you needed experience, time, and the right opportunities.

“A-Li, you’re really good. Want another round?”

She twirled a piece between her fingers, eyes on him. Her meaning was clear—yes.

Li Zhuiyuan packed the pieces back in the box. Morning wind had started to pick up, so he grabbed four chunks of crumbling cement from the west corner of the balcony and used them to pin the board down.

Round two began.

They still played fast, but now, Li Zhuiyuan noticed himself grinning more with each move.

He could feel it—she was letting him win.

Far from feeling insulted, he was delighted. So he began making deliberate mistakes.

Her moves slowed. Her brows knit together.

Li Zhuiyuan relented, stopped teasing. This time, he won fair.

Qin Li looked up at him.

The corners of her mouth had the faintest pout—barely visible. She was upset.

But her lashes didn’t flutter. Her body didn’t tremble.

“Alright, alright, my bad. I’m sorry.” He looked up—the sky had brightened. Downstairs, Aunt Liu was calling them to breakfast.

Li Zhuiyuan packed up the board and led Qin Li downstairs.

They fell into rhythm. What had once been a solo breakfast now became a shared meal at a small table with two wooden stools.

As usual, Li Zhuiyuan set some pickled vegetables on a dish for her, then started on his duck egg—cracking the top and scooping it with chopsticks.

He noticed her watching.

“Want me to open one for you? It’s harder to portion, though.”

She kept staring.

So he cracked one for her too, peeled a bit of the shell, and handed it over.

She held it in both hands, cradling it like a treasure, eyes fixed on the broken tip.

Just then, Li Sanjiang shuffled downstairs.

He looked at the little table with the kids, then the family table with Liu Yumei, Qin Li’s father Qin Li, and Aunt Liu, and headed wordlessly to his solitary elder’s table.

He was just about to start eating when a shadow appeared on the road by the dam.

A dark-skinned boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen, was pushing a one-wheeled cart carrying an old man.

The boy wore patched blue shorts, nothing on top, and clearly-too-large plastic sandals.

The old man was bald and shriveled with age. He wore plastic flip-flops and held a water-pipe.

Li Sanjiang sighed, set down his chopsticks. “Great. Here come the beggars.”

When the pair reached the damtop, Li Sanjiang went up to greet them with a grin. “Aiyo, figured you’d show today—just didn’t expect you this early.”

The old man puffed on his pipe. “Traveled in the dark. Figured we could skip breakfast if we got here in time.”

“Tinghou, any porridge left?” Li Sanjiang called out.

The old man snorted. “You kidding me? We came all this way and you’re giving us gruel? Give us proper food.”

“Fine, fine. Tinghou, start cooking.”

“On it.”

Aunt Liu headed to the kitchen.

“Xiaoyuanhou, come here,” Li Sanjiang called. “This here is your Uncle Shan.”

“Bullshit. Since when am I a generation below you?”

“Alright, alright. Call him Grandpa Shan, then.”

“Hello, Grandpa Shan.”

“Eh, good kid. Handsome little sprout, tender-skinned and polite.”

Li Sanjiang ruffled Li Zhuiyuan’s hair. “Xiaoyuanhou.”

“Great-grandpa?”

The old man flushed. “You bastard, Li Sanjiang! Still trying to claim seniority over me!”

“Please, like I care. You’re about the same age as Yuanhou’s Grandpa Han anyway.”

Li Zhuiyuan blinked in surprise. So this man was much younger than his great-grandfather, yet looked far older.

Over at the family table, Liu Yumei lowered her bowl and dabbed her nose with a handkerchief.

The old man stank—reeking of corpse-water. Absolutely nauseating.

He looked every inch the classic Corpse Retriever. Compared to him, Li Sanjiang—with his good food, good sleep, and good living—was the exception.

Truth was, anyone with better prospects would never choose corpse-retrieving. That stigma set their social standing from the start. Add all the taboos surrounding the job… and few ever found peace in old age.

Liu Yumei pushed her food away.

She spotted her granddaughter leaving the table too. Probably going to watch Li Zhuiyuan meet the newcomer. Yet instead of going upstairs to read, the girl went straight to the east wing.

Hmm?

Curious, Liu Yumei followed at a slow pace. She was just about to step over the threshold when the girl walked right back out.

“Off to find Xiaoyuan again?”

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