City of the Dead—gathering ground of the fallen. A bronze gate lay across the plain stone walls like a sealed tomb. Cold breathed out at once, needling the skin like damp mist. The sun was sinking red, yet that chill made Caro and Augustine uneasy, like passing a graveyard at midnight.

In truth, it was no different from a graveyard. This city stood over a dead city; hundreds of thousands of people, hundreds of thousands of graves—a vast necropolis underfoot.

“Uncle Ritt, didn’t you say the City of the Dead only surfaces at night? Isn’t it a bit early?”

Ritt lifted a round iron disk, dull as a moon without light. “The City Lord gave me this. It opens the gate. Normally it only opens at night, but if there’s a special mission, you bring this key.”

Ritt drifted toward the bronze doors. Caro noticed the surface—scarred in every direction like clawed bark. In the center, a circular socket waited, from which all those etched lines radiated like frozen lightning. Ritt set the iron disk into the socket. The disk flared, a pale glow blooming. Light ran along the carved veins, and the bronze filled with a web of lines.

Krr-click.

The doors split along the central circle. They parted left and right, and a stark radiance spilled from the other side like day trapped in stone.

When the glare eased, a passable gateway stood clear. On either side of the passage, a squad of riders sat their horses, black armor swallowing the light. Ghostly blue flames burned on their mounts, and each knight gripped a crimson lance like a bloodied thorn.

Beyond the opening, a black moat ringed the phasing wall. A ghost-blue bridge of light arced out, joining the gate to the land like frost over water.

“Move. Careful now. Don’t fall into that black river,” Ritt said, voice low as a funeral bell. “Drop into the Nether River, and you’ll forget everything in this life, blank as a newborn. And don’t provoke those Nightmare Knights.”

A flock of torch-bearing figures in black drifted through first, their flames flickering like will-o’-wisps. Only then did Augustine push Caro’s wheelchair forward, slow as a prayer. Bai watched Caro’s back, then padded after them, tail flicking like a metronome.

Their feet touched the light-bridge. Augustine and Caro stared down at the black current beneath, heavy as ink. Ritt had called it the Nether River. Was the City of the Dead a road toward the fabled Underworld? The dark water flowed, silent and sure. In a breath, Augustine found it beautiful beyond reason, a siren stream that held endless secrets. The riddle of life and death seemed ready to open like a lotus. If he just leaped in—he’d read the code of existence and claim immortality...

“Kid, wake up.” The White Cat’s voice snapped like a twig in winter. “That’s the Nether River. A mortal gawking like that? If Grandpa Cat weren’t here, you’d already be lost in the wheel of reincarnation.”

Her paw swiped his cheek—three burning lines of blood. Brutal, yes. Effective, also yes. She’d just saved Augustine’s life again. That was a fact.

Fear came first—hands trembling, legs weak as reeds in wind. He swallowed hard, then pushed Caro’s chair over the light, inch by inch. They slipped past the danger of the Nether River, only to meet the riders’ gaze. Those eyes—green and slick as pondlight—made his skin crawl. The ghost-blue fire offered no warmth; it sucked the heat from the air, colder than a blade’s back.

The gate’s passage was only a few meters. To Augustine it stretched for thousands, a tunnel of pins and needles. A few steps felt like a few centuries.

At last, they left the chill and dread behind. They entered the City of the Dead.

The fabled gathering place of the dead wasn’t as grotesque as they’d imagined. It looked like the living world put under a blood-red moon. Familiar streets. Familiar eaves and doors. Windows glowed with homely light like fireflies in jars. If not for the headless wanderers, the one-armed uncle, the children floating like balloons in a draft... Augustine might have forgotten this place was for the dead.

“Those are wraiths,” Ritt said, his tone settling like dust. “Their grudges were too heavy in life, so they keep the shape of their death. When the grudges fade, they can look like normal people again.”

The explanation helped. Faces and beasts moved through the street in every shape. Some looked just like the living; if not for the way they sometimes floated an inch off the ground, Caro would’ve thought them alive. Others were missing limbs, twin pupils glowing red as embers—terrifying in the lamplight.

