"The Undying Lord of the Underworld"

Chapter 1: Necromancer Tap... tap... tap... Heavy footsteps echoed through the quiet alley. A lean figure slipped swiftly through the moonlit passage, moving like a shadow carried on the wind… Here we go. The moment he emerged from the alley, he stopped cold. His eyes locked onto the gruesome crash scene up ahead. Instinctively, he raised his right hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. The young man stood over six feet tall, lean and athletic. He wore a gray Zhongshan suit—once blue, now faded from countless washes. Most couldn’t pull off a suit like that, but on him, it looked sharp and clean. His name was Wang Ming. Sixteen years old, a freshman at Yingcai High School. His looks were plain—the kind of average guy you wouldn’t expect to knock out three attackers with a single brick. Not handsome, not ugly—just ordinary. He stared coldly at the traffic cops milling around and the twisted, eerie corpse under the police tape. His fists clenched so tight they cracked. To most, it was just another tragic traffic accident. But Wang Ming knew better. Taking a few deep breaths, his expression hardened. He raised his hands before his chest, fingers moving fast through a series of intricate hand seals. In under a second, he cycled through a dozen of them while murmuring, “The Twenty-Third Secret of the Path of Darkness—Dark Eye!” As he spoke, Wang Ming pressed his index and middle fingers to his forehead, then spread his hands apart from the center of his brow. A faint flicker of light flashed and vanished at his forehead’s center. To any casual onlooker, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But in that instant, the world around Wang Ming shifted. The scene ahead brightened. Two ghostly figures appeared on the street. One was the man who’d died in the crash; the other wore a twisted, feral grin. The dead man’s ghost crouched over his own body, clutching his head, wracked with torment and confusion, unaware of his fate. The other figure, perched on the street barrier, flicked out a long tongue and licked its lips with a sinister grin. Wang Ming’s fury surged. He knew exactly what had happened. The ghost on the barrier had caused the crash—deliberately spreading the same pain it had suffered onto others. A spirit desperate to drag others down with it. But no matter how furious he felt, Wang Ming was powerless. Humans and ghosts walked different paths. All he could do was watch. His real frustration was the helplessness gnawing at him. At this very intersection—counting today’s accident—it was the sixth time in eight months that this ghost had struck. Six lives lost because of it, and Wang Ming hadn’t been able to stop a single one. The ghost’s trick was simple. It used psychic influence to cloud the driver’s mind. A moment of distraction, a spike of panic, a loss of control—that was enough to cause a deadly crash. Usually, a sober, alert driver could resist such interference. But those who were drunk, exhausted, or mentally drained—like most late-night drivers—were easy prey. If only people were more careful, Wang Ming thought bitterly. If only they’d stop drinking and driving, get some rest, take care of themselves… He sighed, knowing there was nothing left to do now. His job was to help each soul find peace quickly—to spare it further torment. It was part of his own cultivation journey. He glanced again at the ghost crouching by its body. For the next seven days, the spirit would be trapped within a seven-meter radius of the crash site. According to Chinese tradition, there’s a custom called the “Seven-Day Memorial.” For seven days, souls linger near their bodies while families hold memorial services. The belief is that the seven souls of the dead gradually dissipate, one each day. By the seventh day, the spirit is truly free. Until then, the soul remains conscious, unable to escape. It sees everything and hears every word. Wang Ming’s task was to collect those seven souls, which had begun to decay into necromantic energy—the so-called “necromantic elements.” By harnessing them, he could cast powerful spells. In truth, Wang Ming was a low-key necromancer, quietly living in the city. Without hesitation, his hands moved again, weaving through a new series of intricate seals. As he spoke, “The Fourteenth Secret of the Path of Darkness—Soul Capture!” he thrust his right hand forward, fingers spread. Seven colorful orbs—red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, and purple—emerged from the corpse and shot toward Wang Ming one after another. Whoosh… whoosh… whoosh… Each orb, about the size of a fist, swirled into his outstretched hand and vanished without a trace. At the same time, the ghost of the victim, still crouching, began to glow softly with a holy light. The figure blurred, then transformed into pure white light, which drifted away on the breeze… Phew... Wang Ming exhaled, ending the ritual. He glanced back at the Crash Ghost, still perched on the railing, eyes burning with rage. With a sneer, Wang Ming turned and walked away. His footsteps faded into the distance as he slowly raised his right arm, clenched his fist, and pointed his middle finger toward the sky. The Ghost of the Fatal Collision practically exploded with fury. Six times in eight months it had succeeded—and every time, Wang Ming had ruined its plans, stealing the satisfaction of watching its victims suffer. For the ghost, tormenting others was pure, cruel pleasure. But anger alone was useless. Just as Wang Ming was powerless against the ghost’s influence, the ghost was equally powerless against him. It was a lowly, petty spirit—its only power was to disturb weakened minds briefly. Beyond that, it was nothing.