“Wow, I didn't expect the story to develop like this at the end. But why did she save Chen Xi?”
By the railing at the street corner, Song Mo, who was currently wearing the face of the Russian female ghost, tossed her empty fishball skewer into a nearby paper trash can.
The bamboo skewer hit the rim of the bin with a soft clack.
She clapped her hands, tilting her pale chin up slightly.
—This illusory disguise had very thin lips, which made her look somewhat cold and unfeeling when she pursed them.
Song Mo had watched the entire chase just now from start to finish.
From Chen Xi taking the initiative to lure away Black and White Impermanence, to ducking into alleys, hiding in the tong lau, climbing down the pipe, the billboards transforming, and finally the colossal entities smashing a crater and the person vanishing into thin air...
She hadn't missed a single detail.
It was like watching a live 8D IMAX experience with the sound and light effects cranked up to the max.
“I'll give Chen Xi more screen time next time.”
Song Mo's tone carried clear appreciation. “Rising to level fourteen in one go... She should be the highest-level player domestically... No, she's probably the highest-level among all human players.”
She stroked her chin, already beginning to contemplate whether she should create a player level ranking system once the Instance ended.
Once there was a level ranking, there would definitely have to be wealth rankings, item rankings, strength rankings...
And when the time came, she could roll out some new maps. Hehehe, wouldn't that bring even more interesting scripts?!
While Song Mo was lost in thought, the fierce ghost A'zhu stood half a step behind her.
The man wore a crimson quju robe with wide sleeves and a broad sash. His long hair was pinned up with an ebony hairpin, with a few stray strands hanging down against his eerie face.
Although he looked exactly like A'yan, the temperaments of the two ghosts were entirely different.
When Song Mo was eating fishballs earlier, he had stood quietly to the side, still holding a half-eaten skewer of fishballs in his hand.
When Song Mo casually remarked that “one must not waste food,” he had expressionlessly popped the fishballs into his mouth one by one.
It was almost like he was completing a quest.
“You finished them?”
Song Mo turned back to look at him, her tone relaxed, like a tourist visiting a temple fair.
“Yes.”
A'zhu nodded slightly, replying in a formal, proper manner, “Answering My Lady, I have finished them.”
“What did they taste like?”
Song Mo asked casually, her gaze sweeping across the street, which had become lively once more.
The ghosts had crawled back out from their various hiding spots.
Some set up their stalls, while others browsed, as if the colossal entities' patrol just now had been nothing but a passing gust of wind.
The old ghost selling fishballs also crawled out from the curry pot where he had been hiding. Wiping the curry broth from his face, his hawking cries rang out once more.
Song Mo looked at the skewer of fishballs A'zhu had just finished, her expression turning disgusted. “...”
Why didn't you tell me earlier that these fishballs were curry-ghost flavored?!
Even if you're a ghost, please pay attention to food hygiene, okay?!
Watch out, or I'll call the Department of Health to arrest you, fishball vendor!
Unaware of Song Mo's inner turmoil, A'zhu lowered his head and answered honestly:
“Answering My Lady, food in the underworld is all transformed from paper, mud, and grass roots, lacking any real flavor. It is slightly astringent upon entry, carrying only a hint of spice, and chews like decaying wood.”
He spoke with complete seriousness, not sounding like he was complaining at all.
Song Mo shook her head. “If it's that unpalatable, why did you look like you were enjoying it so much? I thought it would taste the same as food in the living world.”
“Whatever My Lady gives is good.”
A'zhu's tone was calm, as if he were stating the most natural fact in the world.
Song Mo really didn't know how to respond to that.
—A'yan had a lively, free-spirited personality, allowing them to laugh and joke together. But A'zhu alone always made Song Mo hallucinate that she was dealing with one of the junior screenwriters from her past life.
“So...”
Song Mo leaned against the railing, watching the ghosts on the street thoughtfully.
“Lonely, wild ghosts who receive no sacrifices can't eat proper food. Even in the underworld, these foods are all made of paper? They're fake?”
Sometimes she also wondered if there really was an underworld in this world.
If there wasn't, where did A'zhu, A'yan, and Black and White Impermanence come from?
If there was, she had written so many Instances, yet she hadn't seen a single deity.
“My Lady is correct,”
A'zhu added earnestly:
“Food offered as sacrifices by relatives in the living world yields its true flavor in the underworld once burned, tasting no different from when they were alive.