“It’s not just humans,” Ritt went on. “There are other animals, too. They’re part of the City of the Dead. According to Lord Jue, whether man or beast, a soul disperses seven days after death—turns to particles and returns to the world. The Hell Knights track down the souls that don’t disperse and guide them here. The hottest jobs in the city are Hell Knight and Nightmare Knight. I nearly passed the Hell Knight exam, but missed by a few points. So I joined the Inquisition instead...”

“Exam? Points?” The words struck Caro and Augustine like a stray thunderclap. Augustine looked at the ever more orderly City of the Dead, a deep worry tightening his chest. He hadn’t forgotten who stood behind it—a legendary Demon King. Even setting that aside, the gate’s Nightmare Knights alone—one hundred thousand of them—could sweep the realm of the living.

“Uncle, do you know why the City of the Dead was built?” Augustine finally looked up. The question had gnawed at him. This city couldn’t exist just to house the dead. Those ancient Demon Kings had to be hiding a sky-splitting scheme.

Ritt glanced back at the taciturn kid. He’d watched Augustine push Caro’s chair the whole way. No merit maybe, but plenty of effort. Ritt decided to answer.

“Why? I don’t know. To be precise, not even the City Lord knows. Probably only that Lord Void Messenger does. The City of the Dead was built by the Void Messenger. The City Lord just manages it. Folks like us shouldn’t guess at the thoughts of the great. Curiosity kills.”

Warned, Augustine clamped his mouth shut. He held his tongue, but in his heart he spoke to the White Cat.

“Grandpa Cat, why would those Demon Kings build a City of the Dead at all? Aren’t the dead bound for the Underworld? If the Underworld exists, what’s the point?”

“The point? It’s plain as daylight,” the White Cat said, voice dropping into iron. “They want to monopolize the cycle of life and death. The Underworld? It isn’t what you think. Not every soul goes there. You should know, the starry sea holds more than this world. Mortal worlds are countless. Even the mightiest god can’t say how many. Souls going to the Underworld—those are from worlds that sit beside it. Farther worlds lie beyond the Underworld’s reach.”

“Given the Other Shore’s style, you don’t even need to guess. They’ll forge a land for the dead broader than the Underworld. Maybe even... wipe the Underworld from the starry sky, leaving only themselves to steer reincarnation.”

Her tone turned rare and solemn, a bell under snow. Augustine could feel the weight in her words. Even when she mentioned the Twelve Divine Demon Artifacts, she’d never sounded this grave.

Think on it, and it wasn’t surprising. To grip life and death. To erase the Underworld. Those were thunderous claims.

“The Other Shore... what is it?” he asked.

“The Other Shore? Not something you get to know now,” the White Cat said, cool as frost. “If you become a god someday, Grandpa Cat can let you in on it. Mortals don’t qualify. Even if I told you, it’d be wasted breath. Just know it’s a place the Divine Realm fears, a place that once pressed the Divine Realm so low it couldn’t lift its head.”

What she revealed today hit Augustine like a stone in deep water. Press the Divine Realm down. Seize the wheel of reincarnation. Erase the Underworld. That’s the Other Shore? Even shreds of news were enough to keep his mind chewing for half a day.

“Next, I’ll take you to the City Lord’s manor,” Ritt said. “Lord Jue should be there. But girl, are you sure the Mr. Jue you met is the City Lord? What if you got the wrong man?”

Caro closed her eyes, summoning every detail about Jue. She had worried she’d mistaken him. But the birthday gift Jue gave her had resisted the power of the Twelve Divine Demon Artifacts. Only the City Lord Jue could do that. Which meant the Mr. Jue she met was ninety-nine percent the City Lord.

“Uncle Ritt, I think... I’m sure Mr. Jue is the City Lord. I won’t be wrong.”

Ninety-nine percent, yes. But that rested on the White Cat’s deduction being right. If the clock Jue gave her didn’t hold that power—if something else had kept her from turning into a bug, and the clock was ordinary—then every step of that reasoning would crumble.