Shen Xun transmigrated. His cause of death was a tonic he had brewed himself, packed with every nourishing ingredient imaginable.
It nourished him to death.
On the third day after his resurrection, before the coffin had even been taken away, the county magistrate dragged him from the mourning hall and ordered him to examine a corpse. The richest man's only son had supposedly died of "poisoning," and every coroner in town was stumped. Shen Xun crouched beside the body for half an incense stick's time, then stood and said just one thing:
"He wasn't poisoned."
That one sentence turned the county's entire case file upside down.
From murders in the county town to intrigues in the capital and a game of wits between two nations, he examines one case after another. His golden needles can save lives, but they can also kill. He solves not only cases, but the mysteries of people's hearts.
There is only one problem: every time he uses this family-passed-down needle technique, he forgets something.
Shen Xun opens his diary and writes carefully, stroke by stroke: What I forget, the paper will remember.
What he doesn't know is that, as his investigations grow ever larger, one day his own name will appear in the case files.
