Chapter 69: The Eighteen Levels of Hell

Chapter 69: The Eighteen Levels of Hell

The moment I stepped through the hall doors of the Northern Yin Fengdu Office, the Black and White Wuchang flashed aside at once, regarding me with newfound respect. Perhaps they had never seen anyone dare talk back to their boss before.

Since the city lord had already told me I could wander wherever I pleased, why bother with politeness? There was no need to hurry off.

I went first to the Merit Officer’s Office, then wandered through the Hall of the Ten Yama Kings.

The entire Ghostdark City Lord’s Castle looked, on the surface, like a building complex straight out of the underworld. In truth, it was nothing more than a mimicked administrative zone. The man serving as King Qinguang, foremost among the Ten Yama Kings, was none other than the one who had crossed force of consciousness with me back in the Northern Yin Fengdu Office.

I walked into his office.

When he saw me come in, he didn’t stand on ceremony. He simply poured himself a cup of tea, drank it, and said, “Want some? Pour it yourself.”

So I poured my own cup, sat down across from him, and asked, “Your force of consciousness—rank ten?”

King Qinguang said, “What do you mean by that? Still not convinced?”

“Not at all,” I said. “You’re strong, genuinely. I just want to understand how force of consciousness gets ranked. Martial techniques I understand—rank one through nine, and anything past ten counts as Great Grandmaster. But force of consciousness seems to work differently. The same thickness, the same strength, and yet depending on how it’s used, the results can be worlds apart. Take Yuan Lingliang, for instance. Her force of consciousness isn’t especially strong, but she knows mind arts, and she’s a nightmare to fight. What rank would that make her? How is it even measured?”

King Qinguang said, “Force of consciousness, at its core, is insight—not brute force. So it isn’t measured by strength but by intensity. Strength affects intensity, certainly, but the two aren’t the same thing. Intensity is the measure of influence itself. When we fought, I pressed you with sheer strength. At first, you tried to match me strength for strength. Judged that way, you’d likely have lost. But you adapted—you turned to intensity instead, and that’s the true way to wield force of consciousness. I respect that. As for Yuan Lingliang, the young lady of the Ziyun Sect? I know of her. We fear her too, and not only because she’s close with Pu Liuqian. Her mind arts can turn to water, or turn to needles. Not much strength behind them, but the intensity, the sheer destructive edge—that’s what makes her dangerous. So the ranking of force of consciousness comes down to intensity. Influence, in other words.”

“So that’s it,” I said. “The city lord tried to get me to take a post here earlier. I refused. Then he tried a different tack, telling me the force of consciousness here was abundant and powerful, that this was the best place to cultivate insight.”

King Qinguang said, “He wasn’t lying to you. The force of consciousness here truly is formidable—this is prime ground for harvesting it. If you’re willing to go down to the Eighteen Levels of Hell, that’s where it runs strongest. Though I warn you, it won’t be pleasant. Tenacious force of consciousness tends to belong to those who have suffered. People who’ve lived easy, untroubled lives rarely develop it. And force of consciousness has to be realized through insight—it can’t be poured into you the way martial technique can. It’s a spiritual force you generate yourself.”

“Duly noted,” I said. “So how do I get into the Eighteen Levels of Hell? Do I have to die first? What would be the point of that? Buddhist doctrine says once you’re in, you need a full cycle of reincarnation just to get back out.”

King Qinguang said, “Our Eighteen Levels of Hell here in Ghostdark City isn’t the real netherworld. It’s simply a mimicked form used to hold Ghostdark City’s prisoners. You’ve seen how many obsessive types wander this city. Aside from those who cause real trouble and are executed on the spot, ordinary offenders still need somewhere to be detained. Hell serves to wake them up, not merely to punish them. If you want to go, I can appoint you judge, or you could enter in soul-state. Either way, you’d come away with something. My own force of consciousness reaching rank ten owes a great deal to holding this post. Otherwise, who in their right mind would want to serve down here?”

“Then, my thanks,” I said. “I can’t yet separate into soul-state, though. Might be that my strength hasn’t reached the point of manifestation.”

