Chapter 32

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Chapter 32: Title

"It is I."

The bewitching beauty chuckled, her attire resembling historical Tang dynasty garments from the neighboring realm more than traditional kimono. She moved like moonlit mist clinging to clouds, her grace reminiscent of snowflakes swirling in an ephemeral breeze.

Her translucent sleeves flowed with tasseled ribbons, the collar trimmed in white fox-like fur that framed porcelain shoulders. Delicate bare feet rested on the floorboards, crimson threads encircling slender ankles where golden bells chimed with every motion.

Abe Masanari stumbled backward, startled by the sudden apparition in his chamber.

"Pathetic mortal," the woman sneered, her contemptuous gaze sweeping over him. Few among mankind had ever warranted her genuine attention.

"Who…what are you?"

"What am I?" She twirled an ebony lock near her bosom, crimson-tipped finger brushing lips curved in amusement. "You may address me as Inari…or Tamamo no Mae. Beyond that?" Her laughter tinkled like windchimes. "Such secrets exceed your current worth."

A luminous tail shimmering with golden undertones materialized behind her, the plush appendage caressing her arm before curling possessively around her shoulders, its tip brushing her jawline.

The young man’s breath caught. These names resonated through Japan’s history with equal fame to Abe no Seimei himself – Inari, harvest deity; Tamamo no Mae, the nine-tailed fox who enchanted Emperor Toba before being slain and sealed as the Killing Stone by his ancestor.

"Does your astonishment require eternity?" The legendary vixen arched an eyebrow. Her disdain for humanity remained undiminished through centuries – those rare humans she’d ever cherished now lay buried in time’s ashes.

"You’ve come…for vengeance?"

Masanari’s throat tightened. Though part of him questioned this vision, none could better embody the legendary demoness. Given his family’s history, retribution seemed inevitable.

"Vengeance implies grievance." Her mocking laughter echoed. "Were I inclined to such pettiness, should I not haunt Seimei’s ghost rather than his feeble descendant?" Golden eyes appraised him like a curious child examining insects.

"Nevertheless…" She waved dismissively, silken sleeves rippling. "For old kinship’s sake…"

"…a gift."

Before Masanari could react, Tamamo no Mae’s claw-tipped finger drew crimson. A golden-tinged droplet flew true between his eyes – he should have recoiled, yet some ancestral memory held him transfixed as the essence merged with his being.

"Abe no Seimei was the White Fox’s half-demon child," she purred, observing his paralysis with languid interest. Her stretching posture flowed like water, every movement hypnotic. "Your blood retains but shadows of that heritage. Even abundant Spiritual Energy cannot awaken what your line has squandered."

The world dissolved into warmth, a primordial comfort enveloping Masanari like amniotic embrace.

In the material realm, luminous patterns emerged around his rigid form, coalescing into an ethereal figure – a tall man in pristine hunting robes, complexion like moonlit snow, eyes holding the depth of still waters.

His presence evoked drifting cherry blossoms – timeless elegance manifesting in an age not his own.

"Tamamo no Mae." The apparition’s mellifluous voice resonated as he raised a fan in ceremonial greeting, eyes crinkling above the silk barrier with genuine pleasure. "How the centuries become you."

“Abe no Seimei, I knew you wouldn’t be defeated so simply.” Tamamo no Mae’s smile dissolved upon seeing him, her expression frostier than winter’s breath as she regarded the figure before her.

“In truth, I’ve already departed this world. Yet you remain unchanged from our former days.”

“Our natures differ entirely.” Born with nine tails, sacrificing a tail to cheat death was no hardship; she’d simply allowed herself to be sealed when the opportunity arose. This ephemeral world held no attachments for her.

“Your survival spares me complications,” Tamamo no Mae remarked abruptly.

Her hand flashed like silver moonlight, channeling spiritual energy into Abe no Seimei’s form. Without this reinforcement, his phantom-like existence might dissolve like morning mist.

Among the Abe lineage, only Seimei had ever touched her ancient heart. After millennia adrift in time’s river, encountering familiar eyes brought unexpected solace. Her earlier words held no malice.

Abe no Seimei furrowed his brow in confusion. He’d anticipated her wrath – their past conflict remained an unhealed scar, though born of opposing convictions.

“I come to sever lingering threads of karma.”

