Chapter 1: The First Knife

"Three thousand six hundred cuts! Even when I reached the last few, that woman could still move."

"I was holding the knife then—me, the best executioner in the capital. The Lingchi punishment allows no errors. Those final cuts are the most dangerous; one mistake and the prisoner dies too soon. It was only because I pitied her that the wretch suddenly turned and bit my finger."

"Oh, it hurt like hell—but the officials were watching, so I couldn’t cry out. I had to wrench my finger free with all my strength. Blood everywhere! Those death-row scum are filthy. Maybe I caught something from her that day, who knows…"

Outside the inn, ghost fires flickered faintly. A little ghost carrying a lantern grinned obsequiously, ushering passing spirits inside.

The lobby was packed with specters, all listening intently to the new ghost executioner recounting tales from his days among the living.

"So what happened then?" one asked eagerly. "What became of the prisoner? If she’d died biting you, would you have been punished, sir?"

"That woman—" Qin Mu spat on the ground. "When she lifted her body, the thin skin over her organs split open. Her stomach, intestines, liver—everything—spilled out, hot and slick, covering my feet. Never in my life had I seen anything so revolting. Luckily, there were only a few cuts left. I slashed straight through her heart to finish the three thousand and some strokes."

"It was bad luck, that mishap. No time to clean up either. I just stepped over her heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and intestines, knelt, and reported to my superiors. Fortunately, they were satisfied and didn’t punish me."

His lurid storytelling made the lesser ghosts squirm. A few turned away, dry-heaving though nothing came out—they were, after all, already dead.

"What’s this? Can’t stomach a bit of blood and guts?" Qin Mu sneered. Even in death, he carried the same arrogance that had once chilled the living. His fierce aura was enough to cow the weaker souls.

"You there!" he barked, yanking a pale, trembling ghost child closer. "Listen well! I’ll tell you how the wild dogs in the city tore that woman’s flesh apart, piece by piece!"

The young ghost quaked so violently that his spirit form nearly scattered.

Just then, something small and silver flicked through the air from a dark corner of the inn. It landed on the table before Qin Mu with a light clink, rolling a few times before coming to rest—a silver coin made of paper.

"Go on," said a soft, honeyed voice. "Tell me again—for ten taels of ghost money. I’d love to hear it."

A pair of bloodless fingers rested against a pale cheek. The faint glow of ghost fire illuminated her face.

Xie Xuan’s features were delicate and hauntingly beautiful, though not in any mortal sense. A ghostly pallor clung to her like mist, and her dark pupils shimmered faintly, unfocused yet piercing.

She wore a plain silk palace gown, her hair adorned with a few datura blossoms. That gentle smile—so kind, so human—was betrayed by the emptiness in her eyes.

Those who recognized her instantly fell to their knees. Everyone in the underworld knew Miss Xie’s name—and her connection to the Ghost King of Fengdu.

Qin Mu’s eyes widened, his legs trembling beneath him. That face—he had seen it drenched in blood. He had carved it apart with his own knife, slicing flesh as thin as a cicada’s wing. He remembered the cut tongue, the broken teeth, the mouth left only with gums, gasping in agony as the throat gurgled out a voiceless curse.

"Go on," Xie Xuan whispered, her tone soft as drifting silk. "Tell me—how my flesh was eaten away, piece by piece, by the wild dogs of the capital."

Heavy snow blanketed Fengdu. Countless lives had perished in the mortal realm, and the offerings of the living—burned paper, clothes, and incense—drifted down as ashes into the underworld.

The Naihe Bridge was crowded with wandering spirits, snowflakes clinging to their shoulders. Only one figure stood apart—her shoulders bare, her eyes hollow, her expression vacant as she was pushed along with the tide of souls.

Pain and despair from her death still clung to her, refusing to fade. Her pale lips quivered as her gaze lingered on the mist-shrouded bridge. Beneath the white fog that curled like breath upon water surged the crimson current of the Sanzu River. Beyond its end lay the Sea of Blood—where souls were crushed into oblivion.

The executioner’s blade had carried a foul, sunbaked stench. Xie Xuan knew that smell too well—it was her own blood, once spilled beneath the burning sun.

Death row reeked of rot—sticky, stale, and suffocating. Yet amid that filth, someone had once walked toward her slowly, dressed in a white gown trailing across the ground.

Through the rusted bars, a pair of eyes as bright as moonlight met hers—clear, innocent, almost divine.

"I don’t like her, System. Erase her… Does an underworld even exist here? What if she’s reborn?"

"It’s fine, Host. The moment you entered this world, her name vanished from the Book of Life and Death. Her soul will fall into the Sea of Blood—destroyed completely."

"Destroyed?" the woman murmured, smiling faintly. "You mean… truly dead?"

"Yes."

A soft laugh echoed through the void.

Xie Xuan’s fingers twitched, sending waves of pain through her body. Her hands were swollen, her ten fingers broken, hanging uselessly by her sides—remnants of her torture.

"Here," the woman had said, handing a food box to the jailer. "Give this to her for me. I don’t know what possessed the girl to try and kill me… Poor child. Still, such danger cannot be allowed to live. Let her eat before she goes to her death."

"Lady Xie, you are far too kind," the jailer had said obsequiously, bowing low. "This filthy death row is no place for a noble like you. The prisoner—hah, a lunatic! She dared to assassinate the future Crown Princess. She’ll be executed soon."

Moments later, with a dull thud, the food box was flung before Xie Xuan.

In the gloom, her trembling fingertips pried open the lid. A faint hiss followed—the flash of dark blue scales. A poisonous snake slithered free, tongue flicking, coiling up her wrist where purple bruises already bloomed.

