Chapter 6: The Road Between Light and Shadow

Very well.

Qin Ye wondered if he ought to take down the sign for “Affairs of the Afterlife” and put up a new one: “Sunset Ghosts Amusement Arcade.” Maybe he should even play “The Most Dazzling Ethnic Style” in the background. Perfect.

Wait a minute… since when did squatters become so skilled at taking over someone else’s nest? Did they know how much that coffin cost?

Qin Ye glared daggers—ice spears, frost arrows, fireballs—blasting out death stares with all his might. His grandmother paid him no mind. Instead, she turned to the cluster of old ladies and beamed, “How about my grandson?”

“Not bad. Nice and fair-skinned. Won’t need to buy skincare down there. Nine Dots.”

“Looks like a short-lived one. Should get to enjoy a few extra years of comfort below. Three Circles.”

“Kong! Fifty thousand… He’s got property, coffin, ghost money, paper servants and horses, all prepared. Ready to go enjoy the afterlife at any time?”

“Have you picked your method yet? Take a tip from someone experienced—drowning’s uncomfortable. Doesn’t leave a pretty corpse.”

“Wait! Cut it, one, four, seven, ten thousand… By the way, hanging’s not great either. Your tongue’ll stick out three feet, and rolling it back in is a hassle.”

“Might I suggest a car accident? Get the angle right, one and done. Keep your looks, no pain. A spiral to heaven, instant kaboom.”

What the hell!

Is there no justice left in this world?

Since when did “How about my grandson?” get answered like this? Shouldn’t it be “He’s very good, so obedient,” or “What grade is he in?” “Can he read yet?” Why had the conversation turned so bizarre? Wasn’t their way of thinking a bit too avant-garde?

Wait… who the hell was their grandson anyway? Stop randomly assigning relatives!

Qin Ye nearly choked on his own rage, his face black as the bottom of a pot. His grandmother leisurely took a drag from her cigarette and said lightly, “Look closely.”

The “Sunset Gang” all turned to scrutinize him. As they did, the smiles vanished from their faces. Even the mahjong tiles were set aside. The four old women exchanged glances. After a few seconds, one ventured to ask, “Is this… a Taisui?”

The clatter of mahjong resumed as the four pairs of hands returned to their tiles. His grandmother smiled. “He insists he isn’t in front of me… So let’s just say he’s not. Hey, someone go fetch some rootless water. The water of the living is a bit too spicy for my taste.”

Ah… so he had already gone from being “my grandson” to “that one…”

Rootless water was simply rainwater—not touching the sky above nor the earth below, neither yin nor yang. It was the only thing his grandmother had used all week.

Qin Ye fetched four cups, thumping them down on the coffin lid, then turned on his heel to leave.

Don’t mess with me. I’m in no mood.

That game of mahjong stretched on until midnight. When the clock struck twelve, his grandmother slowly rose, sighing, “Let’s break up… This will probably be our last game together.”

With her movement, the other three grandmothers rose as one, bowed slightly to her, and then dissipated into four wisps of green smoke beside the coffin.

“What was that?” Qin Ye asked, curiosity piqued.

His grandmother didn’t reply at once. She struggled to lift an ancient, dust-covered oil lamp from the coffin, knocking her waist as she did. “Five Ghosts Fortune.”

“…You played mahjong with Five Ghosts Fortune?”

“You know nothing! I made 1.2 billion today—why shouldn’t that be Five Ghosts Fortune?”

She had a point… Qin Ye was lost for words.

“Do you know what today is?” She sat upright on the bed, her smile gone, eyes fixed intently on him. Before he could answer, she continued in a low voice, “The Ghost Festival’s last night. The gates of the underworld are closing.”

“When a person’s allotted lifespan is up, that’s the first time they enter the gates. But… there are too many souls, and too few underworld officials. Some souls don’t realize in time and drift outside. After drifting too long, all that’s left is a mindless yearning for the underworld; they lose all consciousness. These are called wandering souls. The three great ghost festivals are when they’re collected.”

“Do you understand?”

When she got serious, Qin Ye felt as if he stood at the center of a swirling torrent. He’d seen enough to recognize it—this was aura, the bearing of someone supremely confident, expressed in every word and gesture, overwhelming all others.

Hard to imagine: such a frail old woman could radiate such chilling force.

Qin Ye’s smile faded instinctively. After a moment’s thought, he said, “You mean… whoever carries ‘it’ will die within seven days?”

She nodded. Qin Ye frowned, then went on, “I can’t find him, but tonight, this person must go to the gate of the underworld?”

She gave a grunt of affirmation. Qin Ye, watching her face, ventured further, “So… you want to tell me because…”

A sly smile appeared on her face. Before he could finish, she seized his hand and yanked. He didn’t even have time to cry out before darkness swallowed him.

When his vision cleared, he gasped.

A world of black, white, and blue!

Everywhere he looked, everything was rendered in two colors—black and white. The room, the bed, all shrouded in wisps of blue mist. He saw his own body, eyes closed, his grandmother holding his hand, both seated motionless in their chairs like two stone statues.

