Chapter 109: The Tide of Death

Luo Hanyai stepped out of the dilapidated door into a vast, pitch-black expanse. The roar of waves crashing against dark, jagged reefs harmonized with the howling wind, creating a scene of supernatural terror.

"Come now, let us welcome our guest," the man in white clapped his hands. A dim, yellowish light instantly illuminated the coastline.

Countless dim lamps were densely scattered across the barren, saline soil. Far from bringing hope, they radiated an aura of dread and death. The flickering light flowed slowly, like the waters of the Yellow Springs, washing over this land of the dead.

Beneath that sickly glow, the landscape was a sea of graves. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tombs were scattered across the flats. A few hundred meters away lay the abyss of the black ocean, the final destination of the departed, as if this place were a gateway to the underworld.

"So... what exactly do you want me to do?" Even at this juncture, Luo Hanyai did not forget to play his part, diligent and dedicated to his charade.

"We have reached this point; must you continue to feign ignorance?"

"Ah? I don't understand what you mean."

"Still playing dumb? Shall I help you understand?"

"What exactly do you need me to do?" Luo Hanyai looked deeply at the man in white, dropping his facade and waiting quietly for the instructions.

The man in white seemed to smile. He pointed toward the distance. "Enter the tide. Retrieve my lamp."

"Enter the tide?"

"Yes, enter the Tide of Death."

[Special Mission Triggered: Enter the Tide of Death]

Looking at the man in white and hearing the system notification, Luo Hanyai felt he was losing his mind. The Mist Inn was indeed a nest of ghosts, and every deadly spirit seemed intent on hunting him down, ready to claim his life at the slightest whim.

"But which one is your lamp?"

"The brightest one is mine."

Luo Hanyai shrugged in resignation and stepped into the graveyard. The atmosphere inside was entirely different from the edge. The desolate, salt-crusted earth was devoid of life, surrounded by graves from various eras. Each tomb was topped with a lamp, though they looked more like will-o'-the-wisps. With not a single living soul in sight, this was a kingdom of the dead. Sighing, Luo Hanyai turned back, only to find the path he had taken had vanished. He wandered aimlessly among the mounds, his eyes fixed on the countless earth-mounds that resembled rounded loaves of bread.

These graves spanned generations; some appeared ancient, while others looked freshly dug. Many were fashioned from stone and brick, featuring stone walls behind and on either side, resembling a person sitting in an armchair—likely a figure of importance in life. Others were merely mounds of soil dug from the salt flats, lacking stones, bricks, or even tombstones—nameless, humble humps of earth.

A strange sound suddenly pierced the gloom from above. Startled, Luo Hanyai looked up and saw a black bird—a crow—soaring overhead.

The crow flapped its wings and landed atop a massive tomb. This grave was distinct from the others; under the dim light, it shimmered like glass. A bundle of withered branches was thrust into it, the bare twigs reaching toward the sky like the skeletal fingers of a corpse. The crow perched upon them, its black feathers standing out against the dark, its eyes gleaming with a sickly, yellowish pallor. Its claws gripped the dead wood like a reaper claiming a soul.

The crow tilted its head, fixing its gaze upon Luo Hanyai, as if observing him.

A tremor ran through Luo Hanyai. An instinctual, inescapable dread welled up from the depths of his soul, as if he had encountered his natural predator—the predator of the living.

"No! No!" Luo Hanyai felt as if his soul were being ripped away. The terror of his spirit detaching from his body returned, and the scent of death permeated his senses.

In a haze, Luo Hanyai saw a strange vision: an isolated island surrounded by water, rising high above the surface, covered in dark rocks and white cliffs, with countless graves scattered between them. It looked like a black-and-white film from an old television. Against this suffocating monochrome backdrop, a pitch-black boat drifted toward the island, with a man in white standing at the prow, holding a white lamp.

The next moment, a strange sound emanated from all the graves, as if they were chanting an ancient dirge for the dead:

"How many bricks tremble upon how many restless souls,
The black ocean rests against my cluster of graves.
Death is the simplest and most comfortable home,
We do not wish,
We do not wish to be its puppets.
The sun rests beneath the ten-thousand-fathom abyss,
There is only black and white in this world.
The dead are buried in their tombs,
Melding into the black and white,
Manically stretching out their ten fingers.
The reaper’s messenger brings the final message,
Death is here,
Holding a white lamp,
Stepping upon the boat of darkness.

The dead rise once more,
The living fall forever.
Chant,
The Tide of Death!
The Tide of Death!"

"Enter the Tide of Death! Enter the Tide of Death!" Luo Hanyai’s eyes were bloodshot, his mind burning with every ounce of his intellect as he searched for an escape. He knew that if he could not enter the Tide of Death, he would surely perish here.

"The reaper's messenger... Death is here, holding a white lamp..." Luo Hanyai repeated, staring fixedly at the eerie crow. The voice of the man in white echoed in his mind: "The brightest one is mine."

"The Tide of Death! The Tide of Death!" The dead in the tombs roared, tugging at his very soul.

Enduring the agony of his spirit being torn asunder, Luo Hanyai charged frantically toward the giant tomb where the crow sat. "The lamp... the lamp!"

The path was not easy. Pairs of skeletal hands reached out from the massive grave, blocking his way. Each claw left a bloody mark on his body, and within moments, Luo Hanyai was covered in wounds.

...

In the distance, the man in white watched Luo Hanyai with an expressionless face, his pale hands trembling uncontrollably, betraying his inner turmoil.

"That was too much." A figure appeared nearby and shook his head at the man in white. "Why be so cruel to yourself?"

"Cruel? Perhaps." The man in white did not turn around, saying with a touch of melancholy, "Time... we were bound to reach this step sooner or later."

"I just don't know what the outcome will be."

"It is a personal matter; the outcome is not important."

"Can you let it go?"

"Death is the only true release..."