Paper-crafted servants, furniture, and houses can also be used normally once burned and sent over. Only weapons and armor do not work; they are all made of paper shells and wax molds, melting at a touch—pleasing to the eye but utterly useless.”
Hearing this, Song Mo's interest was instantly piqued.
“According to what you're saying, whatever is burned in the living world appears in the underworld?”
Her imagination began to run wild. “So if the living world burns a bowl of rice, the underworld gets an extra bowl of rice, essentially duplicating it out of thin air? Does the conservation of mass not even exist here?
Then why does the government even bother manufacturing weapons and atomic bombs? Couldn't they just craft paper versions and burn them over?
If they want spaceships and aircraft carriers, they could just craft scale models and burn them over. The underworld would be armed to the teeth instantly. How convenient.”
She spoke wildly, yet A'zhu listened attentively. Only when she finished did he bow slightly and explain:
“My Lady may not know, but paper-crafted items possess form but lack spirit.
Food, clothing, houses, and servants are all everyday necessities. When people of the living world burn them with intent in their hearts, the underworld can obtain their forms and utilize them.
But weapons and firearms are inherently ominous and malevolent. Without the infusion of a soul and intent, burning them over yields nothing but empty shells.”
“For example, if the living world crafts a yellow ox and burns it, the ghost receives a living ox that can plow fields and pull carts. However, it does not need to eat grass or drink water, and if its abdomen were cut open, it would be empty, lacking any internal organs. It merely possesses the form but lacks the spirit.”
“As for the warships and cannons My Lady mentioned, they are even more so.
A paper-crafted cannon may look impressive, but lighting the fuse would only cause it to fall apart, unable to fire any shells.
Paper-crafted swords and spears may look sharp, but their edges would bend at the slightest touch, unable to cut even a paper doll.”
He spoke logically, his pace neither fast nor slow.
Song Mo stroked her chin, deep in thought. “Possessing form but lacking spirit...” she repeated in a low voice. “That really is very interesting.”
No wonder there was barely any food in the underworld.
And no wonder these ghosts were constantly crying out in hunger.
Did these settings exist inherently, or did they only manifest in reality after she created and wrote them into her scripts?
Song Mo pondered for a moment, her fingertips tracing a few strokes in the air.
The characters gathered, and she added a few more settings to the 《Ghosts in the Hong Kong Building》 Instance, enriching the entire worldbuilding:
【...Sacrifices from the living world, once burned, yield their true flavor in the underworld.】
【...The underworld has Impermanence ghosts. In reality, living people serve as underworld messengers, commonly known as 'living impermanence.' They can travel between the boundaries of Yin and Yang, conveying letters, messages, and sacrificial offerings.】
【Yin people consume Yin food and enjoy offerings.】
The moment the text settled, a series of chilly winds suddenly whipped up overhead, swirling with countless paper coins and incense ash—
A miniature whirlwind spiraled upward out of thin air, carrying the incense ash with it.
Song Mo watched for a moment before turning to A'zhu. “Let's go. Let's head further up and see what else is in this Instance.”
—Although she wrote the rules of the Instance, most of the details were filled in by the world itself.
The roadside flowers and grass, the insects in the corners, the clutter in the subdivided flats, and even the patrol route of Black and White Impermanence were not written out stroke by stroke by her hand.
It felt more like... this world was “growing” on its own.
This was also one of her purposes for sneaking into the Instance this time—to see what the underworld script she wrote would actually look like once it materialized into a real world.
In Song Mo's settings, the underworld was infinite, and 《Ghosts in the Hong Kong Building》 was merely one Instance contained within the Yin Market.
And the ghost market was just a minuscule, insignificant section of the underworld.
Of course, this was something the players would have to discover for themselves.
Song Mo straightened up and walked toward the other side of the street.
A'zhu followed closely behind, but always maintained a distance of half a step.
Before they had walked very far, Song Mo saw a corpse lying by the roadside.
Judging by his attire, he was likely a player who had mistakenly entered the Instance. A male in his thirties, he had a massive gash across his abdomen, his blood pooling all over the ground, already long cold.
The body was dead, and his newly born soul had drifted off to parts unknown.
He had probably failed to dodge in time during Black and White Impermanence's patrol just now and was struck by flying debris.
Song Mo stopped and crouched down to observe.
A'zhu also stopped, standing quietly to the side, waiting for her command.
Before their eyes, the corpse was melting at a visible rate.
It wasn't rotting, but melting.
Like fine snow thrown into a furnace, or a popsicle meeting heat.
