Chapter 3: One Task, Three Rewards
1356 Words
The deliberations of the great gods of the Underworld had little to do with Yang Yan.
At least, that was how she preferred it.
While the death gods debated borders, territories, and divine authority within the black spires of the City of Hades, Yang Yan remained at the threshold of the Underworld, where chaos had only just begun to settle. She planted the ghostly torch Hecate had given her firmly into the obsidian ground at the entrance. Pale blue flame blossomed upward, neither hot nor cold, illuminating the endless gloom like a lighthouse in a sea of shadows.
It became a beacon.
Souls arriving from the mortal world instinctively gathered around it, guided by its gentle glow. Panic softened. Screaming faded to murmurs. The torch did not judge, did not threaten—it simply marked the way forward.
Satisfied, Yang Yan withdrew to the side, sat cross-legged upon a slab of black stone, and turned inward.
She had far more important things to do.
The magic inheritance granted by the Moon Goddess, Hecate, unfurled within her consciousness like a living text, layer upon layer of symbols, principles, and half-forgotten truths older than mortal civilization. To Hecate, these teachings were insignificant, a fragment of her endless knowledge. To Yang Yan, they were a doorway flung open onto an infinite road.
Magic.
In every world, magic had always belonged to the night.
In her former life, she remembered reading about Europe’s witch hunts, centuries of fear fueled by ignorance. Women burned at stakes beneath the moon, accused of drawing power from darkness, of consorting with demons, of bending fate itself. The moon had been worshiped and feared in equal measure, revered as sacred and cursed as profane.
Here, those ancient fears were not superstition.
They were history.
Yang Yan slowly organized the knowledge flooding her mind. In this world’s mythology, the earliest god of magic was Coeus, Titan of intellect and dark wisdom, one of the Twelve born of Gaia. Together with his consort Phoebe, goddess of the new moon, he had shaped the foundations of magic itself.
Phoebe defined magic’s attributes, light and dark, growth and decay, life and death.
Coeus explored its mechanism.
Thought.
Will.
Consciousness.
At its core, magic was not prayer, nor divine authority. It was not borrowed power. It was the act of imposing one’s intent upon the world. The strength of magic depended not on bloodline alone, but on mental force—the clarity and endurance of one’s will.
That was why many mages went mad.
The lineage of Coeus leaned toward darkness. Much of its magic was destructive, sacrificial, and ruthless, black magic in its purest sense. And Yang Yan, now an undead soul standing at the gate of the Underworld, could not have been better aligned with it.
She was already half-shadow.
Her right eye, the ash-gray Eye of the Gods, perceived truths hidden from mortals. The ghostly torch beside her resonated with moonlight and death. Combined, they accelerated her learning at an alarming rate.
Days passed.
Order continued to spread.
One day, a familiar presence shuffled toward her.
Nubi, death god of decay and corpses, looked worse than usual. His steps dragged. His eyelids drooped. He yawned so widely that his jaw cracked.
“Message from the City of Hades,” he said lazily. “We’re to establish a temporary judgment court at the entrance. Souls who contribute labor will have their work recorded.”
Yang Yan looked up from her meditation and smiled, a soft, pleasant smile that immediately made Nubi uneasy.
“Lord Nubi,” she said sweetly, “please don’t consult a wandering soul about divine administration. And as always, no benefits, no labor.”
She turned back to her magic, clearly dismissing him.
In the past few days, familiarity had eroded fear. These death gods were powerful, yes, but they were also petty, emotional, lazy, and absurdly human. Immortal authority did not erase flaws.
Nubi hesitated, then plopped down beside her with all the elegance of a collapsing corpse.
“I heard His Majesty himself said that those who perform exceptionally well in settling the souls may be considered for ascension,” he said, peeking at her expression. “Godhood.”
Yang Yan paused.
Godhood.
The word echoed in her mind.
To become a god was infinitely preferable to drifting eternally as a nameless soul, even one destined for Elysium.
But she was not naïve.
“And the workload?” she asked calmly.
“Oh, trivial,” Nubi said quickly. “Just recruit some mortals to mine magic stones in the northern regions. Then help construct Hell.”
Yang Yan raised an eyebrow.
“So labor converts into merit. Mine enough magic stones, enter Elysium early. Top contributor ascends.” She smiled knowingly.
“This sounds exactly like Lord Hades’s thinking. All you need is a ledger. Simple.”
She tilted her head.
“So why aren’t you doing it?”
“I need to sleep,” Nubi said shamelessly. “I haven’t rested properly since the mass extinction. Now that things are calming down, I plan to sleep for… a few years.”
“A few years?” Yang Yan stared.
Then she sighed.
Of course. In a realm of eternal gloom, sleep was practically a pastime. It explained why Hypnos, god of sleep, ranked so highly among the gods.
“I’ll help,” Yang Yan said at last, her lips curving strangely. “But I’ve just learned a new spell. If Your Excellency would assist me with… experimentation.”
Nubi laughed. “Sure. I’m protected by divine power. I won’t even defend myself.”
He stood confidently.
“Don’t regret this,” Yang Yan said softly.
She lifted Hecate’s torch.
“O Moon without Light. O Moon of Ghosts.
By my name, by my will—”
She tapped the torch.
A pale blue beam struck Nubi.
He shivered violently.
Then blinked.
Then laughed.
“Nothing happened,” he said smugly. “Your magic’s weak, Hermona. Want me to lend you my divine mark so you can use my godly arts?”
Yang Yan smiled faintly and extinguished the torch.
“Seems the spell failed. You may return to rest, my lord.”
Nubi frowned. Something felt wrong—but no matter how he checked, nothing appeared amiss. Muttering, he shuffled back toward his temple.
The moment he left, Hart—the god of teleportation—appeared beside Yang Yan, whistling as he tossed her a jet-black crystal.
“As agreed.”
It was a supreme-grade magic stone, a treasure born deep within the Underworld.
Meanwhile, Nubi’s handsome face began sprouting coarse gray fur. His nose elongated slowly, imperceptibly, reshaping itself.
“The spell lasts three days,” Yang Yan murmured. “Gradual transformation. No one will compete with you for Lady Siduna during that time.”
A messy love triangle.
Siduna adored Nubi, who noticed nothing. Hart loved Siduna and seethed with jealousy. When Siduna’s attention lingered on Nubi, Hart begged Yang Yan for help.
One task.
Two rewards.
Hart snapped his fingers, transporting Yang Yan directly to the newly formed judgment hall.
Siduna stood inside, struggling to persuade mortal tribal leaders. Their faces were weary, hopeless.
“We’re already dead,” one said bitterly. “Why struggle further?”
“To enter Elysium, one must be virtuous,” Yang Yan replied gently. “Those burdened by sin face Hell.”
“Then why help build our own prison?” another laughed darkly.
Yang Yan smiled—and tore his heart from his chest.
Gasps echoed.
“You’re dead,” she said calmly. “Why fear?”
Black smoke revealed his crimes—temple theft, assassination, murder.
Siduna considered. “Hell, several millennia.”
Yang Yan slipped fabricated visions of torment into the man’s mind—mountains of blades, seas of fire.
She returned the heart.
“Work now,” she said softly, “and perhaps all is forgiven.”
Silence fell.
Later, Siduna gifted Yang Yan a golden netherflower.
“One task,” Yang Yan thought happily. “Three rewards.”
And thus, the machinery of judgment began to turn.
- Writer
