The floor beneath them became something that wasn’t quite stone and wasn’t quite water, a twilight path suspended over an endless drop. Above, there was no longer a ceiling, only an indigo sky full of drifting paper lanterns.
Sera kept walking, both urns clutched tightly to her chest. Eathan floated a half?step behind her, feet not quite touching the glowing path. His spectral form was translucent at the edges, and every movement left a faint afterimage.
Beside him, Chewie drifted along with her hands jammed in the pockets of her coat. Even as a semi?transparent twelve?year?old ghost, she managed to radiate the same ‘perpetually unimpressed war god’ energy.
“This is the border,” she said, head tilting as she studied the horizon. “We’re not properly in the Passing yet. Just the driveway.”
Ahead of them, Sera suddenly stopped.
She’d been moving with that steady, contained calm of hers ever since she’d stepped through the COZMART storage door. Now, as if some invisible hand had pressed pause, she froze, as though listening to a distant voice only she could hear. The urns stayed cradled against her chest; her shoulders straightened; her breath went shallow.
Eathan halted so fast his own momentum glitched.
“Did she,” he whispered, “always glow like that?”
“No,” Chewie said flatly, eyes narrowing. “Definitely not.”
The air thickened around their mortal friend, mist curling tighter at her feet. A soft silver glow had flooded her irises, bleeding outwards like moonlight spiderwebbing through glass.
Before either could react, Sera turned to face them.
“So,” she said, chin tilted at a faintly aristocratic angle. “The Auspicious Beast’s chosen vessel. And Chi You’s reincarnation. Truly, my descendants have terrible taste in friends.”
Her voice came out in an older, warmer tone, with the faintest trace of an accent that didn’t belong to any mortal century.
Eathan blinked, while Chewie’s eyes sharpened. "That's not Sera anymore.”
“Correct. You may address me as Yunmo,” the woman said. “Lady Yunmo, if you insist on full formality. Once an emissary under Lady Chang’e. Currently… ah.” She glanced down at Sera’s body with a sigh. “Currently trapped in the genetic memory of a photo?obsessed mortal who thinks ‘cultivation’ means buying new filters.”
Eathan’s brain blipped.
“You’re—” He gestured at Sera in a helpless little circle. “—her ancestor.”
“Grand?grand?grand?grand… something,” Yunmo said airily, counting invisible fingers. “Contracts get fuzzy after the sixth burial. Mortals live such fleeting lives.”
"No wonder she suddenly looks elegant.” Chewie folded her arms, interest piqued. “You’re the one who signed the envoy pact for the Dream line.”
“Mmm.” Yunmo’s gaze flicked to her. “Chi You, reduced to a preteen and stuck babysitting mortals.”
She chuckled, a melodious yet tired sound.
“The afterlife does have a sense of humour.”
“Says the ancient emissary possessing her own great?great?grandchild at customs.”
The faintest curve touched Yunmo’s lips. “Point conceded.”
Eathan raised a tentative hand. “So, just to clarify—Sera’s… okay?”
“Oh, she is fine,” Yunmo said, waving one of Sera’s hands dismissively. “Her consciousness is in the back room, drinking tea. I only surfaced because the gate recognized her emissary line and tried to reroute her into a permanent post. I have no intention of letting my descendant be dragooned into full?time civil service just yet.”
She turned, Sera’s eyes now focusing somewhere past them.
“Walk with me,” she said. “We have a limited window, and you have a distressing amount of ignorance.”
The violet path brightened ahead, reshaping itself into a gently curving trail that cut through the mist like a luminous ribbon. Stars glinted under their feet now, like they were walking along the underside of the Milky Way.
Eathan and Chewie drifted forward, falling into step beside her.
“First,” Yunmo said, “your state.”
She flicked a glance at Eathan’s almost?hands, then at Chewie’s flickering outline. Thin threads of light connected both of them to somewhere… up and away, vanishing out of sight.
"You've ventured far beyond mortal boundaries," she spoke as they walked. "Spectral instances, tethered to the Mortal Realm through sacrifice anchors.”
Eathan’s hand lifted reflexively to his collarbone, though the Qilin pendant itself was nowhere on his neck.
“The pendant,” he said quietly.
“And my flag,” Chewie added.
“Mm.” Yunmo’s gaze flickered briefly with something like approval. “Both very good anchors. Very excessive. Bai Hu always did breed dramatics.”
At that, Eathan’s head perked up. “You knew Mister White?”
“Who doesn’t?” Yunmo glanced at him over her shoulder, expression sobering. “In any case, although you are legally deceased here thanks to the urns and anchors, your time here is limited.”
She let that sit for a beat, then added, “After seven mortal days, your anchors will no longer hold you in this state. Your souls will begin to fray, and you will either reincarnate prematurely, disintegrate, or be absorbed into local constructs. None of which are a pleasant fate, I assure you."
