[HOST INTEGRITY: 4%]
[LOCATION: SECTOR 9 - PLAZA OF LOST SOULS]
[TIME: 12:00 PM - DAY 3]
---
The propaganda machine was running hot.
Every holographic billboard in Sector 9 flashed the same image on endless repeat:
A skull.
A Grey Line stick shoved through its empty eye socket.
Blood-red letters scrolling underneath like a death sentence.
**[WARNING: PUBLIC HEALTH ALERT]**
**[AUTHORIZED BY SECTOR HEALTH MINISTRY]**
Drones buzzed overhead like mechanical wasps. Their cargo bays dumped flyers by the thousands.
The papers fell like toxic snow.
Landing in puddles. Sticking to rooftops. Plastering themselves across the faces of starving ghosts who didn't even bother to brush them away.
**"GREY LINE CAUSES SOUL-ROT"**
**"PERMANENT MEMORY LOSS"**
**"CLASS 4 SPIRITUAL TOXIN"**
**"PROTECT YOUR FUTURE. BUY BLUE-ROSE."**
The plaza reeked of fear-chemical.
Nether-Core had sprayed something in the air—synthetic panic pheromones that made your skin crawl and your breathing shallow.
A "Nether-Core Safety Clinic" tent squatted in the center of the square like a festering wound.
White canvas.
Red crosses.
Doctors in pristine coats shouting through crackling megaphones.
"Free screenings! Has the Grey smoke touched your soul? Come in before your memories dissolve! We have the antidote—Blue-Rose Extract, blessed by certified alchemists!"
One doctor waved a bottle of glowing blue liquid like a revival preacher.
"Don't let your children forget your face! Don't let your loved ones fade into nothing!"
It was a billion-coin campaign.
Blockbuster production values.
Psychological warfare specialists designing every frame.
It was meant to cause mass panic.
But It failed.
Spectacularly.
Two ghosts sat on a cracked curb.
Their legs faded into mist below the knees.
One picked up a soggy flyer from a puddle. Water had made the ink run, but the skull image was still clear enough.
"Soul-Rot," the ghost muttered.
He had a gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be. Looked like a cannonball wound. "Says here it eats your memories. Makes you forget who you were when you were alive."
The other ghost was smoking a stick of Grey Line.
He inhaled deeply.
His translucent eyes rolled back.
Smoke filled what remained of his lungs.
He held it.
Long moment.
Then exhaled a steady stream of grey vapor.
"My memories?" the smoker rasped. His voice sounded like grinding gravel.
"Yeah. Your childhood. Your mom's cooking. Your first kiss. All that shit."
The smoker looked at the flyer.
Then at the grey stick between his fingers.
His hand wasn't shaking anymore.
For the first time in weeks.
"My mom died when I was twelve. Plague took her," he said quietly. "My wife died in the border wars. I died in a factory accident five years ago."
He took another drag.
The hole in his chest—which had been flickering like a dying lightbulb—solidified.
Became almost real again.
"I haven't had a solid meal since I died. Haven't felt full in five fucking years."
He looked at the Soul-Rot flyer again.
"If this stick eats my memories..."
He shrugged.
"Good. I got too many bad ones anyway. The good ones are already gone."
He crumpled the wet flyer.
Held it to the tip of his Grey Line.
It caught fire instantly.
"At least now I'm not starving."
---
Across the plaza, the Safety Clinic tent was empty.
Just bored doctors checking their watches.
But the line for the Grey Line distribution truck?
Eight blocks long.
Ghosts pressed against each other, clutching copper coins, desperate.
Some were reading the Soul-Rot flyers while they waited.
They kept waiting anyway.
One ghost held the flyer in one hand and coins in the other, reading the warning while standing in line to buy the thing the warning was about.
He crumpled the flyer.
Stayed in line.
Fear doesn't work when you're already dead.
[LOCATION: NETHER-CORE HQ - 50TH FLOOR]
[TIME: 2:00 PM]
Branch Manager Zhou stared at the live surveillance feed.
His expensive suit was wrinkled.
Hair disheveled.
Hands shaking as he gripped his coffee mug hard enough to crack the ceramic.
"They're not stopping," Zhou whispered.