King Qinguang stared at me, startled. “Your force of consciousness can’t manifest at all? Then your strength doesn’t even reach rank five. Anyone whose force-of-consciousness strength exceeds rank five can manifest it. And here I am, rank ten, fighting an under-five opponent to a draw. That’s a little humiliating, honestly. Though if we’re measuring by intensity, your force of consciousness might well be rank ten—you’ve got more tricks than most. Which means your room for growth in raw strength is enormous. If you don’t go see the darkest corner of Ghostdark City, it would be a tremendous loss.”

“Which is exactly why I came to you,” I said. “At least we got acquainted through fighting.”

King Qinguang suddenly bent down, produced something, and handed it to me. “This is the Judge’s Brush. I’ll have someone draw up a formal appointment and log it into the system shortly. Take this, and go find the Black and White Wuchang.”

I cupped my hands. “Then, my thanks.”

I left King Qinguang’s office and went in search of the Black and White Wuchang, Judge’s Brush in hand.

Truth be told, neither the city lord Feng Du nor this King Qinguang were friends of mine. If they meant to use this whole affair to set a trap for me, so be it—I’d already come prepared to fight to the death if it came to that. If things went badly enough, I could always log out and walk away. No one could stop me.

When I found the Black and White Wuchang, the sight of the Judge’s Brush in my hand told them everything. But when they learned I meant to go down to the Eighteen Levels of Hell, both looked genuinely stunned. It wasn’t a pleasant place. Not only was it full of suffering; more importantly, there was also that fishy stench.

Fortunately, I wasn’t going down as a prisoner but as an official. I could leave whenever I liked. They had nothing more to say to that.

From the administrative wing of the castle, we made our way to a shadowed corner on its northern wall, where a small stone house stood. Inside, the room was entirely bare except for a small iron door set into the floor, leading downward. The Black and White Wuchang pointed and said simply, “There.” Then they urged me to descend on my own—clearly neither wished to linger a moment longer than necessary.

I pressed the Judge’s Brush into the lock of the iron door, and it swung open.

Lifting the door, I found a pitch-black vertical shaft below, its walls smooth on every side, without so much as a rung of a ladder. To go up or down, one could only fly. As for prisoners—weighed down with restraints and needing to be locked away—I imagined they were simply thrown in.

I leapt down. The shaft went far deeper than I’d expected, and the smell was every bit as foul as promised.

I flew all the way to the bottom of the Eighteen Levels of Hell, where I found, at its very center, a sprawling tribunal—like a yamen caught mid-session. Every prop and fixture followed magistrate convention to the letter: the main hall, the Admonition Stone Arch, the session drum, punishment slips, the judge’s desk, ranks of constables, kneeling stones, ceremonial regalia—all of it present and accounted for.

Jailers stood in ranks flanking the judge’s desk. And on the high seat behind it sat another living King Qinguang. A glance with my penetrating waves told me the truth—this was merely his manifested soul-state, or perhaps better understood as a projection of his force of consciousness. The man himself had never actually come down.

That King Qinguang could project his force of consciousness this deep spoke volumes about the sheer strength behind rank ten. Something I, at present, was nowhere near capable of.

I had barely reached the desk when King Qinguang spoke. “Now that you’ve come down, the cases from here on are yours to hear. Judge each prisoner’s crime by the statutes, and decide which prison suits their punishment. Watch their suffering closely while you’re here—consider it a form of cultivation.”

I cupped my hands. “Very well.”

The words had barely left my mouth before his figure vanished entirely.

So, quite naturally, I took the seat he’d just vacated.

The instant I sat down, information flooded my mind like a rising tide—the administration of the Eighteen Levels of Hell, its laws, the number of prisoners held, all of it pouring in at once.

So this was how officials handed over their posts. Convenient, at least.

But I sat there for some time without a single new prisoner arriving. Not far off, though, the cells rang with voices crying injustice, crying pain, crying misery—resentment thick in the air.

With nothing else to do, I wandered over to see for myself.

The cells radiated outward from the tribunal at the center, forming a rough circle, with perhaps a dozen corridors branching out like spokes. Cells lined both sides of every corridor, each one dark and reeking of that same fishy stench.

