My name is Meng Ping, and I was originally just the body caretaker of the funeral parlor.
It wasn't until that night that the heartbeats of all the remains in the freezer area recovered at the same time. A piece of yellow paper fell from the main hall of the City God's Temple to me, and a line of ink automatically appeared on it: "The rules of the underworld have collapsed, and the City God is absent. You are specially appointed as the 48th judge. Your term will last until death."
I got two things: a "Code of Conduct of the Underworld" that automatically updates rule entries but never explains the reasons, and a judge's pen that can predict the trajectory of all weird "next" actions.
Rule No. 1: Never take off your mask in front of a living person.
Rule 13: Do not look directly into the face of the deceased who was last seen before death.
Rule 206: The image in the mirror cannot answer more than three sentences. If the other person calls your name, close your eyes immediately.
Every code is a lock. It's not the ghost that's locked – it's me.
From the bride who was pushed into the river on her wedding night, to the drowned boy who sang nursery rhymes by the river every night; from the paper figures turning their heads in unison in the middle of the night in the paper shop, to the word "wait" carved all over the wall deep in the cellar. I reverse the verdict for the dead, deliver messages for the living, and find a way home for those who have suffered grievances that have been omitted by the rules.
I found an encrypted hidden comment between the words of a code - the code restricts not ghosts, but judges. Each judge signed the same consideration clause at the end of his term. The previous judge did not disappear - he was taken away by the rules himself after signing the price.
And the reason why I was chosen was never because I had the lightest horoscope.
It's because my mother deleted a taboo twenty years ago...
