As Shen Mobai held the Judge’s Brush, the pen that could decide whether someone lived or died, he wrote the word “Live” on Ji Yueli’s fate page for the third time. Then blood suddenly seeped from the nib.
The Soul Pagoda began to collapse.
The rewritten fates took physical form and came hunting. Those who should have died, now drenched in blood, knocked on the pagoda’s gates at midnight. “Shen Mobai, why are we the ones dying when you wrote our fate...?”
But the most terrifying thing wasn’t these vengeful spirits come to claim his life.
It was the gray brush deep within the fate chart, moving on its own with no one holding it, covering his writing page by page:
“Ji Yueli, fate ends on the sixtieth day, at midnight.”
“Cause of death: soul lamp burns the heart.”
“Writer: Shen Mobai (impostor).”
When the seventh soul lamp spontaneously burst into flame, Shen Mobai finally saw the truth reflected in its fire: those who wrote people’s fates were nothing but puppets controlled by higher-dimensional beings.
Now, they had only sixty days left.
Either find the original fate brush and rewrite all the rules,
or become the next name erased from the fate chart.
