My name is Yang Jiang, and poverty was always chasing me down to take my life. After I breathed my last, the Underworld's new regulations came into effect. I begged the Judge to let me stay behind and work as a volunteer in the Underworld. I got food and a place to sleep, and even without a permanent position, I wouldn't starve. After ten years as a “temporary worker of the netherworld,” I somehow became the Underworld's most seasoned slacker.
Then disaster struck without warning. The living world was overrun by “anomalies,” and a strict rule was imposed: any registered Underworld employee who set foot in the human realm would have their soul destroyed.
The Judge shoved a black wooden token engraved with “Agent of the Living World” into my hand. It was hot as a branding iron. “You're the only ghost in the whole Underworld who's not on the official rolls and can go.”
I stared at the dark red markings seeping across the token and suddenly remembered what it felt like to starve to death. Turns out that compared with dying poor, going to the human realm to clean up the “new stuff” for the Kings of Hell is what can really get you killed.
