Chapter Forty-Three: Seeking Confirmation

In a haze.

Su Baiyuan suddenly realized he was standing atop a flat hill, though he could not recall when he had arrived. Before he could even lift his head, ethereal words drifted down from the heights above.

“You have walked the path of heresy, dared to tamper with the will of Heaven, shown neither reverence for spirits nor respect for the law. Now, with your celestial soul imprisoned in the Heavenly Jail and your mortal soul caged, this earthbound soul shall be cast into the depths of Hell, where your seven spirits must be ground to dust.”

Then Su Baiyuan found his clothes had vanished. He was bound spread-eagle to four wooden stakes. A sharp saw appeared out of thin air, and, beginning at his groin, sawed him all the way to his head.

The agony was beyond imagination, rending his very soul.

But before the pain could even fade, a massive millstone materialized, pressing down upon him, crushing his bones and sinews, driving him to the brink of unconsciousness.

When he was jolted awake by the pain again, he found himself in a blood-red swamp. Filthy blood surged into every orifice, and though he fought to swim upward, countless bloody hands clawed at his body, dragging him down.

Once more his consciousness dimmed and disappeared.

When next he awoke, he was in yet another hell, suffering fresh torments.

So it went, on and on, without end.

Time became meaningless. He could no longer remember who he was, nor why he endured these endless torments. Even the pain itself seemed to dull with repetition.

His shattered body would always regenerate; his torn flesh would knit together again; even his severed tongue and fingers would heal in time.

At last, an ethereal voice whispered once more by his ear.

“The Way numbers fifty, but Heaven produces forty-nine... Heaven shows mercy, leaving you a sliver of hope. May you remember this grace, repay it in kind, and harbor no resentment for your suffering.”

Sadly, much of the message was indistinct, lost to his fading sense of self. Only the beginning and end remained clear, as his identity teetered on the edge of oblivion.

Then came a startled cry.

“The painting is on fire!”

In a swirl of confusion, Su Baiyuan’s nearly extinguished consciousness began to clear once more.

The blood-red hells around him blurred and twisted, rapidly retreating into nothingness. The architecture of the Underworld’s tribunal hall emerged in sharp relief.

He looked down at the scroll in his hands, its surface engulfed in flames, yet he made no move to douse them. Instead, he gently turned the scroll, pointing to the sky depicted therein.

“Can you see what’s painted above?”

Su Baiyuan asked calmly.

“There’s only you, sir.”

—Page 1 of 3—

Yu, the ghost judge, saw this as a rare chance to distinguish himself. He stepped closer to scrutinize the figures and scenery on the scroll, but could see only Su Baiyuan standing alone atop a hill. No birds or clouds adorned the painted sky, nor were there any verses or inscriptions.

“Please, put out the flames! If this painting is destroyed, how will I explain it to Judge Li?” Chunqing anxiously stamped his feet.

The scroll had been perfectly intact moments before, yet now a small flame crept from the lower right corner, slowly devouring the parchment and sending up curls of ash-gray smoke.

“Is this Judge Li named Li Kai? Did he give you this scroll? And where is he now?” A name surfaced unbidden in Su Baiyuan’s mind as he looked at the flustered Chunqing and asked with quiet composure.

“You’re right. Judge Li told me to keep the painting safe. Right now, he’s working under Judge Wei of the Hall of Virtue in the Palace of Yama,” Chunqing replied, growing more frantic as the fire consumed a third of the scroll.

He had taken the painting from the bookshelf himself, and it had shown no sign of burning—so why did it catch fire the moment this man touched it?

“If I wish to go to the Palace of Yama, what should I do?”

Holding the burning scroll, Su Baiyuan watched the drifting black smoke, his dark eyes deepening.

“No ordinary ghost can enter the Palace of Yama. Even reaching the forecourt is pointless; only those with official posts in the underworld may set foot on the terrace. As for entering the palace itself, only those with full rank may do so.”

Chunqing, seeing half the painting gone, ceased his agitation and spoke with a soft sigh.

“What is your position?” Su Baiyuan asked the melancholy ghost registrar.

“I am a minor official. Typically, those who served as petty clerks in the mortal world and died take up such posts in the underworld. I may stand in the forecourt, but I cannot enter the Palace of Yama.”

Chunqing shook his head.

“What about him?”

Su Baiyuan glanced at the silent, closed-eyed ghost judge standing nearby.

“A city judge is a full official of the underworld. He can enter dreams in the mortal realm, have temples raised in his honor, and receive offerings. He may also enter the Palace of Yama and stand on the left, beholding the countenance of the King of Hell.”

Chunqing answered honestly.

The ghost judge looked at the registrar, exchanging meaningful glances, but the registrar’s gaze remained fixed, regretful, on the scroll slowly turning to ash, oblivious to his silent signals.

—Page 2 of 3—

“If I wanted to become a ghost judge, what would I need to do?”

Su Baiyuan fingered the last scraps of the scroll, gazing down at the ash suspended in midair, which vanished into dust before it could reach the ground.

“To follow the proper procedure, you would first have to relinquish this body and present yourself as a spirit at the Hall of Judgment. There, you would be examined by the civil and military judges and the ten kings of Hell. If they deemed you qualified, they would appoint you as a judge.

Alternatively, if you have wandered the underworld as a ghost for a hundred years, you may travel to any city under the jurisdiction of the underworld, find the main government office, and apply to be tested for the post of judge.”

Chunqing sighed as he watched even the ashes of the painting disappear.

“Is there any other way?”

Su Baiyuan opened his palm, watching the final trace of ash vanish. He looked down at the lines on his palm; within the creases, it seemed as though hellish visions flickered, their number neither more nor less than eighteen.

“There's a story, though I can't vouch for its truth.”

Chunqing stroked his chin, considering.

“What is it?” Su Baiyuan asked calmly.

“It’s said that in Mingjun City, there was once a strange incident. An evil ghost skinned the city’s judge and went to the Palace of Yama to claim his position. Even under the ghost-mirror’s revealing light, his disguise was never detected. If the real judge hadn’t staggered out, skinless, no one would have known an evil spirit was masquerading as an official, governing ghostly affairs in the palace.

But I can’t say for sure if it’s true or not.”

Chunqing shook his head.

“Well, today you may have the chance to find out.”

Su Baiyuan glanced at the panicked ghost judge, then unhurriedly walked into the inner chamber, closing the door behind him as he advanced toward the judge, who seemed to merge with the darkness.

Chunqing’s green, ghostly eyes blinked, glowing like twin lanterns in the dark.

—Page 3 of 3—