A rustle—then a sharp crack. Xie Xuan’s eyes gleamed coldly through her matted hair. Like a starving beast, she caught the snake’s body at its seven-inch mark, clamping it tight.

Her teeth tore through scales. The chill of snake blood filled her mouth. She swallowed slowly, each bite raw and bitter. She was starving enough to devour even malice itself.

Back at the Naihe Bridge, a giant axe struck her calf, breaking her thoughts. Xie Xuan lifted her gaze to the bronze-armored general standing guard before Fengdu.

He towered three stories tall, his body shrouded in corroded green armor. Beneath the metal swirled black mist, glowing faintly with the light of a soul lamp—an aura that made lesser ghosts shrink away.

"Your name," he rumbled, "is not in the Book of Life and Death."

Xie Xuan stood on tiptoe and raised a jade pendant bound to her wrist by a red cord. On its surface, two crooked characters—Xie Xuan—had been carved by a clumsy hand.

She could not read them, nor could she speak the words. Her tongue no longer obeyed human speech, though she understood the general’s voice perfectly.

"No... no—"

With a single swing, the bronze-armored general struck her with his axe, sending her tumbling into the Sanzu River like a scrap of worthless spirit.

Xie Xuan didn’t scream. She only stared up, watching the blow slice through her soul before her body dissolved into dark mist.

Her next attack came from instinct. Her movements were raw, primal—without hesitation or mercy. She lunged upward, seizing the gaps in the general’s armor, and bit down at his metal joints. Her limbs were weak, her strength gone. All she had left was her bite.

"The little wild ghost has grown thorns," the general laughed, gripping her by the neck. She kicked and twisted in the air, pale and frail like a captured beast—beautiful and horrifying all at once.

Before she could strike again, he hurled her into the Forgetful River. Her soul pierced through the fog and plunged into the crimson pool below.

Agony—searing, bone-deep—wrapped her whole being, but she endured it. She always had. She clawed at the water, dragging herself toward the shore.

Through the mist, the general’s figure loomed. But when he looked closer, he saw something strange: the place she had bitten him glowed faintly blue. A tiny serpent spirit was crawling into his armor, racing toward the soul lamp inside.

Xie Xuan had never spoken—not only because she had no tongue, but because she carried the snake’s spirit within her. When she had devoured it in death row, its resentful soul had fused with hers, trapped within her mouth. Now freed, it lashed out, striking everything it could find.

Dragged by the current, Xie Xuan drifted to the end of the Wangchuan River. She saw the bronze general stumble, his soul lamp flickering wildly as the serpent spirit devoured it from within. His great body crashed to its knees.

Xie Xuan did not smile, but her eyes narrowed in fleeting satisfaction. Pleasure flickered briefly across her face before her lashes drooped, heavy and still. The Sea of Blood swallowed her whole.

Above Fengdu, the snow began to fade. Among the living, paper offerings were burned only in daylight, for fear of ghosts. By nightfall, the snowfall in the underworld had grown thin.

From the far end of the fog, a rider approached. The underworld beast beneath him lowered its dragon head, claws slicing through the snow. Upon its back sat a man clad in black armor and a fearsome ghost-faced mask.

He stood tall and unyielding, his silhouette sharp against the endless white. Snow dusted his broad shoulders and cloak, melting into droplets that traced down the dark armor beneath. At his waist hung a green bamboo sword—its simple, living hue jarring amidst the lifeless gloom of the underworld.

His gaze swept over the bronze-armored general, now kneeling, his once-bright soul lamp flickering weakly inside the hollow of his chest. Without a word, the young man descended, his boots barely disturbing the ash-like snow. With a swift, practiced motion, he drew the bamboo sword; its edge hummed softly, pure and clean. The blade cut through the corroded breastplate with ease, prying free the small blue serpent that clung stubbornly to the dying soul lamp.

He paused, turning slightly to look toward the riverbank. There, in the distance, the faint outline of a figure drifted downward — dissolving into the crimson depths of the Forgetful River. His brows knitted, and with one silent step, he dove straight into the sea of blood below.

“My Lord!” the bronze-armored general rasped, his voice hoarse and weak. “That ghost has no name! She cannot enter the cycle of reincarnation! It was she who struck me with this serpent—please, be cautious!”

The young man’s expression darkened beneath the ghost-head mask. Beneath the steel, his eyes burned faintly, not with fear, but fury — fury at what Fengdu had become.

“Have you forgotten why I came here?” he said quietly, his tone sharp as the edge of his sword. “It was I who saved you from the boundary of the ghost realm.”

With that, he skimmed across the surface of the blood sea, his steps so light not even a ripple followed him. Bending down, he caught Xie Xuan’s fading soul just before it vanished beneath the waves.

Her form was limp, her spirit frayed and weak, but the moment that warmth — faint, alive, divine — brushed against her, something primal awoke within her.

Her instincts screamed to fight, to survive. Even in her rescuer’s arms, she twisted violently, her pale lips pressing against his throat. Her teeth sank in — not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to leave two faint, chilling marks.

The young man winced, his jaw tightening. He turned his head slightly, trying to shake her off, but the “little serpent” clung fast.

“My Lord, that’s the one!” the bronze-armored general shouted, clutching his axe and stumbling forward.

But before he could swing, the young man lifted his hand. A glint of cold light flashed from his ghost-head mask, and the general froze mid-step, the weight of divine authority halting him in his tracks.

All of Fengdu knew of this noble little god — the one who walked the borders of the living and the dead, who sought to redeem even the most wretched souls cast into the abyss.

And now, in his arms, he held one such soul — the nameless, feral ghost that had defied death and fate alike.

Even covered in the chill of the underworld, the god’s voice was soft when he spoke, almost like a sigh against the howling wind.

“She may be wicked,” he murmured, tightening his grip just slightly, “but she, too, deserves salvation.”

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