Chapter Forty-Two: The Terrifying City

“What’s wrong, Yang? What do those three characters mean?” I asked anxiously.

Wang Feiyang stood dumbstruck for a long time before finally regaining his senses. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the three large characters atop the city wall, refusing to look away and still offering no reply.

Lü Li and I exchanged glances, sensing that something about this place was far from ordinary. Otherwise, Wang Feiyang—normally cold as ancient ice—would never have been so shaken.

It was only after what felt like an eternity that Wang Feiyang finally uttered three words, his voice slow and grave: “City of Unjust Deaths.”

The moment those words left his lips, both Lü Li and I turned pale. Our faces mirrored Wang Feiyang’s earlier shock as we stared, transfixed, at the massive city ahead.

“The City of Unjust Deaths? The gate beneath the reservoir leads to the legendary underworld’s City of Unjust Deaths?” I withdrew my gaze and looked around. Though it was broad daylight, there was no sun to be seen—the sky hung perpetually gray, and apart from the blood-red river encircling the city, the ground was nothing but endless yellow sand, as if this city had been built in the heart of some desolate desert.

Scattered throughout the sand, every few paces, lay a ghastly skeleton: some human, some animal, and some belonging to creatures I could not recognize.

“So the treasure the priestess spoke of is actually hidden within the legendary City of Unjust Deaths!” My mind was already a tumult, and I turned to Wang Feiyang and Lü Li. “How much do you two know about this city?”

Wang Feiyang, having recovered from his shock, regained his usual composure and explained that his family had made paper offerings for generations. He’d heard his grandmother mention the City of Unjust Deaths before: it was a city in the underworld, created by the Bodhisattva Kṣitigarbha for the souls of those who had died unjustly or by their own hand. Because their life spans were not yet complete, these spirits could not proceed to judgment or rebirth, and so must remain in this city until their allotted time ran out.

A chill ran through me. “No wonder the red coffins had inscriptions listing not just a person’s birth and death dates, but also the character for ‘prisoner’ followed by a number. That number must be the remaining years of life for those who died unjustly.”

Wang Feiyang nodded, saying that was essentially correct. But the City of Unjust Deaths, he added, was supposed to stand beside the Hall of Fengdu in Hell, next to the Bridge of Forgetfulness and the Blood Pool of Torment—so why did this one appear beneath the eastern reservoir? The locations didn’t match.

“Could this be a fake City of Unjust Deaths?” I wondered aloud.

“No, it’s real,” interjected Lü Li, who had been silent until now. “What you know comes only from popular legend. While there is indeed a City of Unjust Deaths beside Fengdu’s main hall, there are actually many such cities. My records from Mount Shu mention there are one hundred and eight City of Unjust Deaths in the underworld—this must be one of them.”

“One hundred and eight? That many?” I asked, astonished.

Lü Li nodded. “The world is vast, and those who die unjustly are many. Did you really think a single city could hold them all?”

I found Lü Li’s reasoning flawless. It was like prisons in the world above: one would never be enough to confine all its criminals.

I glanced again at the blood-red river behind us and asked, “Are all Cities of Unjust Deaths surrounded by such a river?”

Lü Li nodded. “That’s the River of Sin. Every spirit entering the city must cross it to cleanse themselves of the karmic crimes of their past life. If the sins are too deep, they won’t be cleansed, and the soul will be battered under the waves, scattered into nothingness.”

I took a deep breath. No wonder we’d seen so many spirits beaten under by the blood-red tide as we arrived—those must have been the truly wicked among the dead.

By now, more and more wronged souls drifted past us, heading toward the City of Unjust Deaths. The three of us exchanged a look and quietly followed them.

As we walked, Lü Li pulled two yellow talismans from his robes, murmured a string of incantations, and handed one each to Wang Feiyang and me. “These are underworld-passing talismans. Don’t lose them. They’ll hide your living aura so the ghosts won’t recognize you as mortals.”

Wang Feiyang and I hastily tucked the talismans away. It was only prudent—we were, after all, about to enter a city of the dead. If our true identities were discovered, it would be like a ghost being found in a city of the living—we’d surely be destroyed as abominations.

