Decades passed in the mortal world. In the Atrium, time moved differently, but Nicholas watched the slow unfolding of his plan with the patience of a being who had learned to think in centuries.
One by one, the vessels he had seeded across the East grew into their gifts. The mother in Yunnan, who had found her way to the temple and the old monk, became a teacher. She did not simply instruct children in reading and writing—she shaped them. She saw the spark in each young soul, the potential for goodness, the seed of something that could grow into a lifetime of virtue. Her students became doctors and nurses, social workers and volunteers, people who gave without counting the cost. She died at ninety-three, surrounded by three generations of students who called her "Grandmother" and wept at her passing.
The farmer in Sichuan, who had found the jade pendant and returned it to the temple, became a healer. Not a doctor—he had no formal training—but something older, something rooted in the traditions of his ancestors. He learned the old ways, the herbal remedies passed down through generations, the techniques for setting bones and soothing fevers. He never charged for his services. He never asked for anything in return. People gave what they could, and what they could not give, he forgave. He died at seventy-eight, and the village held a festival in his honor, burning paper offerings that rose into the air like prayers.
The young woman in Beijing, who had volunteered at the hospice, became a social worker. She fought for the forgotten, the abandoned, the ones who had no one to speak for them. She exposed corruption, forced the government to honor its promises, gave voices to children who had been silenced. She was called a living saint by those who knew her work, and her enemies called her many other things, but none of them could deny that she had made the world better. She died at sixty-five, assassinated by those she had opposed, and her funeral was attended by thousands.
Other vessels followed. A fisherman in Hainan who rescued drowning sailors without thought for his own safety. A shopkeeper in Xi'an who fed the hungry from her own stock. A monk in Lhasa who mediated disputes between warring families and brought peace to a valley that had known only bloodshed for generations. Good people. Virtuous people. People whose lives, shaped by Nicholas's subtle guidance, had accumulated merit beyond measure.
And then they died.
The fisherman was the first. He was old, eighty-two, his body worn out by a lifetime of labor and rescue. He died in his sleep, peacefully, his hand held by his eldest son. And as his soul rose from his body, Nicholas—hidden in the deepest folds of his being, waiting—felt the pull.
It was different this time. Stronger. More deliberate.
The channel that opened beneath the fisherman's soul was not the dark, narrow passage that the boy had traveled. It was wide, bright, almost welcoming. The soul did not drift uncertainly—it was drawn, pulled with purpose toward a destination that had been prepared for it.
Nicholas held on, his fragment buried deep, and followed.
They emerged in a hall.
It was vast, larger than any building Nicholas had seen in the mortal world, its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls made of granite so dark it seemed to absorb the light. Green flames flickered in braziers along the walls, casting eerie shadows that danced and twisted, and the air was heavy with the weight of judgment.
At the far end of the hall, on a throne that rose like a mountain from the stone floor, sat a figure.
He was enormous—almost five meters tall, his form radiating an authority that pressed against Nicholas's fragment like a physical weight. His eyes burned with green fire, bright and terrible, and his face was carved from the same dark granite as the walls, expressionless and eternal. He wore the robes of an ancient Chinese emperor, silk and gold, dragons embroidered on the sleeves, and on his head, a crown that seemed to hold the shadows of a thousand souls.
"The fisherman's soul trembled before this figure," Nicholas observed from within. "And I do not blame him."
The figure spoke, and his voice was the grinding of mountains, the crash of waves against cliffs, the finality of a door closing on eternity.
"I am Qinguangwang," he said, "Yama King of the Netherworld, Tenth of the Ten, Keeper of the Golden Register, Lord of the Tower of Summons. By the seal of the Jade Emperor, I sit in judgment over souls such as yours."
The fisherman's soul flickered, but did not flee. He had faced storms at sea, had pulled drowning men from the waves, had looked death in the eye a hundred times. He would not be cowed by a throne, however grand.
"You have lived a virtuous life," Qinguangwang continued, and his voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "You have accumulated great merit. Your deeds have been counted, weighed, and found worthy. The registers show a soul of rare purity, one that has earned the right to transcend."
The green flames in his eyes flickered.
