The Record of Patrolling the Heavens

In the attic of the old house lies a damaged book. Of its ten volumes, only three remain. The margins are crammed with annotations from two hundred years ago, layer upon layer. The family rule is simple: when you get stuck, go up and look.

Which note should you look at? The one you don't understand.

He is a prosecutor. Following half a sentence in the margin, he investigates and solves several cases, but also wrongs one person. Only after reading the book a second time does he understand: what that person wrote was not a clue, but the other half of the same account.

The Grand Celestial Inspection Record was meant to have ten volumes. The other seven are scattered among annotated editions in the archives, pawned goods left unredeemed, and other people's collections, as well as in the hands of people who specialize in erasing the living from the records. Changing names, faking deaths, canceling registrations, using doubles, deleting household records. Once they're done, that person never existed.

No one has ever seen the tenth volume. The last page of Volume Nine contains only one line of contents: Volume Ten: Ten Cases: Painted Eyebrows, Looking at Feet, Corpse Trafficking, Silencing, Wordless, Wax Child, Incense Ash, Duel, Ferry Crossing, Register.

The two eras cannot communicate. They can only compare accounts. This time, the missing volume is coming for him.