We trailed the spirits to the city’s massive gates, where a company of underworld soldiers stood, checking and registering every soul that entered.

When it was our turn, a clerk stopped us and motioned for us to register. Not knowing what to do, I hesitated—only for Wang Feiyang to suddenly pull three silver ingots from his person and toss them on the table. The clerk was momentarily stunned, then scribbled a few lines in his register and waved us through.

And so, the three of us strode boldly into the City of Unjust Deaths. In that moment, I couldn’t help but marvel: it’s true what they say—greed knows no bounds, not even among ghosts. Money makes the world—and even hell—go round.

I did wonder, though, how Wang Feiyang happened to have underworld currency on him, but then remembered his profession as a paper craftsman and let it go.

Inside the city, everything was different from the world of the living. The architecture was a bizarre blend: ancient buildings from the Qin and Han dynasties stood beside modern skyscrapers. Cars sped along the avenues, while muscular horses galloped past. The ghosts themselves wore an odd mix of modern clothes and ancient robes.

In short, the City of Unjust Deaths was like a strange fusion of past and present—a place at once familiar and utterly alien.

As I gazed around in wonder, a sudden, eerie sound of pipa music and singing drifted from a nearby square.

“Twice the moon is round at Mid-Autumn,
But who pities souls wandering hell?
Those who sought death find no solace,
Calamity strikes and tears drown the grave.”

The music drew us irresistibly toward the square, where a crowd of spirits had gathered—most of them newly arrived.

In the center of the square sat a young woman, dressed in white gauze with a veil covering her face. She cradled a pipa, singing as she played. Her voice was haunting, ethereal, infused with unending grief and sorrow. Listening, one could not help but feel a wave of sadness well up from within. Soon, I realized many spirits around us were sobbing uncontrollably along with the song.

I, too, found myself in tears, the sadness only growing deeper. But strangely, as the sorrow passed, I felt as if many old knots in my heart were slowly coming undone, my spirit growing lighter and more at peace.

“This is the Kṣitigarbha’s Divine Melody—it cleanses the souls of their attachments to their former lives. That woman must be one of great compassion,” Lü Li’s voice whispered beside me. “Listen closely—this is a rare opportunity. It will do you much good.”

I nodded, unable to help glancing at the woman again and again. Though her face was veiled, I was certain she must be beautiful beyond compare.

Just as I was greedily drinking in the wondrous melody, a sudden curse shattered the moment.

“You again, you ugly freak! Every day you come here with your infernal racket, making everyone’s lives miserable and filling the place with wailing—go to hell!”

With that, a corpulent middle-aged man in embroidered robes barged from the crowd and viciously kicked the young woman. She staggered and fell, reaching instinctively for her pipa, only for the man to stomp on her hand. She let out a muffled cry, her face contorted in pain.

“Ugly freak! If I catch you playing here again, I’ll see your soul scattered!” the man spat, then tore away her veil. “You think you can hide your ugliness behind a veil? With a face like that, you shouldn’t go around scaring people!”

As her veil was ripped away, many in the crowd gasped, disgust twisting their faces. I, too, was startled. I had expected a hidden beauty, but instead, her face was hideously scarred—at least twenty deep, bone-revealing gashes covered her cheeks like monstrous centipedes, enough to chill the blood of anyone who looked upon her.

Panicked, the young woman tried to snatch up her ruined pipa and flee, but the fat man seized her by the hair, forcing her to face the crowd. “This woman cheated on her husband in life,” he sneered, “and was stabbed seventy-two times. Now in the City of Unjust Deaths she still has no shame, flirting wherever she goes—she’s as vile as they come!”

The onlookers immediately turned on her, pointing and whispering with scorn. Tears streamed down her face, innocent and helpless.

I never considered myself a saint, but I still had a conscience. No matter what her life had been, the woman before me seemed pure of heart despite her ruined appearance. As I was about to step forward, Wang Feiyang beat me to it—he drew his bamboo knife and brought it down hard on the fat man’s face.

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