Chapter One: The Unsolved Case from Twenty-Three Years Ago

When my mother was just two months pregnant with me, my father died. Birth, aging, sickness, and death are all part of life; perhaps one might sigh and say my father passed away quite early. But if I tell you that my father's death was the greatest unsolved mystery of the past twenty years, then surely you would want to hear this story.

To be precise, it was twenty-three years ago.

That year, my father’s skin was found hanging on the crooked willow tree at the entrance to our village. The first person to discover my father’s skin that morning is no longer with us. While he was alive, everyone in the village called him “Simpleton Second.” They said that when he was young, not only was he a decent-looking man, but he was also particularly hardworking—a remarkable young fellow. Every day, he was the first to head out to the fields, and it was precisely due to his diligence that he was the one to find my father's skin.

I have imagined that morning, picturing Simpleton Second with his hoe slung over his shoulder, leaving the village and spotting something hanging from the willow tree. He walked over and took it down, only to find it was the skin of a person, flayed alive.

The thought of that scene alone sends chills down my spine.

For someone who actually experienced it, it’s no wonder Simpleton Second was scared out of his wits.

I never saw the skin myself, but over the years, this incident has been a favorite topic of conversation among the locals. I learned the details from others who were there: whoever skinned my father did so with extraordinary skill, making a single incision from the crown of the head down, peeling the entire skin off in one piece with impressive finesse.

This technique closely resembled that used by butchers when skinning animals for their pelts—done to preserve the hide as intact as possible.

The skin was perfectly whole, but the body was missing. Later, the village secretary walked over ten miles to the county police station to report the crime. When the three officers arrived and saw the scene, they trembled with fear; one of the female officers even vomited on the spot.

A murder is always a grave matter, so it was declared a major case. Many more officers arrived, cordoned off the area, and summoned all the former soldiers from neighboring villages to search for the body and the crime scene, but not a single trace was found. Skinning naturally causes bleeding, but within several miles, not a drop of blood was discovered—nor, of course, the body.

Naturally, the police questioned my family, but there wasn’t the slightest clue. My mother said my father went to bed as usual that night, showing no signs of anything out of the ordinary; she had no idea when he left the house.

Because the skinning was so expertly done, the police focused their investigation on butchers within a few miles, rounding up all the butchers and even anyone who occasionally slaughtered livestock for questioning.

But one by one, the suspects were ruled out—no motives, no opportunity, nearly everyone had an alibi. In the end, the most experienced butcher in the area told the police, “Looking at the technique here, sure, I could do this—after killing pigs all my life. But this is a person, and to be able to peel a human so cleanly, you’d have to ask: how many people has the killer skinned before? Humans are far more complex than pigs.”

The police exerted enormous effort, staying busy for more than a month, but the case went nowhere.

After that, it naturally became a cold case.

When I was in college, I liked to browse online forums. My curiosity led me to post the story online. Since I had no pictures, many doubted my story’s authenticity, but there were also those who believed me and interacted with me—some speculating it was a crime of passion or revenge. Until one day, a user with a string of numbers for a username left a message: “This is just like the Red-Clothed Boy case in Chongqing—a mysterious sacrificial ritual.”

I had never heard this theory before, but the moment I read it, I was fascinated. I immediately sent a reply and a private message, but that user never reappeared. I checked their account: it was registered on the day they replied to me, and that was also their last login. When I dialed the phone number in their username, it was a disconnected number.

After my father’s death, for a farming family that depended on the land, losing my father was like losing the family’s pillar. This made our already poor life even harder. With no alternative, my grandfather and mother sent my eldest brother to another family. He was only three at the time. The family he was given to was said to be well-off but childless, and in exchange for adopting him, they gave us three bushels of fine flour and two boxes of osmanthus cakes.

From then on, my mother shouldered the family burden, managing an acre and a third of land to support newborn me and my ailing grandfather.

After graduating from university, I answered the nation’s call and became a village official in our hometown.

It’s a job that seems promising but in reality has little future. One day, while I was mediating a dispute between a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law at the village committee, our neighbor, Sister Wang, rushed in, flustered and out of breath. I asked, “Sister Wang, what’s wrong? What’s so urgent?”

“Yezi, you have to hurry home. Your big brother has come back!” she said.

“My big brother?” I was stunned.

“The one who was sent away just after you were born!” she clarified.

Seeing I was busy, the family let me go. After all, a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law’s quarrel isn’t easily resolved. When I got home, a crowd had already gathered.

