The emergency ward was a theater of the damned. The "clear!" of the defibrillator had become a rhythmic, hopeless thud, a mechanical heartbeat for a man who was already gone.
But in the spiritual realm, the colors of the hospital faded into a monochrome grey. Time slowed to a crawl. A chilling mist began to seep from the floor tiles, and from its center, a figure draped in tattered, ink-black robes emerged. He carried a scythe that looked less like metal and more like frozen moonlight.
This was the Soul-Reaper of the Seventh District, a low-level functionary of the Underworld, here to collect the flickering spark of Elder Song.
The Reaper reached out a skeletal hand toward the old man's chest.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice echoed—not in the room, but directly in the Reaper's mind.
The Reaper stiffened. His hood tilted back, revealing two hollow sockets of ghostly blue flame. He turned to see a young man in a tattered hospital gown leaning against the doorway, arms crossed.
"A mortal who can see the Mantle of Death?" the Reaper rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering on a grave. "Your time has not yet come, boy. Begone, or I shall—"
The Reaper stopped. He squinted. He felt a ripple in the air—a familiar, suffocating pressure of absolute, primordial malice.
Memory flooded back to him: a grand assembly ten thousand years ago at the Jade Pavilion of the Sovereigns. He had been a mere spear-carrier in the back row, but he remembered the man who had sat on the Obsidian Throne, the man whose presence made even the Heavens tremble.
"Lord... Mo Jue?" the Reaper squeaked. The blue flames in his eyes flickered and almost went out. "The Sovereign of the Nine Hells? But... the rumors said you were... uh... liquidated?"
"Rumors are often the product of hopeful thinking," Mo Jue said, walking toward the Reaper. His mortal feet made no sound. "And you are... what? A Tenth-Class Soul-Snatcher? You've put on weight since I last saw the Underworld bureaucracy."
"My Lord! I am but a humble servant of the Cycle!" The Reaper actually tucked his scythe behind his back, looking like a schoolboy caught stealing apples. "I was just... this soul's candle is burnt out. It's on the ledger."
Mo Jue looked at the gasping Elder Song.
"Wait. Hold that soul in the throat for a moment. I need the mortals outside to feel the weight of their own helplessness first."
"But the Great Judge! The paperwork!" the Reaper cried, his bony hands trembling. "I could be demoted to a Wandering Ghost for this!"
Mo Jue leaned in close, his violet eyes flashing. "Or, you can do me this favor. When I eventually reclaim my throne—and I will—I will remember the little Reaper who helped me. I might even make you a Regional Governor of the Abyss. Or," he paused, his smile turning razor-sharp, "I can devour your essence right here and find a Reaper who is more... flexible."
The Reaper gulped, a sound like a rattling dice box. "Fine! I can... hide the soul in the 'pending' file for a few minutes. But be quick! The Ledger of Fate is very sensitive to delays!"
In the physical world, the flatline on the monitor remained a steady, haunting piiiiiii—.
"Time of death: 11:42 PM," Dr. Chen whispered, his shoulders slumping.
Outside the glass, the dam broke. The eldest son of the Song family roared in grief, grabbing the Hospital Director by his collar.
The younger family members began to weep—some out of sorrow, others out of terror for the coming power struggle. The Song Empire was a titan, and without its head, the sharks would circle by dawn.
They were beyond frustrated; they were broken. The "Hidden Dragon" of the city was officially a corpse.
It was then that the door to the observation room swung open. Mo Jue walked in, his hospital gown fluttering like a regal cape. He ignored the doctors and the guards, walking straight to the crying Song family.
"He isn't dead," Mo Jue said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the screaming like a blade. "He is merely waiting for a reason to return."
The eldest son, Song Ran, looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "Who the hell are you? Guards, get this lunatic out of here!"
Mo Jue didn't move as the guards approached. He simply looked at the flatline monitor and then back at Song Ran. "In three minutes, his brain will truly cease. In five, his soul will cross the threshold where even I cannot reach it. You have two minutes to decide."
"Decide what?" Song Ran gasped.
Mo Jue leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that only the core Song family members could hear. "I can bring him back. I can give him two more years of life—not as a vegetable, but as the lion he once was. But the price... the price is something you will only learn once he breathes again."
He looked at them, his eyes cold and predatory. He didn't offer a miracle; he offered a deal. The Song family, faced with the total collapse of their legacy, looked at the "dead" man on the bed and then at the terrifying youth before them.
"Do it," Song Ran whispered, his voice trembling. "Whatever it takes. Save my father."
Mo Jue turned toward the bed. "Reaper," he thought, "release the thread."