The Chief Embalmer

Meng Han froze for a second before letting out a derisive snort. "Six hours? If you can crack this case in six hours, pigs might as well fly."

Huo Xuan chuckled darkly. "Since you claim to be some hotshot student of Henry Lee, you must have at least a shred of investigative skill. How about we make this interesting?"

Meng Han's eyes gleamed—he lived for moments like this, where he could use his expertise to crush someone's pride. A wager was the perfect tool. If this arrogant bastard failed, he'd humiliate him beyond repair.

His eyebrows arched mockingly. "Since you're so eager to embarrass yourself, I'll take that bet. If you actually solve this in six hours, name your terms. But if you fail—and you will fail—I won't even ask for much. Just hold up a banner that says 'Chinese Police Are Incompetent' and stand in Tiananmen Square for a full day. How's that?"

The surrounding officers erupted in fury, a few cursing through gritted teeth. But beneath their anger flickered doubt—six hours? They'd chased this case for months with nothing to show. What made Huo Xuan so confident?

Unfazed by the skepticism, Huo Xuan grinned. "Deal. And since we're betting, here's my condition: If I crack it, you hold a banner that says 'Down with American Imperialism—Henry Lee is a Traitorous Dog!' and stand in the square for six hours."

Meng Han's face flushed crimson. The little shit had played him! That slogan would destroy him—at best, Lee would disown him; at worst, the U.S. would deport him.

But his ego was locked in now. With a cold smirk, he spat, "Fine. I'll enjoy watching your performance in the square!"

Huo Xuan didn't bother responding. He turned back to the crime scene, his mind sharp. That fleeting vision earlier had revealed the Buddha Eye's true power—it could uncover past traces on anything. With that, finding the killer would be child's play.

Focusing again, the brutal hammer strike replayed in his mind. He burned the attacker's features into memory: gaunt face, hollow eyes, and one critical detail—the man wore a puffer jacket left unzipped, revealing a uniform underneath.

On its left breast was a partially visible label: ​yí guǎn.

Huo Xuan's pulse quickened.

"A funeral parlor?"

After a moment's thought, Huo Xuan turned to Xiao Zhao. "What happened to the bodies of the first three victims after autopsy?"

Xiao Zhao blinked. "They were sent to funeral parlors by their families, of course." He frowned. "Why do you ask?"

Ignoring the question, Huo Xuan pressed Qin Huo: "Captain Qin, aside from being young and beautiful, did the four victims share any other common traits?"

Serial killers typically targeted victims with specific characteristics—some obvious, others deeply hidden.

Before Qin Huo could respond, Meng Han sneered, "You haven't even grasped the basics of the case, yet you boast about solving it in six hours? Delusional!"

Huo Xuan kept his eyes on Qin Huo, who finally said, "Beyond age and appearance, all victims either worked or lived in Lantian District."

"Did anyone check which funeral parlor handled their remains?" Huo Xuan pressed, his tone grave.

Qin Huo, a seasoned investigator, immediately caught his drift—though skepticism lingered. "You think the killer might be connected to a funeral parlor?" His voice carried doubt, as if Huo Xuan were grasping at straws to meet the impossible deadline.

Huo Xuan nodded. "It's a lead worth pursuing."

With the team's reputation at stake, Qin Huo had no choice but to comply. "Fine. I'll have someone look into it."

Ten minutes later, headquarters confirmed: all four victims had been processed at ​Baode Funeral Parlor in Lantian District.

Qin Huo's eyes narrowed. After ordering part of the team to stay at the scene, he said to Huo Xuan, "Let's go. To Baode."

Meng Han tagged along, his smirk unwavering as he tossed out periodic jabs. Huo Xuan tuned him out, his mind laser-focused on piecing together the puzzle.

If the killer is from the funeral parlor, what's his motive? Did he murder just to send the victims to Baode?

The thought surfaced, then was instantly dismissed. No funeral parlor, no matter how profit-driven, would resort to murder—unless its owner was both insane and brainless.

But if not the parlor itself, could it be an employee? And if so—why?

The puzzle refused to solve itself. Huo Xuan shelved the questions for now; answers would come at Baode.

As the only funeral home in Lantian District, Baode Funeral Parlor prided itself on professionalism. Its lobby displayed a bold slogan: "Building China's Premier Service Team!"

A dedicated frame showcased its star staff. One profile seized Huo Xuan's attention: ​Du Jin, a 16-year veteran hailed as a "nationally top-tier mortuary cosmetologist."

The photo confirmed it—him. Gaunt face, hollow eyes, the same uniform with "Baode Funeral Parlor" etched over the left breast.

Huo Xuan kept his composure as Qin Huo summoned the manager. "We heard your Du Jin is exceptional," he said casually. "We'd like to meet him."

The manager, eager to please, nodded. "Of course. This way."

The elevator ascended to the third floor, where a locked violet door barred their path. "Du Jin is our star," the manager explained, "but he's... eccentric. Prefers no interruptions during work." He knocked in a practiced rhythm. "Du Jin? Open up."

Thirty seconds later, the door creaked open. A man in his thirties—the man—stood silhouetted against the sterile light. His expression didn't flicker at the police presence. "What?"

"These officers need to ask questions," the manager said. "Cooperate fully."

At "officers," Du Jin's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. "Fine."

Huo Xuan smiled. "So you're Du Jin? We've heard about your artistry. Mind showing us your work?"

"Corpses aren't for appreciation," Du Jin spat. "Bad luck."

Huo Xuan stepped past him into the embalming room. "Dead men frighten me less than live ones."

The moment Huo Xuan stepped into the embalming room, the cloying scent of preservatives assaulted his senses, followed by a creeping chill that seeped into his bones—until the golden light swirling within him dispelled the discomfort.

Du Jin was working on two corpses: a middle-aged man and woman. The man, likely in his fifties with ordinary features, now wore a crisp suit under Du Jin's meticulous touch. Though his eyes remained closed, he exuded an air of dignity, as if he'd been a VIP in life.

Impressive, Huo Xuan admitted silently. This man can turn decay into grandeur.

The woman, probably plain and forty-something when alive, had been transformed into an elegant beauty in a green qipao, her rejuvenated face suggesting she'd barely reached thirty.

Then Huo Xuan's gaze shifted to a seemingly ordinary wall. To anyone else, it was just a wall. But his vision pierced through—revealing a hidden chamber.

He stepped closer until his nose nearly touched the surface. His expression cycled from calm to shock, then to visceral disgust. Turning slowly, he asked the manager, "How many bodies was Du Jin scheduled to prepare today?"

"Three," the manager replied—then paled. Only two lay in the room.

His eyes darted to Du Jin. "Where's the third?"

Du Jin's composure cracked. Panic flickered across his face as he stammered for an answer.

Meng Han, sensing disaster, interjected sharply: "Out with it! Was the body moved? Or are you just slacking off?"

The prompt worked. Du Jin seized the lifeline. "Y-yes! I was tired. Only planned to do these two."

Qin Huo shot Meng Han a venomous glare. "Detective Meng, this is Huo Xuan's investigation. Unless you'd like to wear duct tape, shut your mouth."

Meng Han scoffed. "You actually believe he'll solve this? He's desperate, grasping at straws before his humiliating loss."

Huo Xuan checked his watch. "One hour and ten minutes left." Then—BAM!—his foot smashed through the wall.

Wood splintered. A hidden room, illuminated by sterile lights, gaped open before the stunned onlookers.