Eathan exchanged a grim look with Chewie. "Conveniently matching the Dormancy Protocol timeline," she noted dryly.
Eathan sighed. "No pressure."
As if on cue, his HUD flickered to life over his vision:
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
[Main Quest (new!)]:
Survive the Realm of Passing and return to your physical body!
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Time Limit: 7 mortal days
Reward: To be distributed upon completion of [Main Quest].
A second notification chimed right after, overriding the first in a familiar, unwelcome font.
[Hidden Quest (new!)]:
Retrieve and restore the White Tiger’s divine core!
Reward: To be distributed upon successful restoration.
Eathan stared at the floating text for a long, dry second.
“Seven days to not die again and fix a god, huh.”
“Think of it as promotion,” Chewie said cheerily. “You’re practically middle management now.”
The path underfoot shifted as they walked, the mist thinning enough to reveal more of the surroundings.
To their left, a river of pale light flowed through the void, carrying tiny boats made of folded paper. Some held flickering candles, others just names inked in careful hand. Souls in various degrees of coherence drifted along the banks, watching their vessels go.
To their right, fragments of a city loomed—if city was the right word. Pagodas and courtyards floated at odd angles, connected by bridges made of ribbons knotted by prayers. Tall, crooked pagodas jutted up among them, appearing and disappearing each time Eathan blinked.
Eathan swallowed. “So… anything we should know before we get yelled at by whoever runs this place?”
Ahead, Yunmo glanced back over her shoulder with the look of someone who’d been waiting centuries to be asked this question. She lifted Sera’s hand and ticked off fingers.
“First,” she said. “Etiquette. Do not mention reincarnation casually. Many spirits have not yet processed their last death. Asking them what they want to be next is like asking a widow if she’s downloaded a dating app yet.”
“Noted,” Eathan muttered.
“Second,” Yunmo went on. “Do not ask the cause of someone’s death unless they volunteer it. If they want you to know, they will tell you. If they do not, prying will earn you curses that follow you into three lifetimes.”
Chewie nodded along. “Same rule in war camps. Don’t ask how someone lost the arm unless they’re already drinking about it.”
“Third,” Yunmo said. “No gambling with karmic tricksters. They always cheat. Their chips are your regrets. You will lose more than your shirt. And fourth…”
A pause.
“Do not flirt with vixen spirits.”
Chewie blinked. “Why would we—”
“Not even as a joke,” Yunmo said with emphasis. “They turn unresolved lovers into side characters in their own cautionary tales. Then your next reincarnation is doomed to bad romances until the debt clears.”
"Direct that solely at him.” Chewie jabbed a thumb toward Eathan. “He has a certain aura about him."
"Hey—" Eathan began, only to fall silent beneath Yunmo’s gaze.
"And above all," the woman’s voice lowered, “for the love of all moons waxed and waned, do not start a paperwork dispute with anyone from Meng’s Bureau.”
Eathan and Chewie exchanged looks, wondering if this was supposed to be some code. They both looked to the right again, toward a tall building where the commander of Area 004 might be currently watching.
Chewie squinted. “Because…?”
“Because they will bury you in forms,” Yunmo said with utmost solemnity. “They will force you to sign copies of your own name until you forget how it’s spelled. Then they will record that loss and charge you interest.”
“…”
The path ahead soon widened and solidified into a proper platform. At the end of that pathway rose an archway, slightly crooked but carved entirely from polished obsidian.
A plaque hung overhead: [BORDER GATE 3–EAST]. At its sides, two stone lions lounged with the bored dignity of long?term civil servants.
Beyond the gate: a bustling checkpoint.
Lines of spirits snaked between hanging lanterns. A few were faint silhouettes, others crisper and more vivid. Some clutched tokens or scrolls; others just their own names, written on slips of paper. Over it all, a booth stood like an elevated judge’s desk, stacked high with scrolls and inkstones.
And in front of that desk, two figures hovered.
The one on the left was short and compact, dressed in black robes that pooled like ink around bare white feet. His skin was chalk, hair slicked back into a tight knot under an official hat that read 善 (kindness) in faded script. A long, thin tongue peeked from between his lips whenever he sighed. His eyes were ringed with such profound dark circles they practically counted as shades.
Beside him, a tall, lanky figure in white dragged the end of their enormous ink brush across a scroll that seemed to go on forever. White Impermanence’s hat read 恶 (malice), though someone had stuck a faded “PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB DURING WORK” sticker on the side. His eyes, too, were rimmed in weariness. A thin spectral chain linked their ankles, rattling softly whenever either of them shifted.
Black and White Impermanence—duo deities known as escorts of the spirits of the deceased.
Chewie leaned toward Eathan.