He spun around to face the PR Director, who was hunched over his laptop like he was trying to disappear into it.
"WHY AREN'T THEY STOPPING?!"
Zhou's voice cracked.
"We told them it's poison! We showed them the skull! We hired the best fear-consultants in three sectors!"
The PR Director looked up.
Pale. Sweaty.
"Sir... the data suggests..."
He swallowed hard.
"They don't care."
He turned his laptop to show Zhou a consumer sentiment analysis.
"The Soul-Rot rumors are actually helping sales. By seventeen percent in the last hour alone."
Zhou blinked rapidly.
"What? WHAT?!"
"The slums view Soul-Rot as—as proof of potency," the Director stammered. "They're saying: 'If it's strong enough to rot your soul, it's strong enough to keep you alive.' They think Blue-Rose is too weak because it's safe."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Zhou slammed his fist on the obsidian table.
CRACK.
Spider-web fractures raced across the surface.
"What about production?! The engineers! We recalled the entire Lu Clan crew three hours ago! That factory should be DEAD!"
The Operations Director cleared his throat.
He looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and never come out.
"Sir... their output has... increased."
Zhou's head turned slowly.
Like a rusty machine.
"Increased."
"Yes, sir. By two hundred percent. We've been monitoring their energy consumption and waste heat signatures—"
"SHOW ME."
The Operations Director fumbled with the remote.
His hands shook so bad it took three tries.
A grainy spy-photo appeared on the wall.
Last Stop factory floor.
No movement.
No living workers.
Just fifty grey shapes fused to the control stations.
Their spectral hands moving in perfect, inhuman synchronization.
"He didn't hire replacement engineers," the Director whispered.
"He automated. With ghosts. Dead workers who can't quit, can't strike, can't demand wages or breaks or safety equipment."
Zhou stared at the photograph.
He saw it.
The nightmare.
The perfect efficiency.
Nether-Core paid senior alchemists 500 silver coins per day. Plus benefits. Plus sick leave. Plus retirement contributions.
Ren Wu paid his workers in smoke.
Zero overhead.
Infinite labor pool.
No regulations.
"Get me the CFO," Zhou croaked. "Right now."
Silence.
"He... left, sir."
"Left? It's two in the afternoon!"
"He liquidated all his stock options an hour ago. Sold everything. He said he's relocating to Sector 4. Permanently. His secretary said he looked... terrified."
Zhou felt something cold crawl up his spine.
The rats were abandoning ship.
And he was still on board.
[LOCATION: LAST STOP FACTORY - REN'S OFFICE]
[TIME: 4:00 PM]
Ren Wu sat behind his metal desk.
The spiderweb crack on his phone screen made the numbers look fragmented.
But the bottom line was crystal clear.
[REVENUE (DAY 3): 450,000 COPPER COINS]
[CONVERTED: 4,500 SPIRIT SILVER BARS]
[OPERATING EXPENSES: 0]
[NET PROFIT: 4,500 SPIRIT SILVER]
He had cash.
Real, liquid capital.
The kind that talked in every language and opened every door.
Enough to buy a minor clan's loyalty outright. Or bribe a mid-tier Administration official for a decade. Or corner the food market in a small district.
But Ren wasn't shopping for luxuries.
He was shopping for control.
"Jian," Ren said without looking up.
Jian sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, counting stacks of silver bars with trembling fingers.
Not from fear.
From the sheer magnitude of wealth passing through his hands.
"Yeah, Boss?" His voice cracked.
"Open the market terminal. Pull up Nether-Core's Sector 9 Branch stock price."
Jian wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.
Typed.
His eyes widened.
"It's... holy shit. It's crashing. Down 47% today. The panic selling started when word got out about their inventory overflow."
"Good."
Ren tapped his ledger.
"Now look for debt instruments. Nether-Core operates on leverage—borrowed money. They took massive loans to fund this price war."
Jian's fingers hesitated.
"Boss... if we buy their debt..."
"Then we own their collateral," Ren finished. "Inventory. Warehouse space. Distribution networks. Everything they put up as loan security."
He stood up.
Walked to the window.
Outside, the grey city sprawled like a diseased organism.
"I don't just want to beat them, Jian."
His voice was cold. Flat.
"I want to foreclose on them."