Every cell here bore its own number and name, most modeled after the traditional Eighteen Levels of Hell—the Copper Pillar Prison, the Boiling Oil Cauldron Prison, the Wrongful Death Prison, the Steamer Prison, the Knife-and-Saw Prison, and so on. There was no actual boiling oil, no blades carving into souls—but inside each prisoner’s mind, the corresponding torment played out vividly all the same, a fitting punishment for whatever crime had landed them there.

Prisoners in the Steamer Prison, for instance, weren’t physically steamed—but within their own minds, the agony of the steamer was every bit as real, a punishment tailored exactly to their offense.

I stopped at the entrance to one such cell and peered in. Three men were held inside. One was fat, with the look of a merchant. Another, an old man, appeared ill, lying on the ground and twitching without pause. The third had the bearing of a hardened criminal, sitting bolt upright, glaring at me with open malice.

The files that had downloaded into my mind moments earlier explained why all three were here: grave disrespect toward the Shadow Pavilion.

I addressed the fat merchant first. “This is a virtual world. Why not simply log out to the real one, and spare yourself the suffering?”

The fat merchant said, “You’re the new judge, aren’t you? It isn’t that we can’t leave. We choose to stay and accept the punishment. That’s how we redeem our sins and earn back our qualifications as elite people. Without that, even returning to the real world would leave us with nowhere to belong.”

“And how exactly did you show disrespect to the Shadow Pavilion?” I asked.

The fat merchant said, “I was drinking with some friends once, and I questioned whether the Shadow Pavilion was even human. I said I thought whatever ruled over us wasn’t made up of real people, but was a highly intelligent supercomputer.”

I was about to turn to the other two when the muscular one let out a fierce snort in my direction, unprompted.

The malice in his glare was unmistakable. I gathered my force of consciousness into the Judge’s Brush, pointed it at him, and said, “By regulation, I have the authority to intensify your punishment—more of the steamer’s torment, if you’d like. You refuse to accept that?”

The fierce man said, “Go ahead, then! Make it worse! All any of you know how to do is torture people with these cheap tricks. I won’t hand it over that easily. If you’ve got the nerve, let me out and we’ll settle this face to face!”

Hand over what?

I hadn’t asked for anything. What was he talking about?

I turned my same-frequency sensing on him at once and confirmed it—he’d been on the receiving end of escalating abuse for some time. “This is my first day,” I said. “Whoever’s been tormenting you, it wasn’t me. You don’t have to hate me for it. Though I suppose you’re welcome to anyway, seeing as I’m the one managing you now.”

The fierce man said, “Same pack of jackals, all of you. I won’t accept that. Fight me face to face, if you’ve got it in you.”

“You’ve got nerve,” I said. “Fine. Say I give you one shot at me. I won’t take advantage. But if you lose—what then?”

The man said, “Worst case, I hand over every scrap of insight I’ve gained into force of consciousness. But if you lose, you let me out. Legally. Immediately.”

What?

Insight into force of consciousness could actually be handed over?

Neither the city lord nor King Qinguang had ever mentioned such a thing.

I immediately turned my same-frequency sensing toward his consciousness to probe it. He sensed the intrusion instantly and threw up a defensive barrier within his own mind. “Don’t bother trying to take it that way,” he said. “I’ve sealed off my insight. You won’t get it unless I open it up myself.”

Oh?

So the moment someone chose to open their insight into force of consciousness, I could simply draw it out through same-frequency sensing?

If that were true, I’d be sitting on a fortune.

Every prisoner down here would be fair game.

No wonder the city lord had called it “harvesting.” So that word meant exactly what it said.

No wonder they’d called this place a treasure ground for force of consciousness. The real treasure here wasn’t some overflow of emotion, wasn’t the flowing of force of consciousness—it was plunder, plain and simple.

No wonder the streets were crawling with obsessive, extreme people, and yet no one ever seemed to harvest their insight. And here they’d tried to convince me I needed to come suffer through this place myself, that my own insight was somehow lacking. None of it—not people’s obsession, not their extremity, not any supposed deficiency in my own insight—had anything to do with the truth of it.