“Textbook accurate,” she murmured, “but with about a thousand times more corporate bitterness.”
“Welcome to the Realm of Passing,” White Impermanence droned, not looking up. “State your names, date of mortal expiration, primary cause of demise—”
“—preferred reincarnation queue,” Black Impermanence added seamlessly, eyes never leaving his abacus. “Final karmic reconciliation status, unfinished regrets, if applicable—”
“—then fill out these forms.” White thrust a towering stack of parchment onto the counter, making the desk groan. “Pay particular attention to subsections Alpha through Gamma. Failure to comply accurately will result in immediate transfer to the lowest circles of Hell—directly under Lord Yama’s personal supervision.”
The spirit at the front of the line—a nervous man clutching a broken spear—went visibly paler.
“Lovely.” Chewie muttered under her breath, fingers twitching. “I’d genuinely prefer another war.”
Before the twelve?year?old gremlin could pick a fight with death personified, Yunmo stepped forward, Sera’s lips parting with composed authority.
“Officers Hei and Bai,” she said, inclining her head. “Envoy Yunmo, Dream line. Escorting two temporary spectral entries under special dispensation.”
Both heads snapped up.
For the first time, Black Impermanence looked properly at them. His tired gaze flicked from Yunmo’s borrowed face to the urns in her arms, then to the faint silver thread of emissary authority wrapped around her wrist.
White Impermanence’s brush halted mid?stroke.
“…Lady Yunmo,” he said slowly. “You are still… active.”
“In a manner of speaking.” Yunmo tilted Sera’s chin just so. “My descendant currently holds my envoy contract. I am borrowing her body for border paperwork. The debt will be filed.”
Black Impermanence gave a very tiny, very resigned nod. “Of course it will.”
White Impermanence cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders.
“In that case,” he said, tone shifting from bored to… not quite respectful, but at least awake, “state the details of your charges.”
Yunmo nudged Sera’s hands, presenting the urns.
“Eathan Lin,” she said, tipping the first urn slightly so they could see the inscription on the ceramic. “Deceased in an explosion at a crossroads establishment. Time of death has been logged in your system—check line 7, column 3.”
Black Impermanence flicked his abacus. A scroll floated up from somewhere below, unfurling midair. His eyes skimmed a column.
“…Yes,” he said. “Filed under ‘flame incident.’ Cause of death: mechanical detonation, secondary spiritual malfunction. Very messy. High grief output.”
Eathan made a face. “Can we not call it that?”
Yunmo lifted the second urn. “Chewie Jiang. Deceased in a rift collapse in Area 001’s jurisdiction. Time of death: forty-six minutes prior to the above.”
White’s brush flicked. “Ah,” he murmured. “That one. Filed under ‘heroic sacrifice.’ Ex-Demon Warlord addendum. Also messy.”
“That’s me,” Chewie said blandly. “The messy part is editorial bias.”
Eathan drifted forward despite himself, peering up at the desk.
“So,” he said. “Technical question.”
White Impermanence looked down at him with the weariness of someone who had answered too many technical questions.
“Yes?”
"Do we really need to fill in all of this?” he said, eyeing the sample responses imprinted on the table front—each demanding increasingly elaborate details. “We’re just visiting.”
They also did not exactly have time.
Silence followed his words.
“Visiting?” White Impermanence repeated, ink brush almost slipping out of his grasp. “The Passing is not some casual tourist destination!"
“Sir,” Black Impermanence said in a tone that could flatten stone, “humour is expressly prohibited on Form 23-B.”
“I mean, we’re not planning to—uh—stay. Long?term.” Eathan paled. “We just need to retrieve something and go.”
Black Impermanence pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Special circumstances,” he muttered.
White Impermanence sighed the sigh of a man who had seen too many exceptions.
“Special circumstances require Form 87?Beta,” he said, grabbing another sheaf from somewhere. “Supplementary annex Phi?14, and notarized authorizations from no fewer than five Bureau heads—”
“—all processed during peak spiritual hours,” Black Impermanence added tonelessly. “In triplicate. Sealed by at least one Spirit Registrar.”
Chewie’s stare narrowed, trying to decipher whether they are speaking a language.
Yunmo, for her part, looked serenely unbothered. “Fortunately,” she said, “we have pre?filed most of the necessary authorizations.”
Both officers blinked.
She reached into her sleeve—Sera’s sleeve—and withdrew a neat bundle of scrolls bound with red string. Each bore a silver, angular seal and a slightly messier signature stacked at the corner.
“Submitted to Commander Meng’s Bureau and the Mortal?Spirit Relations Office to be drawn from scheduled reserves prior to their arrival,” Yunmo said. “Temporary spectral visa, seven days. Purpose: critical karmic maintenance.”
She paused.
“Authorization: Bai Hu.”