Jian's laptop chimed.
"Iron Bank of Hell is auctioning distressed debt notes in... twenty-eight minutes. Minimum bid is 100 silver bars. There are... twelve notes available. Total exposure around 12,000 silver."
"Buy all of it."
"ALL of it? Boss, that's—"
"Everything. Every single note. I want complete creditor control."
Jian swallowed hard.
Started typing.
[TIME: 11:59 PM]
The transaction went through.
No fanfare.
No explosions.
Just a digital signature processed somewhere deep in Hell's banking district.
TRANSACTION COMPLETE]
[ASSET ACQUIRED: NETHER-CORE SECTOR 9 DEBT OBLIGATIONS (FULL SERIES)]
[FACE VALUE: 12,000 SPIRIT SILVER]
[PURCHASE PRICE: 4,150 SPIRIT SILVER]
[DISCOUNT RATE: 65% (DISTRESSED ASSET)]
[NEW STATUS: MAJORITY CREDITOR]
[NEW CREDITOR OF RECORD: THE MINISTRY Union]
Ren set his phone down.
Immediately, sharp pain lanced through his chest.
His nose began bleeding.
He wiped it with his sleeve.
Left a dark stain.
[HOST INTEGRITY: 4%]
The system was killing him.
Slowly.
Methodically.
Like a body rejecting a foreign organ.
The stress. The spiritual overload. The complete absence of a cultivation foundation to support this much karmic weight.
His body was failing.
But he had won the war.
Then—
The temperature plummeted.
Frost formed on the windows.
Fast.
The stacks of silver bars turned dull and lifeless, like the wealth had been sucked out of them.
The air thickened.
A red light pulsed from Ren's desk drawer.
He pulled it open.
The Red Scroll.
The summons from Judge Mortis.
It was glowing like a hot coal.
Vibrating.
[SYSTEM ALERT - PRIORITY OVERRIDE]
[COUNTDOWN SEQUENCE: COMPLETE]
[TRIBUNAL STATUS: INITIATED]
[LOCATION: HIGH COURT OF ADMINISTRATION]
The scroll unrolled itself.
Words appeared in burning script that seared themselves into Ren's vision:
"Ren Wu. Entity #404-Unauthorized. Your preparation period has expired. The High Court is now in session. You will present yourself before Judge Mortis immediately. Failure to appear will result in immediate Soul Dissolution. Final summons. No further notice will be issued. —High Administrative Tribunal, Enforcement Division"
Ren stood up slowly.
His joints creaked like old machinery.
He grabbed his umbrella from beside the desk.
Looked at Ye Lingshan.
She was sleeping in a chair by the door, but her hand never left her sword hilt. Her breathing was steady, but her fingers twitched—muscle memory from years of combat.
"Wake up, Miss Ye," Ren said softly.
Her eyes snapped open instantly.
Hand tightened on the sword.
"Attack? How many?"
Fully alert. Ready for violence.
"No attack," Ren said.
He walked to the cracked mirror on the wall. Adjusted his tie.
His reflection looked like a well-dressed corpse.
"We're going to court."
Lingshan stood. Her armor creaked.
"Court? Now? It's past midnight."
"Hell's courts never sleep," Ren said.
He picked up his ledger. Tucked it under his arm.
"And neither do the judges who want to destroy me."
He walked toward the door.
Paused.
"Miss Ye?"
"Yes?"
"Bring your sword."
She looked at him. Saw the black blood on his sleeve. The grey tint spreading from his fingertips.
"You're dying."
"I know."
"Then why go? Why fight a legal battle you might not survive?"
Ren looked at the grey city through the window.
At the thousands of ghosts living on his product. Working in his factory. Depending on his infrastructure.
"Because if I don't fight," he said quietly, "they'll tear down everything I built. And everyone depending on it will starve."
He opened the door.
"Let's go. Judge Mortis is waiting."
---
**Author's Note:**
The street war is over.
The money is made.
Now comes the real fight.
Ren Wu, dying and desperate, will face the legal machine he once controlled.
Former Hell Auditor vs. Hell Judge.
The climax of Volume 1 begins.
Will Ren's knowledge of Hell's bureaucracy save him, or will the system he once served crush him completely?
Find out in Chapter 50.