Chapter Two: The Devil Escapes from Prison

What does it feel like to be forged in the crimson flames of karmic retribution? The soul is torn apart, shred by shred, left in utter ruin—only to return whole again when the rooster crows at dawn, just to be torn asunder once more. Whole, then shattered, whole again, then ripped apart… The cycle repeats endlessly, with no end in sight. This was the punishment of hell where he now resided.

To him, however, this was nothing. What truly plunged him into despair, what made his heart as dead as a wasteland and his existence akin to hell, was the death of his master. His lord had perished before his very eyes; he had given everything to prevent it, yet still failed.

Such a powerful, proud soul, fallen in such a wretched, pitiful manner.

He screamed, howled in grief without pause. If his master was dead, if his faith had crumbled, what reason did he have to remain in this world?

His consciousness gradually faded, leaving only pure violence and hatred behind. He could not recall what he had done—only that, when awareness returned, he was already in hell, suffering endless torment.

He could not understand, truly could not comprehend, why his master had been bewitched by someone so utterly unworthy, to the point of risking everything.

All he felt was hatred—toward the heavens, the earth, all living things. The world was vast, boundless, yet nowhere could it accommodate his master, his faith.

If the world could not accept him, then it should be destroyed. Yes, let it all be destroyed! He would see the whole of creation buried with his master.

A twisted smile slowly curled at the corners of his mouth—one, then two, then three...

Seventeen floors, sixteen, fifteen…

He counted silently, floor by floor. "Master, wait for me. I am almost there. This time, even if I am shattered to dust, I will not let you be harmed again. And I will never let that person near you again!"

His clothes were little more than rags; his body was stained, dark and light, with mostly other people’s blood. It seemed only in this state could he find a sliver of calm, keep himself from the verge of collapse.

His eyes glowed red, his hair was filthy and wild, his once-handsome face now ghastly, neither human nor ghost. Towering and broad-shouldered, the horn on his head was broken at the tip—a searing pain, but he cared not. He simply kept counting, four floors, three, two… Closer, ever closer—he could feel his master’s presence clearly now.

He stepped onto the final floor. Once he crossed this last threshold, he could return to his master's side. He could not restrain the excitement that surged in his blood and leapt forward.

He stopped before a great door, at the entrance to the first floor. Not because it was heavily guarded—on the contrary, not a single soldier stood there. Only one man awaited him, dressed in white, graceful, holding a fan, his face concealed by a mask of exquisite beauty, peach blossom patterns faintly visible upon it. The craftsmanship was so fine that, even without seeing the face beneath, the mask itself could steal one’s soul.

That man waited for him in silence, standing in the open doorway.

He regarded the man with contempt, his voice hoarse as he spoke, “You think you can stop me?”

The man snapped his fan shut with a crisp sound and smiled. “You misunderstand, friend. How could I possibly stop you? I am here to help you.”

“Help me?” What could you possibly help me with? With a snort, he strode forward, impatient.

The man slipped in front of him in a flash, blocking his way with one arm. His anger flared, the red in his eyes deepening, but the tension was dissolved by the man’s calm words.

“You have been in hell so long—do you know what has become of the outside world? Do you know your lord has lost all memory of the past, that now he is no different from any other mortal?”

His words exploded like a shell in his ears. Grabbing the man by the throat, he lifted him off the ground. “Who is it? Who brought such ruin upon my master?”

The man seemed unbothered by the threat, his eyes gleaming with laughter and madness. “Given all this, would you join forces with me? If you do, I promise—any doubt or question in your heart, I will answer, with nothing hidden.”

He considered for a moment, then slowly released his grip. “If you dare lie to me by a single word, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth and grind you to dust.”

The man brushed the dust from his clothes and adjusted his collar with a faint smile. “I speak only the truth. In that case, will you come with me?”

With a snort, he decided to go along.

A breeze passed by, and suddenly, with a crisp crack, the once-empty threshold was now strewn with corpses, rivers of blood flowing—a scene of unspeakable carnage.

Within the Hall of Yama, the ghosts had gathered, most with anxious, somber faces.

The judge tapped his finger on the table once, twice, before saying, “Speak. What solutions do you have?”

The first attendant sighed. “My lord, what solution could there be?”

The second attendant chimed in, “Indeed, indeed, this is truly…”—a catastrophe. He dared not say more.

The third attendant spoke: “My lord, perhaps we should…”—invite Lord Wuchang back? The mere thought sent a chill down his spine. He would surely die if he suggested it; perhaps he would be sent to hell himself…

The judge’s fingers stopped their tapping, a habitual smile on his lips, but cold as ice—no less chilling than Yama himself. “Perhaps what? Go on.”

The third attendant swallowed hard, wiped cold sweat from his face, and with trembling lips, stammered, “Perhaps… perhaps we should… invite Lord Wuchang here?”

The entire hall fell into shock—had he lost his mind?

The judge laughed softly. “If such a little matter requires Lord Wuchang’s attention, what use does the underworld have for you?”

The third attendant collapsed to the floor, dazed. Had he really lost his wits to think of involving Lord Wuchang? What now?

The judge paid him no mind, silently calculating. The tapping resumed, echoing in the hearts of all present, spreading unease through the air.

With a creak, the doors opened. Black Obsidian stretched and walked in, followed by a chubby, bouncing child—delightful to behold.

Black Obsidian immediately felt ill at ease; everyone was staring at him as if he were some monster. He frowned in annoyance. “What are you all looking at me for?”

The third attendant’s eyes flickered when he saw Black Obsidian. From where he’d fallen, he spun around and knelt before him, bowing low. “I beg Lord Wuchang for mercy! Please subdue that evil spirit!”

For a moment, silence reigned.

Then, one by one, all the attendants knelt. “We beg Lord Wuchang for mercy! Please subdue that evil spirit!”

The judge in the center had not expected things to unfold this way. Grinding his teeth silently, he thought, Very well, everything is so coincidental, so intricate—each step interlocked, astonishing to behold. To play tricks in the underworld—are they not afraid of never returning?

Yan Nianqing also cast a cold gaze at the attendants. These fools—have they all gone mad? It seems the old man truly is aging; even his subordinates are out of control. Daring to plot against his mother—if they had the guts, let them try.

Black Obsidian looked at the kneeling attendants, feeling that something was wrong. Had he come at the wrong time? Subdue an evil spirit? Was this some kind of joke?

His mouth twitched. Just now—who was the animal that shouted first? Step forward—I promise not to kill you!