Chapter 100
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Chapter 100: Title
While the human realm evolves daily, the underworld once seemed eternally unchanged—the Yellow Springs flowing through endless millennia, other shore flowers blooming and fading along their banks, serpentine queues stretching before the Bridge of Helplessness’s tea pavilion.
But that era has passed.
Since the underworld’s modernization reforms, its landscape has transformed dramatically. Ancient charm persists amidst sweeping renovations, as endless rows of crumbling single-story dwellings give way to towering structures.
"Are you certain this will suffice?" The judge surveyed Fengdu City’s altered skyline.
Fengdu—a metropolis expanding with each arriving soul—had never known overcrowding. Yet new challenges emerged. Most spirits retained residual Ghostly Life after their mortal expiration, entitled to dwell here until their spectral vitality waned. With reincarnation queues lengthening, housing sprawled endlessly across the realm.
"Rest assured—half the original structures remain," Zhan Yuan asserted, gesturing at glass-and-steel monoliths. "Modern souls prefer these over thatched hovels. You’ve dwelled too long belowground to grasp human realm housing crises. Mortals slave lifetimes to own walls; here we gift dwellings freely. Complaints? Unthinkable."
The city now displayed stark contrasts: sleek towers and ancient architecture flanking a central commercial district where revived storefronts buzzed with activity. Ghostly Beads—condensed ghostly energy varying in purity and size—served as currency. Every underworld construct drew from this essence, demanding greater power for elaborate creations.
Though Yan Luo and judges could erect a few buildings effortlessly, mass construction strained even their might. With the Emperor unavailable for trivialities, outsourcing became necessary. Zhan Yuan, the underworld’s sole contractor and quasi-official, hung recruitment banners downtown, luring deceased talents with salaries.
Money’s influence transcended death. Newly arrived spirits—penniless occupants of leaky shacks—flocked to construction crews, desperate for upgraded housing priority. Many discovered Fengdu’s rains the hard way, drenched in their assigned hovels—an indignity their sheltered mortal lives had spared them.
"Clearly, towers please them more," the judge remarked, eyeing the preserved antiquated quarter. "Though considering centuries of neglect, their condition remains remarkable."
"Perhaps renovations there too?" he mused privately. Unlike Zhan Yuan, he knew Fengdu harbored more than recent arrivals—ancient spirits slumbered unseen, and older souls might yet return.
This realm once received all Eastern Civilization’s unclaimed dead, though Fengdu specifically housed Chinese spirits. Other regions accommodated different cultures within the underworld’s boundless expanse.
"Brother Judge," Zhan Yuan ventured, his youthful features belying newfound shrewdness, "haven’t mortal deaths surged lately?" The university student’s death had forged a seasoned operator—through months navigating spectral bureaucracy and haggling with countless souls, he’d shed his naivety like a second shroud.
"I heard there are monsters in the human realm?"
The judge wasn’t surprised he knew. Ghosts in the underworld brimmed with boredom – any whisper from the living world spread like wildfire through their ranks. And truth be told… the influx of new ghosts had surged noticeably.
Most took the express route, hurrying through reincarnation to purify their souls. Were it not for this crisis, newly departed spirits would normally linger before rebirth. With human birthrates plummeting year after year, reincarnation slots grew scarce, condemning many souls to extended stays in the underworld.
"There’s been some disturbance."
"Sister Meng Po told me – she’s been brewing soup non-stop lately, with Little Yi and the others drafted as helpers." Zhan Yuan leaned forward, curiosity undimmed by confirmation. "Are these abyssal creatures truly so formidable?"
"The reincarnation queues should answer that. Only the fortunate few with minor karmic debts end up in Fengdu." The judge shook his head helplessly. "Every fresh death in the human realm swells our numbers here."
"Will the toll keep rising? Can’t mortals stop this?"
"The Abyss…" The judge’s voice darkened. "In all my centuries, nothing rivals its peril. Should it spread… perhaps only the Ghostly Emperor or higher-tier deities could intervene."
Though Zhan Yuan held no lingering attachments, his twenty-odd years in the disaster-stricken Huaxia Nine Provinces tugged at spectral heartstrings. "Can’t we petition the Ghostly Emperor?"
Longtime underworld residents understood the reclusive sovereign’s importance. Perched atop Ghostly Mountain, his rare appearances belied the stability he maintained. Modern souls might scoff at devotion, yet even faithless ghosts revered the emperor who required neither worship nor followers.
"Yin and yang maintain separate orders." The judge sipped spectral tea. "Mortal affairs demand mortal solutions – our hands are bound."
"By these endless rules!" Zhan Yuan threw up his hands. "Alive, we chafe under laws. Dead, we’re shackled by the world’s laws!"
"Not shackles – natural order." The judge’s lecturing tone emerged, belying his youthful appearance compared to stern Yama figures. "As a ghost messenger, you should…"
"I know, I know!" Zhan Yuan cut him off. "Just venting steam. Where else would I go? My tea-house brats make me yearn for second death."
"Then let’s visit Meng Po’s pavilion."
The path from Fengdu wound through Yellow Springs Road, where vermilion blooms writhed like frozen flames. Beyond loomed the ceaselessly active gates of the dead – fresh arrivals intercepted by ghost messengers, sorted between Yama Palace judgments, Fengdu residence, or hell’s torments.
At the Bridge of Helplessness, reluctant souls clutched memories like drowning men grip driftwood. Zhan Yuan always paused here, watching the ritual play out: trembling hands, brimming bowls of golden Meng Po Soup, the moment when lifetimes dissolved into mist.
"Sister Meng Po! Brought company!" Zhan Yuan called to the maiden in buttercup robes.
"Father!" A child materialized behind her, cheeks puffed in outrage. "You’re supposed to be minding the tea-house!"
Zhan Yuan adopted paternal nonchalance. "Merely ensuring you’re not troubling our host." His afterlife parenthood skills far outpaced his mortal dating experience.
"Second Brother." Meng Po materialized with steaming teapot. Nearby, empty vessels spontaneously filled with liquid memory – amber-hued like the Yellow Springs beneath the bridge.
"All peaceful today?" The judge inquired between sips. Early days had seen rebellious souls, emboldened by mortal folklore’s lies about underworld leniency. Those rioters now roasted in hell, their sentences only delaying inevitable rebirth queues.
Before Meng Po could answer, the judge stiffened. Tea met table with spectral clink. "Duty calls." Between blinks, his seat stood empty.