“…The Great Kami herself compelled this meeting.” Tamamo no Mae’s pause lingered like frozen breath.

“Since you persist, instructing this fledgling in yin-yang arts falls to you.” She vanished mid-sentence, leaving no space for questions, as ephemeral as cherry blossoms in a storm.

Abe Masanari awoke to existential vertigo.

Where a fox-eared beauty had haunted his last waking moment now stood a man in Heian-period robes – unmistakably an Onmyoji’s regalia.

…The ancestral portraits gathering dust in their estate shrine left no room for doubt.

Abe no Seimei observed his trembling descendant with wry amusement. While Masanari gaped like a suffocating carp, the legendary sage remained serenely composed.

“I am Abe no Seimei. Henceforth, I shall guide you along the Yin-Yang Path.” The snap of his closing fan echoed like a sacred seal.

Ancestor? THE Abe no Seimei? Masanari’s mental shriek preceded his collapse, consciousness fleeing like startled sparrows.

Whether Masanari’s destiny began with fainting spells or existential terror mattered little – his awakening heralded a new dawn for Japan’s forgotten mysticism.

Two days later, snowbound peaks.

“Ancestor, must we proceed? Two days’ training seems… inadequate.” Masanari’s chattering teeth contrasted with his mentor’s serene poise in autumn-weight robes.

“These demonic infestations rival Heian’s darkest years. Each sunset claims new victims.” The sage’s sigh crystallized in the air. “Fear not – my guidance shall be your armor.”

Only in desolate wastes dared Masanari converse freely. To others, his ancestor appeared as invisible as the wind – public discussions risked psychiatric evaluations.

His experience with “Night Parade of a Hundred Demons” proved cruelly deceptive. Virtual battles offered effortless triumphs, but reality left him battered by a snow maiden’s icy barrage, dignity buried beneath frozen humiliation.

Through bloodied lips and fading consciousness, Masanari finally invoked the binding ritual. The talisman flared – success born of forty-eight desperate hours’ study.

“Fraudulent game developers!” His snow-angel imprint deepened with indignant thrashing. He conveniently forgot players channeled Abe no Seimei’s might, not mortal ineptitude.

“But… I did it.” The glowing talisman cast dancing lights across his awestruck face – tangible proof beyond beginner’s luck.

Abe no Seimei observed silently, his smile a crescent moon glimpsed through stormclouds.

Suddenly, the sage turned toward the endless white horizon. His solitary figure seemed steeped in unspoken melancholy, a ghostly brushstroke against the parchment of winter.

This alien era – devoid of familiar faces, his legacy reduced to ink on brittle pages – left him unmoored. Only Masanari’s eyes anchored him to reality.

Rising from snowdrifts, Masanari glimpsed his ancestor’s silhouette – white hunting robes merging with the blizzard, as transient as history’s whispers.

He suddenly felt a surge of emotion and shouted toward his ancestor’s retreating figure, "Ancestor! When I return home, I’ll make the family restore our surname! ‘Toyo no Mon’ can’t compare to the noble name of ‘Abe’!"

Toyo no Mon had been the Abe clan’s adopted surname for generations, yet many youths like Abe Masanari – perpetually immersed in his endearingly awkward teenage fantasies – secretly yearned for their ancestral identity.

With the art of yin-yang at their disposal, surely the elders wouldn’t oppose reverting to tradition. How could they possibly refuse when their progenitor walked among them again? Were they trying to infuriate their resurrected ancestor?

Abe no Seimei turned with an amused chuckle, observing the youth’s blazing determination. His head tilted slightly in gentle refusal.

"Unnecessary."

"But I must contribute!" Abe Masanari insisted, fingers tightening around his talisman. The awakening of his white fox blood had sculpted his features into striking beauty, though his passionate outbursts betrayed the excitable soul beneath the serene facade.

"When they learn of your return, their joy will surpass even mine!"

*

The day of Spiritual Network’s unveiling…

In a Zhejiang Province bedroom beneath sloping eaves, afternoon light gilded the disheveled figure hunched at a computer. Pajama-clad legs splayed carelessly – one foot propped on a stool, a plush heating pad draped across bony knees.

Keyboard clattered under flying fingers as onscreen carnage unfolded. Speakers blared triumphant cries: "Execute!"…"Another falls!"

