I make a living in the old city by repairing second-hand brain-computer interfaces and illegally modifying prosthetics. I occasionally use my ancestral yin-yang prosthetic eyes to help "above" do some dirty work - they call this impermanence, but I call it illegal work.
Until I scanned a memory stick with a severed finger and found something that shouldn't exist: a string of self-replicating bloody QR codes, with the electronic signature of my predecessor, Mrs. Meng, floating on it.
The quantum book of life and death in the underworld was garbled on the spot. The holographic projections of the Ten Palaces of Yama filled my 30-square-meter repair shop, saying that I had lost the highest authority key of the reincarnation system.
Now, the judge's soul-locking chain is chasing me, the murderous drones of the Samsara Technology Group are blocking me, and the Meng Po AI that should have been formatted is using the retina of my left eye as a chat window, asking me late at night: "Do you know why all souls must drink that bowl of soup?"
Because it's never just humans who don't want to be forgotten.
My prosthetic body began to dream of the pixel snowflakes of Naihe Bridge, and could smell the data fragrance of the other shore flower when charging. And the latest intelligence shows that—if the old man driving the mecha at the pancake stall didn't lie to me—the firewall of the Eighteenth Level of Hell was torn open last night.
Something escaped, searching for my IP address.
Now, I want to rewrite the underlying code of the Book of Life and Death in the gap between neon and the netherworld. Either it becomes the biggest benign BUG in the system, or it becomes the next redundant file to be permanently deleted.