"By the law of the Six Realms, you are granted reincarnation into the Deva Realm. You will be born among the immortals and the gods. You will know peace beyond measure, joy beyond imagining. But you will not remember this life. The memories, the loves, the losses—all will be washed away in the waters of the Yellow River, and you will become someone new."
The fisherman's soul pulsed. Nicholas felt the conflict within him—the desire for peace, for an end to struggle, warring against the terror of oblivion. To be reborn as a god, but to lose himself in the process. To cease to be the man he had been, the man who had loved his wife, who had taught his sons to fish, who had pulled strangers from the waves and asked for nothing in return.
"That is not living," the fisherman said, and his voice, though thin, was steady. "That is dying. Just a different kind of dying."
Qinguangwang was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"There is another path," he said. "You have earned great merit. Enough to purchase a place in the Netherworld hierarchy, if you so choose. You may become a messenger, a guide for the newly dead, a servant of the Ten Yama Kings. You will dwell here as a Ghost Immortal, neither alive nor dead, your memories intact, your self preserved. In exchange, your accumulated merit will be... spent."
The fisherman's soul pulsed again, but this time with something that might have been relief. "I would still be me?"
"You would still be you."
"Then I accept."
The Yama King raised his hand, and the thick faith energy that had been entangled with the fisherman's soul—the accumulated merit of a lifetime of good deeds, condensed into something visible, something tangible—rose from the soul like steam from hot water. It glowed with a golden light, bright and warm, and Nicholas watched as Qinguangwang's authority reached out and split it.
One half of the golden light flowed toward the Yama King, absorbed into his form, disappearing into the green fire of his eyes. Payment, Nicholas realized. The cost of a position in the Netherworld. A bribe, not unlike the one Wang Sanfeng had paid, but conducted with the dignity of a legal transaction rather than the desperation of a soul seeking to escape the wheel.
The other half of the light condensed. It swirled around the fisherman's soul, shaping itself, solidifying. A set of robes materialized—dark blue, embroidered with silver thread, the same style that Wang Sanfeng had worn. A chain appeared, coiled at the soul's waist, its links glowing with a faint, inner light. And then, most significantly, a talisman—golden, radiant, imprinted with characters that burned themselves into the fabric of the soul itself.
Nicholas watched from within as the transformation began. The faith energy, now shaped and directed by the Yama King's authority, began to sculpt the fisherman's soul. It was not the crude, violent process that Nicholas had expected. It was precise. Delicate. The light chiseled away rough edges, smoothed fractures, healed wounds that had been carried for decades. It condensed the soul's essence, packing it tighter, making it denser, stronger. But compared to Wang Sanfeng's soul—compared to the messenger Nicholas had observed earlier—the result was noticeably less refined. Less condensed. The fisherman's soul had been good, had accumulated merit, but it had not cultivated. It had not spent centuries strengthening itself through meditation and discipline. It was cotton, not steel—dense for cotton, perhaps, but still cotton.
The transformation completed. The fisherman—now a messenger of the Netherworld, a Ghost Immortal in training—opened his new eyes. They glowed with a faint green light, a pale echo of the Yama King's own.
Nicholas, hidden deeper than deep in the folds of the transformed soul, settled in to wait.
This was not what he had planned. He had wanted the fisherman to reincarnate, to carry his fragment into the Deva Realm, into the heart of the Eastern divine order. But the fisherman had chosen otherwise, and Nicholas could not—would not—force him. The guidance had to be subtle, or it would be detected.
Still, hiding inside a messenger was not half bad. Wang Sanfeng had been a messenger, and through him, Nicholas had learned much. This new messenger, though less refined, might offer access to different parts of the Netherworld. Different contacts. Different secrets.
He would adapt. He always adapted.
The Yama King waved his hand, and a door opened in the shadows at the edge of the hall—a door that led not to Fengdu, but to another city, another district, another corner of the vast Netherworld bureaucracy.
"Go," Qinguangwang said. "Report to the Tower of Summons. Your duties will be explained there."
The fisherman—the messenger—bowed, his new robes rustling, his new chain clinking softly. And then he walked through the door, into the unknown.
Nicholas followed, hidden, watching, waiting.
To be continued...
------------------------------------------------
Enjoying the story?
If you want to read up to 5 chapters in advance, you can join over at p.a.t.r.e.o.n.com/AtanorWrites