"VICTORY" flashed across the monitor.

"Nothing beats smacking fools with Ice Heart," the victor crowed, abandoning her peripherals with a luxurious stretch. "All the healing in creation can’t save those reckless chicks and wolf-puppies!"

Ye Linlang blinked at the clock, her yawn contradicting the manic gleam in sleep-deprived eyes. "Dawn again, eh?"

"Shower. Snack. Then back to war." She rose like a marionette with cut strings, swaggering bathroomward with a stride so audacious it could provoke a street brawl.

The woman who emerged bore no resemblance to the greasy creature that entered – fresh-faced and vibrant as spring shoots after rain.

【Master. Underworld affairs require attention.】

The system’s chime coincided perfectly with refrigerator doors swinging open. Ye Linlang’s temple pulsed as milk carton met countertop. "I’m on vacation! Barely a third through!"

The immortal’s creed glowed in her bloodshot eyes: Cultivation conquers mortal needs. Who needs sleep when virtual battlefields await?

【Your own words: Work supersedes all. Precision ensures triumph.】

Milk straw stabbed through foil with unnecessary force. "Curse past me’s efficiency," she muttered, scrubbing her face. The perpetual curse of leadership – even self-decreed holidays crumbled beneath duty’s weight.

"Deploy clone. Initiate teleportation."

Her physical form dissolved. In its place, a perfect replica ambled bedward with dairy prize, curtains drawn against the dawn. The real Ye Linlang knew her phantom self’s path too well – it would collapse into instant slumber rather than answer gaming’s siren call.

The underworld stretched in stratified layers. Beneath Fengdu Ghost City’s shadowed spires lay the punitive realms. Common spirits knew nothing of the Eighteen Floors of Hell’s torments… save those wicked souls being processed through its merciless gears.

Well, they probably wouldn’t want to know anyway.

Fengdu Ghost City, Yellow Springs Road, Yama Palace, Wangchuan River, and the Bridge of Helplessness all existed on the same plane. Beyond them lay the gates of the dead, separating the netherworld from the inner realms.

Since the Awakening of Spiritual Energy, every human soul that perished within Zhongxia’s borders had been drawn into the underworld.

Ye Linlang decided to survey the netherworld while she was here.

Thankfully, when establishing the foundational rules, she’d ensured souls could never collide regardless of their movements. With nearly ten thousand spirits now drifting through the realm, such foresight proved wise—otherwise, chaotic encounters would’ve been inevitable.

The sheer quantity made her shiver. Heavens, she even spotted ghostly visages of foreign descent among the crowds.

Zhongxia’s average daily death toll hovered around twenty thousand.

Given the day remained unfinished and the life-extending effects of Spiritual Energy’s resurgence, many who might’ve otherwise perished still clung to fleeting breaths.

Otherwise, the spectral multitude before her would’ve been far greater.

She thanked her past self for constructing the Ghost City with expansive foresight. When crafting the alternate space, Ye Linlang had mirrored Zhongxia’s entire territorial expanse.

Every soul departing within these lands—Eastern or Western—fell under the jurisdiction of Zhongxia’s ghost messengers.

The underworld claimed them first; other considerations could wait.

Should the soul population exceed thresholds, Fengdu Ghost City would expand endlessly outward. Each enlargement meant stabilizing more alternate space—a process draining Fantasy Points directly from Ye Linlang’s reserves.

The mere thought stabbed at her heart. Were it not for the windfall from Spiritual Energy’s Awakening and the delayed need to elevate the world’s tier, her resources would’ve crumbled beneath the strain.

The laws governing death and reincarnation belonged to high-tier systems. Technically, her underworld remained but a hollow framework. Yet through collusion with the world consciousness and torrents of Fantasy Points, she’d imposed her will upon Blue Star’s very fabric—editing reality itself.

With Spiritual Energy’s resurgence, all mortal lives became subject to the Six Realms of Rebirth. Each birth and death now etched itself into the Book of Life and Death.

Though the Book recorded fixed lifespans, exceptions abounded.

Consider one destined for eighty years: should they begin cultivation at twenty, their lifespan might gain indeterminate extensions, marked as 80 (???). Conversely, if struck down by a truck during heroic deeds at that age, their allotted years would plummet to zero.

