“Mr. Chance, the Supreme has gone…” The sudden voice skittered along Jared’s spine; he jerked around. Several paces away, the man he had once called the Lord of Reincarnation still knelt, forehead nearly touching the dust. Jared’s fist found the Dragonslayer Sword, and the blade sang free, aimed squarely at the kneeling figure.
“Lord of Reincarnation, what are you planning?” “Mr. Chance, I just realized… My legs are numb…” The man’s voice trembled with equal parts pain and embarrassment.
“Then… Then stand up!” Jared eased backward, letting two cautious steps open the gap. “Thank you, Mr. Chance…” The kneeling man unfolded himself slowly. “My name is Luther, not any Lord. I merely stole my clan’s Door of Reincarnation… I have offended you more than once. Please, accept my apology.”
With a stiff ninety-degree bend at the waist, Luther held the bow as if waiting for a verdict. The sincerity in that posture cooled Jared’s nerves; he slid the Dragonslayer Sword back into its sheath.
“Tell me this: where exactly are we? And what is the Ghost Clan?”
The questions burst out before Jared could soften them. With Mr. Sanders gone, Luther was the only thread left to pull. Luther lowered his head in a formal bow. The gesture was crisp, almost soldierly, yet it carried a weary respect. He raised a gloved hand toward the shattered mountain chain squatting on the horizon.
“Mr. Chance, we stand on the edge of the North Abyss Wasteland, within Level Thirteen,” he said, the title ringing like a verdict. A sigh rasped behind his words, as though every syllable had to pass through centuries of dust. “Those ruins were once a main stronghold of our Ghost Clan.”
“Level Thirteen?”
The phrase hit Jared like the snap of an unexpected gate. He was still only in the Heavenly Immortal Realm; every manual swore the upper heavens demanded long rituals, tokens, and trials. Jared blinked, half expecting the scenery to shiver back into something lower, more believable. Nothing changed.
Gold-blooded Aurelian, crafty Blaine, proud Oswald—he had offered none of them a goodbye. Vermilion Demon Lord was probably still pacing the border, waiting for word that he’d survived. And the women who carried pieces of his heart—he hadn’t even started those farewells.
“Exactly,” Luther confirmed. He drew in a deliberate breath, thoughts arranging behind his eyes before he let them spill. “The celestial realm is crowded… Countless races, more than stories bother to count,” he began, voice low. “Humans, beasts, demons… Everyone remembers their banners. But a few lines run older, stranger. My people belong there.”
Jared caught a flicker in the man’s pupils, as if the memories themselves weighed more than the words.
“We aren’t born from wandering ghosts,” Luther went on. “We arrive already tuned to soul, death, and the turning wheel. From our first breath, we can coax the border open, escort the lost, and even hold a shard of the cycle’s authority.”
Luther’s tone didn’t boast; it confessed. “Back in the oldest days, the Ghost Clan kept death’s ledger for all Three Realms, with sanctuaries on every sky. Souls came to us, and we sent them onward.”
Jared’s gaze drifted again toward the fractured ridges. “Then what shattered all this?”
A crooked smile peeled across Luther’s face, pain threading it into something closer to a wince. “Glory always breeds its own ruin,” he said quietly, then shook his head. “But ours wasn’t a storm or quake. It was… hands…”
The air seemed to thin while he searched for a starting point. “Thirty thousand years ago,” he began, “our Ghost King… people called him the Abyssal Ghost King, stood so tall the heavens heard him. He studied reincarnation until a crack of dawning ran through the Law itself. He decided the current cycle was rigged. The wicked hid behind strong souls or forbidden rites, slipped punishment, and even carried their memories into the next life. The gentle and the small, meanwhile, were ground thin until they vanished.”
A low hum, maybe the memory of old chanting, vibrated in Luther’s throat. “So he vowed to forge a new wheel, one the Ghost Clan alone could keep balanced. We poured everything into the attempt—blood, artifacts, years. That Door of Reincarnation you glimpsed was only the brightest piece.”
Jared leaned in before he thought better of it. “That sounds noble. Why would it invite catastrophe?”
“Noble?” Luther echoed, a rough laugh scraping out alongside the single word, as if the very idea tasted bitter. Luther shook his head, light catching the mockery simmering behind his eyes. “Mr. Chance, you’re far too naive. Tearing open a separate path means ripping a piece of the reincarnation principle out of the existing cosmic order and forcing it under your own hand.”
The words hung between them, sour and electric. Luther’s voice hardened as he continued, “Doing that is the same as carving up divine authority—a direct challenge to whatever power keeps the stars moving.”
Jared’s throat tasted of metal. Luther pressed on as though lecturing a stubborn child. “Think about the great clans, sects, even lone masters. Once they climb high enough, ordinary rebirth bores them. They want to reincarnate with memories intact, maybe even leap clear of the cycle altogether to live forever.”
A dull pulse started behind Jared’s eyes.
“For the Ghost Clan to build perfectly fair reincarnation,” Luther said, “we’d have to strip those giants of their private shortcuts.” The room seemed to shrink around the admission. “That slashes at too many vested interests. The cosmic order won’t permit open rebellion, and those powers certainly won’t watch their immortality schemes burn.”
Jared pictured silent nods exchanged in dark halls.
“So an extermination campaign against the Ghost Clan began, everyone pretending they weren’t working together, yet striking in perfect rhythm.” Luther’s tone dipped, heavy as a funeral drum. “First came backlash from the cycle itself. Our people found their cultivation blocked; the clan’s fortune withered.”
He drew a slow breath, shoulders quivering once. “Then the strongest celestials and Ancient Clan lords rallied dozens of forces. They branded us usurpers meddling with reincarnation and launched a full purge.”
Luther’s next words crawled through Jared’s bones. “That battle… sky torn, earth split, sun and moon erased. We were fierce, but how do you stand against the cosmos and half the realm’s might?”
Hearing this, images burst behind Jared’s eyes: burning citadels, falling spirits.
“Strongholds shattered, kin fell. To cover our retreat, the Ghost King ignited several supreme treasures with his own essence. The invaders bled, but the King’s soul scattered, one sliver sealed deep within the Reincarnation Division, forever asleep.”
Luther’s hands curled, nails whitening. “After that, the clan splintered. Survivors fled, hiding names, never daring to call ourselves Ghost Clan again. Most of our treasures were ruined or lost. My branch escaped with a damaged Door of Reincarnation, burrowing into a secret corner of Level Thirteen to gasp for breath.”
Tears glazed Luther’s eyes before he forced them back, lids blinking hard. He steadied himself. “After ten thousand years of quiet recovery, we’ve clawed back a fraction of our strength, yet our masters are gone and the lineages lie in tatters. Among my generation, I carry the sharpest spark. The elders pinned their hopes on me: repair the Door, wake the Ghost King, restore the clan.”
Bitterness seeped into his smile. “Before I could mend the Door, enemies sniffed out our refuge. The devastation you saw outside is rubble from that ancient war. My kin threw everything into spiriting me away; otherwise, I’d be ash with the rest.”
Heat pricked Jared’s brow; he finally found his voice. “So you dragged the Door down to Level Twelve, put on the title of Lord of Reincarnation, and started harvesting souls to patch it?”