My mother stood in the yard, eyes brimming with tears.

My grandfather was puffing silently on his pipe.

In front of them stood a tall, crew-cut man. The three of them seemed awkward in their silence. As I walked over, it was clear at a glance this was my eldest brother; our brows and eyes bore a strong resemblance, though I took after my mother more, and he favored our father. Not that I really knew what my father looked like, apart from the black-and-white photo enlarged from his ID card.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Yezi, come here,” my grandfather called me aside.

I glanced at the man, who looked back at me. His features were striking, with a rugged masculinity. When he saw me looking, he smiled, and I returned an awkward grin.

“When we sent you away back then, it was because the family was truly destitute. We accepted what they gave us, and they raised you. Rules are rules—did you inform them before coming back?” My grandfather asked, drawing on his pipe.

“There’s no one left,” the man replied.

“What?” My grandfather was shocked.

“My father died in a mining accident when I was six. My mother remarried soon after. I was raised by my grandfather. Last year, he died of cancer. On his deathbed, he told me about my origins and told me to come back,” the man explained.

Hearing this, my mother’s tears fell like rain, and I felt a pang of sorrow. Though he spoke briefly, I could sense that my brother, whom I’d always thought went off to a better life, hadn’t had it easy at all.

My grandfather smoked in silence. Neighbors urged, “Old Ye, the boy’s suffered so much. Now that he’s back, just accept him.”

My grandfather pondered for a long time before sighing, “Come home, then. But I can’t betray my old friend. You were sent to the Chen family to carry on their line, so your surname stays the same. You’re still Chen.”

The man nodded, “Alright.”

Later I learned my eldest brother bore a rather commanding name: Zhongmou—Sun Zhongmou.

Since our house was small, he stayed with me. After a day together, I got a sense of him: he was quiet, calm, spoke little and directly, and, most notably, was very neat—a man of strict habits. He didn’t share my bed, making his own on the floor. His belongings were all arranged with military precision, just like his demeanor.

My mother cooked lavish meals for several days, clearly overjoyed at his return, though my brother’s calmness never wavered, making her feel awkward. I reassured her, saying he just needed time to adjust.

After three days, he packed his things. I thought he was leaving, and my mother rushed out in alarm. He said, “I’ll stay elsewhere.”

“Where? There’s no hotel here,” I asked.

“I bought a house in Sanlitun, the next village over,” he replied.

Sanlitun is nearby, and there are no apartment buildings—he must have bought a rural homestead. I said, “Why not stay here? If you want, get a plot in the village and build your own.”

“I’ll get things done more easily from over there,” he replied, firm but terse.

No matter how much my mother and I tried, he wouldn’t change his mind. My grandfather finally came out, pipe in hand, and said, “Let him go. It’s not far anyway.”

I helped him carry his things to Sanlitun. To my surprise, he’d bought a two-story house—one of the best in the village. I was astonished. Such a house, with a yard, would cost at least 200,000 if built yourself. He must have spent a lot, but I didn’t press him. After all, we weren’t close enough for me to ask about his wealth.

The house was spotless, his luggage minimal. After making his bed, I reached for his black suitcase, thinking to help hang his clothes.

The moment my hand touched the case, he snapped, “Don’t touch that!”

Startled, I froze. He walked over, eyes cold, took the case from me, and said, “These are personal things.”

His icy tone embarrassed me, but at least he explained. Everyone has private belongings. I smiled, “Alright, you handle it.”

Left alone with him, I found it awkward, so I excused myself. He simply nodded, not even offering a perfunctory “stay a while.”

Back at the village committee, the village chief, Chen Qingshan, whispered to me, “Your brother’s got money—bought Chen Daneng’s house for 300,000, and didn’t even blink!”

I just smiled. The price was high, but that’s what it took. I wasn’t concerned about his wealth—never one to fawn over the rich or look down on the poor. Still, I was moved. A wealthy brother who returned to acknowledge the family that once sent him away—especially when we were still struggling—was truly rare.

The day after moving in, my brother erected a flag at his gate.

A bamboo pole hoisted a yellow banner.

Three bold red characters were written on it: Corpse Retriever.

It was an old-fashioned gesture—showy, almost heroic, like the ancient knights who would set out their banners before taking up a task.

He said he moved to Sanlitun to get things done; it turned out, his business was retrieving corpses.

Yet, a corpse retriever putting up a banner instantly became the talk of the town, if not a bit of a joke.