The Book held no binding power until life’s final moment. Until then, it merely informed underworld officials as a reference guide.

Ye Linlang had never intended this ledger to dictate immutable fates. While the world consciousness might crave such control, true authority rested with her alone.

To her satisfaction, the cosmic entity showed proper deference to her decisions here.

Her gaze swept across Fengdu’s desolate streets where phantoms drifted like autumn leaves. Souls here could dwell in afterlife’s shadow, inhabiting a realm echoing antiquity’s rhythms.

Yama Palace stood equally vacant—no trials meant no need for its judge or bailiffs.

Every soul completing Yellow Springs Road’s journey would be detained here for sentencing… when such processes eventually existed.

“Where are Yama and the judges?” She frowned, recalling she’d only manifested three high-ranking deities alongside roving Yin Chai and ghost messengers to maintain basic operations.

Though modeled after myths describing ten infernal courts, only the first hall currently functioned. Most underworld features diverged sharply from legends anyway.

After all, the original Yama concept hailed from India before evolving into one of Hua Xia’s Ten Kings of Hell. As for the Eighteen Floors of Hell? Their convoluted torments had given her migraines during research.

Discovering archaic edicts condemning women for abortions had been the final straw. She’d scorched entire sections of tradition, purging what she deemed toxic nonsense.

…

Beyond Fengdu’s borders loomed mountains swallowed by black mist—colossal peaks anchoring endless ranges. Carved into their slopes sprawled a necropolis of black jade, its spires vanishing into roiling vapors.

Any ghost who gazes upon that mountain is struck by an overwhelming pressure, trembling uncontrollably and unable to bear its direct sight. While higher deities withstand this better, wandering Yin Chai and ghost messengers know precisely who dwells atop those peaks. They’d never dare imitate the audacious mortal spirits attempting to survey the mountain’s full majesty.

"Yama, Judges of the Nether Court – present yourselves before this Empress immediately," commanded Ye Linlang, striding toward the looming silhouette of Ghostly Mountain.

Within Ghost City’s bustling streets, a roadside teahouse glowed like a beacon against the desolate surroundings. Every table and chair overflowed with spectral patrons, giving the impression the entire city’s population had converged here. A toddler no older than three, clad in Little San’s coarse attire, wobbled between tables with an oversized teapot, serving newcomers with earnest clumsiness.

When the vessel emptied, the child turned with honeyed sweetness. "Papa, we’re out of water."

"For the thousandth time – I’m not your father!" snapped the youth behind the counter, his early-twenties face contorting in exasperation. The child’s quivering lip and glassy eyes provoked immediate outcry from onlookers.

"Zhan Yuan! Must you shout? You’ve frightened Little Yi!" A muscular female ghost in ripped denim shorts slammed her palm on the counter, the monstrous beast tattooed across her shoulders rippling with her anger.

In the teahouse’s shadowed corner, two figures in archaic official robes absorbed the lively chatter. "The mortal realm sounds far more intriguing than our fragmented memories," one murmured, eyes gleaming with yearning. Their conversation ceased abruptly as both deities stiffened, vanishing between heartbeats.

None among the chattering ghosts noticed the disappearance of their clandestine listeners – nor that their gossip had reached divine ears. The underworld’s hierarchy stood clear: from Yama Palace’s imposing Judges to Meng Po dispensing oblivion at the Bridge of Helplessness, every soul encountered these eternal functionaries.

As the ancient verse recounts:

*In Meng Po Village beneath judgment’s skies,*

*A beauty brews tea where memory dies.*

*One sip erases life’s joys and cries,*

*As phantom mists obscure departed eyes.*

The vanished deities materialized at Ghostly Mountain’s base. All underworld denizens recognized this sacred ascent – none may fly to the Empress’ abode, not even Yama himself. Their swift climb brought them soon to the summit’s obsidian gates.

"Why has the Empress summoned us?" Yama adjusted his ceremonial garb, the weight of millennia in his voice.

"Patience," counseled the Judge, his brush eternally poised above the Book of Souls. "We serve at her pleasure."

Born from ten thousand years’ condensed ghostly energy, shaped by the Empress’ will during the underworld’s reforging, these twin pillars of eternity stood vigil. Their purpose burned brighter than any mortal memory: maintain the balance, enforce the cycle.

