Chapter Thirty-Six: The Ghost Judge

The cost was all too evident: Han Cheng often felt as though he were not himself, but rather one of those two monsters.

The creature whose body coiled nine times, whose back was thick and whose hands were caked in blood, was named Tu.

The one with a tiger’s head and a bull’s body, bearing three eyes, was called Bo.

They often roamed together through the Netherworld, guarding its depths, devouring the souls who had unwittingly escaped hell, as well as the spirits and monsters who fell into the Nine Shadows from the mountain streams of the Underworld.

Though these monsters had no intention of seizing Han Cheng’s soul, the cold aura of the Netherworld they carried and their chaotic memories tormented him greatly.

“Then let us be devoured; you owe us nothing, and besides, you neither practice Taoist arts nor recite Buddhist scriptures, neither a cultivator nor a monk—fate and causality are of no concern to you,” Xi Chunxue said slowly, watching Han Cheng whose face was often marked by pain.

Yet she knew it was already too late for words; the monsters had forged some kind of contract with Han Cheng, akin to a parasite and its host in the wild.

“I truly wish they would devour you all. You’ve never been that kind to me,” Han Cheng smiled with a hint of relief, lowering his head and opening his right eye to gaze at Xi Chunxue, who never strayed far from him, and at Duan Lingqi, who always kept his distance.

“But that damned, inexplicable compassion made me hesitate. Soon, the Judge of Ghosts will arrive; whether we escape depends entirely on what he says.”

Han Cheng shook his head with a bitter smile, raising a hand to stop Xi Chunxue from speaking further.

“I need a moment of quiet,” Han Cheng whispered, looking up at the pitch-black ceiling, his right eye slowly closing.

Xi Chunxue watched as Han Cheng’s expression gradually calmed; she could only judge his emotions by the twitching of his brow and the quiver of his lips.

“When the Judge comes, tap my brow three times,” Xi Chunxue said, turning to Duan Lingqi, who was fiddling with his scaled claws.

She didn’t wait for his assent. Crossing her legs, she sat upright, hands resting palms up upon her knees, eyes closed, silent. In an instant, her consciousness returned to the towering gate of the pavilion that soared into the clouds.

On the signboard, four imposing, ancient characters were inscribed.

The Mountain Granary Book Pavilion.

Xi Chunxue pushed open the vermillion doors and stepped inside. Now, she had to find records of those two monsters within the Mountain Granary Book Pavilion, seeking a way to rid Han Cheng of them.

“Wait for the Master’s return—can’t he solve this for us?” Duan Lingqi murmured, watching Xi Chunxue with closed eyes, then glancing at Han Cheng, who leaned against the wall with his eyes shut, seemingly unconcerned.

The Master had boasted of slaying Yama himself; surely dispelling two Netherworld monsters would be a trifling matter.

Duan Lingqi slowly made his way to the cell door. In the corridor, ghost soldiers in purple still patrolled, though their rounds only extended to the cell adjacent to theirs, never a step further.

Unfortunately, despite his hopeful watchfulness, Duan Lingqi did not see the one he longed for.

That was the Master.

He should have pledged his loyalty without wavering, maintained a sycophantic, respectful demeanor, instead of revealing his true nature the moment he learned the Master had lost his memory. Foolish.

Duan Lingqi cursed himself, touching the nearly vanished bump on his dragon-headed brow, then glanced at Han Cheng.

The tiger-headed, bull-bodied monster had absorbed his demon soul. Though the soul was not dispersed, he had lost three centuries of cultivation. If this continued, let alone transforming into a dragon and soaring high, even surviving his destined calamity seemed doubtful.

He needed to find some elixir of longevity or rare celestial herb to stave off disaster for a time.

A thousand years of cultivation in East Ruins Mountain, surviving countless trials and deaths, and by chance transforming from serpent to dragon. He had no desire to repeat the cycle of reincarnation.

Moreover, his irascible temper, the storms he conjured in Cloud Cavern Lake while fighting that little beast, causing floods and drowning thousands—those sins alone were enough to send him back to the animal realm.

If unlucky, he’d be cast into hell, suffering eternal torment, never to be reborn.

Had he successfully seized the dragon bones and transformed into the Dragon King of Cloud Cavern Lake, those damned sins would have fallen on the little beast. Alas, it ended in failure.

Instead, he was captured by demon hunters, imprisoned in the demon jail, then transported offshore to the Bichen Prison on Sangyu Island.

Imprisoned for three centuries.

Within the cell, the restrictive formations prevented him from absorbing spiritual energy or the essence of sun and moon, costing him another three centuries of lifespan.

Altogether, he’d lost over six centuries.

After becoming a dragon, he’d gained seven centuries of life, and a Taoist had bestowed upon him a true name—Duan Lingqi felt Heaven had shown him mercy, that his path would be fulfilled. Who could have foreseen such misfortune?

“Master, where have you gone? I miss you terribly now,” Duan Lingqi muttered, glancing down the corridor, sighing heavily.

Thud, thud, thud.

The footsteps echoed, each step striking the heart like a hammer, making it skip a beat. Duan Lingqi peeked out through the cell’s paper bars.

He saw the rakshasas and yasha demons rising from their seats at the outdoor round table beyond the corridor door. The ox-headed and horse-faced wardens bowed their heads, and the purple-clad ghost soldiers prostrated themselves on the ground.

A figure slowly entered Duan Lingqi’s view.

The man wore a red half-length robe with a round collar, a soft-winged gauze cap, crooked black shoes, and a belt of horn and jade at his waist. He was tall, his round eyes glaring, his face black as lacquer, with a full beard.

“Who dares make noise on Ghost Street, discussing the whereabouts of the Wild Ghosts who defy the Son of Heaven?!” The Judge of Ghosts, hands clasped behind his back, swept his cold gaze over the ox-headed and horse-faced wardens and the rakshasas and yasha demons, questioning in a harsh voice.

“At your command, sir, all are locked in their cells,” the wardens replied in unison.

“I hear these wild ghosts even summoned Netherworld monsters?” The Judge did not immediately enter the cellblock; his round eyes fixed on the wardens at the door.

“That is correct. The souls in the cell for benevolent ghosts were wholly devoured by Netherworld monsters, leaving only those three wild ghosts behind,” they answered together.

“And the Netherworld monsters?” asked the Judge.

“No longer seen,” came the reply.

“I suspected these three mysterious wild ghosts were odd. I’ve already requested a Book of Life and Death from Magistrate Cui of the Yama Hall’s Court of Shadow Laws, to trace their origins.

Rakshasas, yasha demons, ox-headed and horse-faced wardens—bring these three wild ghosts to the court. I will interrogate them thoroughly.”

The Judge glanced into the depths of the prison, showing no inclination to enter. He turned and departed from the ghost prison.