“Is this even the right way?”

Ling eyed the Demon King’s clone trudging ahead, silent as a stone lantern. He kept taking snaking alleys, a maze curling like a coiled dragon’s tail.

If you didn’t walk this path daily, no one could memorize it. Not unless you were a ghost with a map tattooed on your bones.

So she started to doubt him. Maybe this clone only got twenty‑five percent of the brains, and the rest blew away like ash.

Thud!

Lost in that thought, she plowed into his back. Pain flared like a bell struck between her eyes; her nose nearly cracked.

She glared up, anger burning like dry straw. Cheap fuel, really. He opened his mouth, let out his first words since the door, and the flame guttered out.

“We’re here…”

Compared to the real Demon King’s deep uncle voice, this clone rasped like wind over gravel.

That wasn’t the point. The point was the river ahead, a horizon-long band of ink under a breathless sky.

“Huh? (⊙∀⊙)”

Wasn’t she looking for the Yanluo King? Why had he brought her to a desolate bank where even crickets feared to sing?

Don’t tell me—

She clutched her chest and sprang back ten paces. Her eyes gave him the look reserved for street trash on a silk road.

The clone had no idea what she imagined, but he sensed it wasn’t anything good. Pride stirred like a cresting wave; he explained for the sake of the Demon King’s face.

“This river is called the Sanzu River. A ferryman will come and take you across. Do as she says, and you’ll reach the Yanluo King. As for why, she’ll explain. I’ll be going.”

Black smoke boiled off him, rising like funeral incense, and swallowed him whole.

Ling ignored that exit so old it shed dust like moth-eaten robes. She fixed her gaze on the far bank, heart a compass needle. At the name Sanzu, a familiar figure surfaced in her mind like a koi under moonlight.

Splash…

A small boat slid toward her, slow as drifting snow, lamp glowing like a firefly cupped in a palm. By that light she traced the silhouette—a girl.

The distance looked long, yet in a blink the boat kissed the shore. A gentleman’s instinct, especially before a pretty girl, spurred Ling to run over.

The girl on the boat saw Ling and blinked, surprise bright as a raindrop.

“Oh my, oh my? A living soul? Did you stray in? Hurry back, or Eiki will scold me again.”

Ling barely heard her. From the moment she saw who it was, joy bubbled up like spring water and refused to settle.

No answer came. The girl waved her hand before Ling’s eyes, fingers like willow leaves.

“Hey? Kid? Why aren’t you answering me?”

The reminder snapped Ling back. Realizing she’d acted like a fangirl spotting her idol, heat rose to her cheeks.

“N‑no… I’m not lost. I’m here to see the Yanluo King.”

“Eh? People really drop by to see the Yanluo King for fun?”

“No, it’s important!”

The girl yawned, lazy as a cat in sun, interest drifting like smoke.

“Ha… whatever. You wanna see her, I’ll take you. Just don’t say I brought you.” She nudged the boat, then tapped the empty plank with a chopstick-thin finger. “All aboard~”

Surprisingly easy…

Ling had prepared a whole arsenal of persuasion, words stacked like tiles. Now they weren’t needed at all.

She hopped aboard and found a spot, sitting light as a sparrow on a reed.

“Let me introduce myself. I’m—”

“Onozuka Komachi, right?”

Komachi stared, stunned, as if someone had read her name off the river’s ripples. Since when was she that famous?

“Uh… yeah. Komachi’s fine. Let me go over the rules…”

Don’t jump midway, or river ogres will drag you down like hands from cold mud. Don’t try to fly, or the space will fold like fog and lose you forever.

Whether those rules applied to her or not, Ling wasn’t dumb enough to test them. She wore a wide‑eyed (OvO) look, all sugar and blankness, as if listening but not computing. The result made Komachi awkward, silence pooling like stagnant water.

…

After a stretch of time only ghosts could measure, the boat bumped the far bank. Ling stepped off. Komachi waved, then rowed away fast, oar cleaving the water like an escape plan.

She’d just ridden with the queen of dead air. That chill awkwardness was as scary as one of Eiki’s lectures. Never again, she swore, never ferry that girl again.

Ling had no idea she’d been labeled a dead‑air loli. She stood alone, eyes drawn to the massive plaque hanging like a thundercloud.

Yama Hall.