The towering doors groaned open. Within the vaulted chamber, upon a throne carved from primordial darkness, sat the architect of their existence. Her dark robe shimmered with the Nine Mysterious Phoenix’s spectral embroidery – one could swear the mythic bird’s eyes tracked their approach.

"Empress." Twin bows arched precisely at ninety degrees, silk robes whispering against cold stone.

Few women had ever claimed the celestial title "Emperor". Yet here she reigned – sovereign of reincarnation’s wheel, weaver of underworld law, living testament to dominion beyond gender. Where ancient dynasties crumbled, her eternal court endured.

A woman as the Ghostly Emperor—truly, how many in this world could bear the weight of that title "Underworld Empress"?

"The Awakening of Spiritual Energy across the mortal realm heralds the dawn of a grand epoch. The recent surges of ghostly energy in the underworld were but echoes of this upheaval," declared the Empress, her voice frosty and imperious as it resonated through the cavernous hall.

Yama and the Judge listened with bowed heads, finally understanding why they had been tasked with suppressing the restless underworld energies—it was all connected to the mortal realm’s spiritual revival.

So this explained why the other shore flowers along Yellow Springs Road bloomed more vibrantly than ever, and why the once-placid Wangchuan River churned ceaselessly.

"Take the Book of Life and Death and the Reincarnation Pen. I sense an evil ghost has manifested in the mortal realm, exploiting dark arts to consume a thousand souls."

The underworld officials exchanged startled glances. As guardians of departed spirits, any soul-devourer—regardless of motive—became their sworn enemy by default.

"Dispatch envoys with the Book to restore those souls to their bodies. The artifacts’ usage will reveal itself once in your possession," the Empress added with regal nonchalance, reclining slightly on her throne.

Catching the artifacts that materialized before them, Yama and the Judge harbored no doubts about their sovereign’s absence from this mission. Not only was the matter beneath her station, but they understood their Underworld Empress remained self-confined within Ghostly Mountain—her overwhelming power too destabilizing for either realm to endure. Her restraint wasn’t weakness, but mercy toward fragile worlds.

"Have you sensed the lingering spirits in the netherworld?" Ye Linlang inquired, secretly pitying the overworked deities facing imminent overtime.

"We have," Yama confirmed.

"Should the fledgling underworld falter, you may seek audience at Ghostly Mountain." Despite herself, the Empress softened—these were her creations, after all.

"This duty is ours to fulfill," Yama asserted. "We pledge our utmost efforts, Your Majesty."

Neither wished to burden their sovereign further, knowing the immense energy she’d already expended rebuilding the underworld. Such minor affairs were unworthy of her attention.

Good children, Ye Linlang mused, inclining her head in approval.

"Dismissed."

As the hall doors sealed behind the departing figures, the Empress allowed her posture to slacken—a rare indulgence when unobserved.

She pondered her available personas: most were either too potent for current affairs or limited to brief phantom manifestations. Xiao Tianji remained the sole viable option, though better kept in reserve for now.

"System," she commanded, "compile global events from my three-day repose."

【Processing.】

Information cascaded at Tier-One-perceptible speeds—a realm where pistol bullets became dodgeable projectiles at certain ranges, though point-blank shots remained problematic.

"Karmic retribution," Ye Linlang remarked dryly, watching Chua-T’s televised tantrum. "The United States harvests what it sowed."

Her attention shifted to Bear country’s progress: "Phase One proceeds adequately… yet we’d best initiate Phase Two before they consider deploying nuclear weapons in the anomalous zone."

The mere thought made her lip twitch. Given their vast territories and the anomaly’s rural location, Bear country’s penchant for explosive solutions might literally backfire.

She could have implemented Absolute Suppression of Technology during the Awakening, rendering all advanced weaponry inert. But humanity’s technological achievements deserved preservation—dangerous yet invaluable.

Her solution? A delicate balance. Gentle manipulations to prevent nuclear-armed nations from catastrophic overreactions, while allowing Blue Star’s civilizations to evolve through both ancient and modern wisdoms.

"Fusang appears to be progressing smoothly. The Onmyoji and Shinto Awakening are proceeding well. We may advance to the next phase."

"France seems nearing nationwide devotion to Yahweh."

"England’s wizarding system flourishes admirably… The next phase can be initiated through Waylin."