“This is… my soul?” Staring at his hands in astonishment, Qin Ye’s regard for his grandmother’s powers climbed yet again.

He’d seen plenty of summoning rituals by monks and priests, but never anyone who could yank a soul out with a mere tug! Compared to her, their methods were a joke.

“First: don’t look back.” His grandmother hunched over and lit the ancient lamp.

This was no ordinary lamp—an ancient, square, bronze lantern, about the size of a palm. On its lid were painted two carp, one black, one white.

“Thresh?” he asked.

“Shut up. Second: don’t speak.” She began to move, and with her first step, the black-white-blue world trembled. Qin Ye felt the temperature plummet and the mist thicken.

From all directions, the blue fog seemed to come alive. Within seconds, they were surrounded—sky of cloud, sea of mist. The lamp was the only source of light.

In the rolling fog, countless mournful cries seemed to echo.

“Hold this in your mouth. And grab my clothes.” She pressed something into his hand—a willow leaf.

The moment he placed it in his mouth, warmth spread across his tongue. He clutched his grandmother’s sleeve, and they finally started walking.

“This path isn’t for the living.” He had a thousand questions, but kept silent. It was twenty minutes before his grandmother’s rough voice emerged from ahead, “You living call it the Road to the Yellow Springs. In reality, it has three parts: the Ferry of Oblivion, Meng Po’s Reincarnation Pavilion, and only then the City of Fengdu. We’re only on the first stretch.”

She gestured around them. “This blue mist is the yin energy of ghosts. It should be pure black, but the living world’s yang energy is too strong. When they clash, it turns blue.”

“If any living being speaks here, their yang energy will gush out like a lighthouse in a tsunami. Countless ghosts will remember their former lives—all their attachments and regrets. These spirits, who haven’t drunk Meng Po’s soup, will tear the person to pieces. So do not speak.”

Qin Ye blinked, suddenly struck by a thought—was all this yin energy caused by the gates of the underworld?

According to his grandmother, tonight the gates were open and countless wandering souls were entering. But… this was like an ocean—how many ghosts had to gather to create such terrifying yin energy?

Were the underworld’s workers slacking off?

Just then, a faint sigh drifted from ahead: “The reason you mustn’t look back is that there are creatures here called Echo Bugs. If you speak, they’ll answer. These bugs have human faces and insect bodies, formed from countless obsessions. If one catches you, you’ll end up talking with it for hundreds or thousands of years on this road—never to reincarnate.”

Qin Ye tugged his grandmother’s sleeve. She cackled, “Are you wondering why I can talk so much, but not a single Echo Bug bothers me?”

“That’s because… they don’t dare.”

“Scatter.” With that word, her tightly bound white hair suddenly burst loose and danced in the air without wind. The mist around them surged like stormy waves and rolled away in all directions.

At last, the scene before them cleared. Qin Ye took one look and inhaled sharply, a chill running down his spine.

The path beneath their feet wasn’t a road at all—it was a colossal, silver-white spine! At least a hundred meters wide, stretching away without end, smooth and even—a cervical vertebra, by the look of it.

And on either side, uncountable people—some in suits and ties, some in T-shirts and jeans, some in dresses—were traveling with them toward the distant end of the bone.

Vague and insubstantial, faces blank, yin energy curling off them in wisps. Even more frightening, each ghost retained the appearance they’d had at death.

Some had tongues dangling long and grotesque, eyes bulging. Some with twisted faces and broken limbs crawled along with half a body. Others had shattered skulls or gaping wounds in their chests and bellies—a living gallery of death.

A museum of the living dead.

These living corpses floated in midair, feet never touching the ground, moving along with them.

On the last night of the Ghost Festival, as the gates of the underworld closed, an endless, pitch-black night, a vast throng of spirits walked the road of yin and yang alongside the living.

Right beside them. Right behind them.

Yet, as Qin Ye couldn’t help but gasp, everyone around suddenly stopped.

Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of spectral figures froze. Then… their bodies stayed still, but their heads turned, machine-like, to stare at Qin Ye—half-faced, tongues lolling, even some with no heads at all—countless chilling gazes converging on him.

Greed, confusion… In that instant, a wave of icy dread washed over him. Just then, a bony hand patted his crown, and the cold vanished. The ghosts stared at him for thirty seconds, then turned away, continuing their aimless march.

Thump, thump… Qin Ye pressed a hand to his chest, heart pounding wildly. Having all those ghostly heads turn on him at once nearly made his hair stand on end.

“Look over there,” his grandmother croaked, pointing.

Qin Ye glanced over, then clapped a hand over his mouth, his pupils contracting.

In the distance, amid the swirling yin energy, were several towering shapes as large as hills. He couldn’t make out their forms—they looked like monstrous bedbugs magnified a hundredfold. In the darkness, two green flames burned in their eyes, flickering on and off. And on their bodies… hung people.

Living people, or rather, living souls.

Each one was shouting desperately, though the nearest was still over a dozen meters away.

Echo Bugs. Human cocoons!