Chapter 158: Public Recruitment

The news that Youling Domain had changed hands had long since spread. Yet, for the countless spirits of the underworld, this “new Lord Yama” barely stirred a ripple. After all, most souls were ordinary; whoever ruled above had little to do with them.

Thus, the new ruler’s arrival passed quietly — until the first decree appeared, shaking the entire Youling Domain to its core.

It happened one night, without any warning. Across every ghost city, a shimmering scroll materialized out of thin air, hanging midair before the gates and crossroads. The decree bore the new Yama’s seal, and though it came silently, its contents exploded through the underworld like thunder.

The proclamation stated that the three ghost judges of Youling, due to their deep attachment to the previous Yama and their desire to seek enlightenment through reincarnation, had voluntarily returned their Books of Life and Death and resigned their positions. Despite the new Lord’s repeated efforts to persuade them to stay, their minds were set.

However, the affairs of Youling were many, and the domain could not go even a day without judges. Therefore, the Yama—reluctantly and with deep regret—announced an open recruitment to select three new ghost judges.

The decree emphasized fairness, transparency, and merit above all. Any spirit within Youling—regardless of cultivation, background, or former rank—could participate, provided they were of good conduct and bore no outstanding sins.

The recruitment process would consist of three rounds:

• The first, a local selection within each ghost city;
• The second, a combined regional selection among all cities;
• The final, a direct assessment in the Hall of Youling, overseen personally by the Yama.

Those chosen would not immediately become full ghost judges but would serve a one-year probation as assistant judges. Only after passing evaluation would they be formally granted the Book of Life and Death. Each judge would serve a twenty-year term, renewable only once.

And as for this curious term limit?

The decree explained it was “to honor the loyalty and long-standing contributions of the departed three judges, whose devotion can never be surpassed.”

In simpler words — the three dismissed ghost judges were portrayed as the Yama’s cherished white moons, immortalized in affectionate remembrance.

The underworld went wild.

Ghost judges were second only to Yama himself — untouchable figures who could walk sideways across any domain. Usually, they were handpicked by the ruler, their positions eternal. No ordinary spirit could ever dream of such power.

Yet now, the door was wide open.

Anyone could compete.

Even though the term was limited, the chance itself was intoxicating. Who wouldn’t leap at the opportunity to rise above all others, even for twenty years—or twenty days?

From newly arrived wandering ghosts to long-established city lords, excitement erupted everywhere. Ghost fires flared, and the underworld buzzed with restless anticipation as spirits counted down the days until the first round began.

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Hall of Reincarnation

When Feng Qing saw the decree plastered across the walls of every city, his face turned so dark it nearly dripped ink. He almost clawed the wall down in fury.

“White moonlight my ass!” he seethed. “We were fired! And now that shameless Yama has the nerve to twist it into some sentimental farewell?! Liar!”

But—no one believed him.

Every ghost, from the lowest errand-runner to the highest warden, was thrilled by the open recruitment. Even the city lords who had promised to join Feng Qing’s rebellion suddenly backtracked.

Not only did they refuse to stir up trouble, they actually began tightening order, managing their cities with newfound zeal — eager to prove themselves “competent, disciplined, and morally upright” candidates for the position.

They weren’t fools. The decree made it clear: anyone could become a ghost judge. And since they already held authority, who had a better chance than they did? Why risk rebellion when the throne might be within reach?

Besides, those closer to the truth knew that the three judges’ Books of Life and Death had already been confiscated — their power halved, their cultivation crippled.

The ghost judge positions had been fixed for a thousand years; this was a once-in-ten-lifetimes chance to replace them. Why side with failure when they could ascend themselves?

By the time Feng Qing realized the situation, it was far too late.

The three ousted ghost judges—once revered and feared—now found themselves completely isolated.

Even the underlings of the Hall of Judgment, once deferential, began whispering behind their backs.

One bright-eyed ghost servant even approached Feng Qing innocently and asked,

“So, when are you heading to the Reincarnation Platform, Lord Feng? We’d all like to see you off properly after so many years working together!”

Feng Qing: “……”

The other two ghost judges: “……”

---

Meanwhile, Yun Jiao spent several days studying the confiscated Book of Life and Death.

Because they had only seized three copies, the volume was incomplete — half a book, half its pages missing.

At first, Yun Jiao had assumed it was like the mythical records of mortal life and death, tracking one’s deeds through all lifetimes. But soon she discovered it was something entirely different — a punitive ledger, an artifact of enforcement.

Every name inscribed within corresponded to a condemned soul. The written judgment—whether torment in fiery hell or reincarnation into wealth—manifested directly upon the soul’s essence. The soul could neither resist nor escape it.

In short, the book wasn’t just a record — it was a binding artifact of command. The ghost judges held dominion over its use, meting out punishment or reward according to each soul’s karma.

Yuan Jiang explained that each domain’s Hall of Judgment contained a Mirror of Retribution. By standing before it, any spirit could see the entirety of its former life. The ghost judges used this to determine fate.

But as Yun Jiao skimmed through the entries, she noticed something odd.

Most records contained brief notes — “Kind soul, benevolent through lifetimes,” or “Sinner, guilty of greed and cruelty.”

Yet some entries bore only a name, with no evaluation — merely an outcome, like ‘Reincarnated to a noble house’ or ‘Appointed underworld guard.’

No cause. No justification.

She tapped her finger against those names, eyes narrowing. A suspicion took root.

This Youling Domain really is a mess, she thought. Han Shu left behind quite the hornet’s nest.

Just as she resolved to have Xi Teng investigate further, her communication talisman suddenly flared.

“Girl—hey, girl—!” came the old man’s hurried voice, sounding both anxious and congested.

“Old man?” Yun Jiao frowned. “You live right behind me. Couldn’t you just shout? Why use the talisman?”

“Just get over here! The underworld sent someone again!” His tone was strange — half alarmed, half bewildered.

“Oh?” Yun Jiao didn’t hesitate. She rose and strode to the rear courtyard.

The moment she stepped through the door, she felt it — the heavy, freezing yin energy pouring from within.

“Achoo!”

There sat the old man, wrapped in a blanket, sniffling pitifully on the bed. Before him knelt three male spirits, semi-transparent yet disciplined and deferential, their ghostly forms emanating faint traces of the Book of Life and Death’s aura.

Despite their power, they looked nervous — almost humble.

Yun Jiao’s eyes brightened instantly.

“Well, well,” she said, lips curling. “That was quick.”

(End of this chapter)