"Vatican City persists in prayers to Yahweh? Let them continue a few more days. Miracles shall descend shortly."

"Zhongxia remains remarkably compliant. Maintaining peaceful conditions for development is commendable – they deserve recognition."

"Has Leng Xingwen emerged? This heralds fresh challenges. I anticipate Zhongxia’s leadership will face difficult choices."

"Other European arrangements…" Ye Linlang scanned her plans, noting most nations’ spiritual trajectories ultimately converged upon Yahweh.

"India – system malfunction? What transpires with the distributed providence packages? Why do so few claim them? Are mortals rejecting divine deliveries?"

Only a third of intended packages had reached recipients, mostly dispatched prior to the Spiritual Energy Awakening.

【No additional suitable recipients found.】

Ye Linlang’s mouth tightened. Selection criteria required ordinary virtue coupled with determination to reshape national destiny. How could a billion souls yield fewer than a dozen candidates?

Given India’s caste system undermining her egalitarian principles, she’d expanded eligibility across all societal strata. Even an octogenarian grandmother embracing such ideals would instantly acquire Schwarzenegger’s physique through received providence.

【……】

The system maintained eloquent silence.

"…Very well. I’ll conduct an inspection personally." Her sigh carried millennia’s weariness. During pre-Awakening infrastructure checks, she’d briefly visited India without thorough survey.

"Egypt – inheritor of luminous antiquity. Surely you won’t disappoint." Her eyes flickered to providence acceptance rates. "Packages opened, yet recipients… Two deceased souls atoning in hell? Others wallow in destitution despite awakened powers?"

Molars ground softly. She’d deferred reviewing these regions precisely to avoid such vexations.

A measured breath stabilized her divine composure. Vast nations inevitably bred fools corrupted by sudden power. Worthy souls existed, though perhaps requiring… personal guidance.

She catalogued Egypt beside India for sequential visitation.

Blind trust in the system’s selection proved unwise – its algorithms lacked nuance. Unlike Zhongxia’s disciplined society, these lands combined noble hearts with crushing poverty and strife.

Some recipients transformed beyond recognition when empowered; others clutched divine gifts with clueless desperation.

Africa’s file revealed familiar deprivation – environmental survivability masking India-level hardships, punctuated by warlord skirmishes.

As supreme deity, she’d distributed equal providence parcels across the continent. Comfort warmed her spirit seeing full acceptance rates – proof Africa met her benchmarks.

Opening a recipient’s footage unleashed chaos: rat-a-tat gunfire, booming explosions, anguished wails. Three subsequent videos mirrored this bedlam; seven showed localized tyranny. Only eight recipients utilized powers benevolently.

"At least virtue outweighs corruption," she murmured. Malevolent ones? Let hell’s furnaces refine them. Though tempted to revoke gifts, her creed forbade meddling with spinning fate-threads.

The divine ledger balanced acceptably… for now.

Africa is home to two distinct groups of humans: the Eastern natives crawling toward modern socialism under foreign aid of currency, technology, and arms, and the authentic Western primitives who’ve dwelled in jungles for generations.

Evolutionarily comparable to their external counterparts, these jungle inhabitants retain unharmonious practices like primal worship and consuming raw flesh. Ye Linlang showed no partiality – while delivering parcels to outer communities, she also dispatched evolutionary packages to jungle tribes. Not for the natives themselves, but for the totems they worshipped day and night.

Indeed, totems.

To every distinct tribe within the verdant maze, she sent customized evolution parcels addressed to their sacred icons. Her hope? That these primal societies might embrace modern civilization through their totems’ guidance, though the final choice remained theirs.

Observing the totems’ progress, Ye Linlang noted their prior emptiness beyond the spiritual essence she’d imbued. Now with the Spiritual Energy Awakening, these icons would initiate Tier One evolution within three months. What consequences might follow?

Dismissing the vision with a wave, her thoughts turned to Australia. The monolithic continent received numerous parcels, though she’d abstained from god-forging there. This land of former tribal alliances still bore no trace of ancient civilizations comparable to the United States’ historical voids.

Returning from Ghostly Mountain, Ye Linlang contemplated travel logistics. Updating her blog revealed explosive metrics during her gaming hiatus.

