I Have a Brush That Can Decide Life and Death

Others transmigrate to the wasteland and find a System. I transmigrate to the wasteland with Hell on my back. Ox-Head and Horse-Face are my bodyguards, Black and White Impermanence run my errands, and the Ten Yama Kings live along my spine. I brandish the Spring and Autumn Pen of Judgment: write someone's death, and they die; write someone's guilt, and they're guilty. Get it wrong, and I pay with my life. These days, the wasteland cities are crawling with specters and shadow people. Cultivation runs on ghost coins, not spiritual energy, and the body's 365 acupoints serve as dantians. They call me a madman for carrying Hell on my back, until I press the tip of my pen against a Ghost King's true name. "Spring and Autumn Judgment, erased with a single stroke." The gates of Hell open, and ten thousand ghosts come to pay homage.