"What’s happening?" she murmured, confronting tripled statistics and editorial demands. Comments revealed Weibo’s trending list had brought crowds seeking prophecies about the Spiritual Energy Awakening, with others begging for expanded lore.

"System, any connection to our plans?"

【0.01% similarity. Coincidental alignment with current events, amplified by internet users’ overinterpretation.】

"Good." She shrugged. Mere suspicion meant nothing – without accessing her plans, none could connect this "ordinary person" to global transformations.

Provisions dwindling before her overseas trip, she planned supermarket replenishment, treating the journey like casual sightseeing.

In the underworld’s shadows beyond Ghostly Mountain, the high-ranking judge and Yan Luo exchanged glances.

"I’ll alert Meng Po," declared the underworld sovereign.

"The mortal realm requires my personal attention," the judge countered, clutching the Book of Life and Death too vital for low-tier Yin Chai.

Yan Luo frowned. "Your cultivation…"

"Disguised as wandering Yin Chai, none shall pierce my guise." The judge’s confidence mirrored his status. "Even discovered, what could newborn mortals threaten?"

"Expedite your return. Though acting on the Emperor’s orders, we shouldn’t linger."

Nodding, the judge approached the sole passage between realms – the gates of the dead, forbidden route even for deities. Yan Luo turned toward Wangchuan River’s murmuring currents.

Meng Po was a stalk of Life and Death grass enlightened by the Emperor on the banks of Wangchuan River. This plant grew neither in the mortal realm nor the heavens—the sole survivor from before the dissipation of Spiritual Energy had become Meng Po herself. When the underworld was reconstructed, another Life and Death grass emerged at Wangchuan River through cosmic decree, enduring the river’s corrosive currents like its predecessor.

After fashioning Yan Luo and the Judge, the Emperor dispatched them to these shores. As they approached, a jade-hued stalk of Life and Death grass shimmered before transforming into a maiden of sixteen summers. Clad in amber silk, she stood with lotus-petal arms and rose-tinted lips untouched by rouge—a vision of unearthly beauty rarely seen among mortals.

"Greetings, Lord Yan Luo and Judge," the girl curtsied, crescent eyes sparkling like moonlit waves. "I am Meng Po."

This ethereal creature resembled no elderly matron. The two officials exchanged bemused glances before Yan Luo blurted, "Why call yourself ‘Grandmother Meng’?"

"The Emperor’s decree," she replied, reverence coloring her voice. "As Wangchuan’s Life and Death grass, I’m destined to be the underworld’s new Meng Po."

Yan Luo scratched his chin. The Emperor’s pronouncement clearly designated her role, not her name—much like how they’d been dubbed "Yan Luo" and "Judge" through similar celestial shorthand. The Judge, sensing his companion’s discomfort, intervened gently: "His Majesty’s choice honors tradition, yet ill suits your youth. Might we offer a personal name?"

The newly manifested spirit tilted her head. Though innocent as dawn dew, she recognized their goodwill. "A name?"

"Consider us brothers," the Judge proposed. "In this realm, only we three govern the departed."

Yan Luo brightened, clapping the Judge’s shoulder. "What shall we call our sister?"

"How about ‘Xuan’? Your grass form reminded me of memory-preserving xuan herbs." The Judge smiled. "If it pleases you."

Meng Po’s laughter tinkled like windchimes. "Meng Xuan thanks her brothers!"

……

"Where’s Second Brother?" Meng Xuan called from her tea stall, spotting Yan Luo near the Bridge of Helplessness. Behind her, the elegantly carved Meng Po Village gate stood sentinel.

"Attending the Emperor’s summons." Yan Luo patted her head. "Ten thousand new souls approach, A Xuan. Your brew will be in high demand."

She gazed at her cauldron where Wangchuan’s waters swirled with Life and Death leaves, transmuting into Meng Po Soup. Rows of empty bowls awaited souls seeking oblivion before crossing to the Six Realms of Rebirth.

"I’ll manage," she promised.

Yan Luo’s chuckle echoed as he departed. "We’re always near."

Alone, Meng Xuan stirred the primordial broth. Each sip would erase mortal memories, preparing spirits for their cyclical journey through ghost-messenger guarded realms. Beyond the bridge, newborn wails would someday announce completed transitions—the endless dance between Wangchuan’s mists and the mortal realm’s fragile light.