The flesh, bones, and hair of the corpse gradually turned into dark red bloody water, slowly seeping into the soil beneath, as if being “drunk” by the Instance.
In just a few seconds, the entire corpse had vanished without a trace.
Only a dark, damp stain and a few tattered pieces of clothing remained on the ground.
Immediately afterward, several blades of black grass slowly sprouted from the damp stain.
They had thin stems and black leaves, their tips sharp like needles.
The grass grew at an astonishing speed, reaching the length of a finger in no time. Densely packed, they swayed gently in the wind.
A few small black insects, resembling both ants and cockroaches, crawled out from the soil, scurrying busily back and forth across the grass blades.
They were insects.
“This is fascinating.”
Song Mo observed intently.
“The corpse turns into mud, which then nourishes the soil. Grass grows from the mud, and insects are born... Has the Instance grown its own ecological chain?”
When she wrote the settings, she had only written a single sentence: “The soil of the underworld is dark brown, nourished by Yin energy.”
But she hadn't written that corpses would turn into mud, nor did she write that grass and insects would grow from the mud.
This was entirely the world's own self-evolution.
“A'zhu, dig it up and let's see.”
Song Mo pointed to where the black grass grew. “I want to see if it's real soil underneath, or just an empty shell constructed from words.”
“Yes.”
A'zhu squatted down at her command. Faint red Yin energy seeped from his fingertips, condensing into a thin blade, and he began to dig into the ground.
The soil was very loose, carrying a damp, cold Yin energy.
After digging about a foot deep, A'zhu stopped, pinched a bit of soil, and held it out to Song Mo.
“My Lady, please look.”
Song Mo pinched a bit and rubbed it between her fingertips.
Fine and damp—it was real soil.
It wasn't a construct of empty words, nor was it a paper-crafted fake.
It was real, heavy, textured soil.
“What about further down?” Song Mo pressed. “What lies deeper?”
“Still soil.”
A'zhu replied blankly, “Three feet deeper, there is a gravel layer. Beyond that, I do not know. The Yin energy is too heavy; your subordinate did not dare dig too deep.”
Song Mo stood up, brushing the dirt off her hands.
She stared at the patch of black grass for a long time.
A real, ecologically cycling, self-evolving world.
It wasn't the cold text from her pen; it was alive.
This feeling was incredibly wondrous.
Like planting a seed with one's own hands, watching it take root and sprout, eventually growing into a towering tree.
—And it had even bloomed with flowers Song Mo had never seen before.
“What is My Lady thinking about?” A'zhu asked softly, seeing her lost in thought.
“Nothing.”
Song Mo smiled. “I just think that the scripts I write are far too interesting.”
A'zhu didn't quite understand what “writing scripts” meant, but he didn't ask further.
He was used to Song Mo occasionally saying things he couldn't comprehend.
He remained silent for a moment, looking toward the direction where Black and White Impermanence had vanished, before summoning the courage to ask another question:
“My Lady, where will those living souls captured by Black and White Impermanence be sent?”
“Sent back, of course. I have enough Materials in my hands.”
Song Mo didn't even look up, still studying the black grass as she replied casually:
“After all, the Netherworld is an official underworld organization; they won't slaughter living people indiscriminately.
Didn't Black and White Impermanence say so? ‘Those who trespass into the underworld shall be punished according to the law.’”
Underworld laws?
Actually, Song Mo hadn't even started writing them yet—
The outline only had: “Black and White Impermanence patrol the streets to capture people, punishing them according to underworld law.”
“So, I have to compile a code of law belonging to the underworld too?”
Just thinking about this made Screenwriter Song Mo feel like she was going bald.
She practically wished she could strangle the system's non-existent neck and force it to capture a few more underworld officials.
System: Are you being polite?
Modern-day Hong Kong.
July in Hong Kong was supposed to be hot and humid.
Yet, thick dark clouds still weighed heavily over Nathan Road in Mong Kok.
Lead-gray clouds hung low over the tops of the skyscrapers like a piece of water-logged, dirty cotton, so filthy it seemed on the verge of falling.
Sparse golden paper money drifted down from the clouds, swirling as they landed on the road.
Although the amount was more than halved compared to a few days ago, they still could not be dispersed.
The pedestrians on the street seemed to have grown accustomed to it. Everyone walked in a hurry, detouring around the paper money, none daring to pick them up.
“So wicked!”
An uncle selling fruit by the roadside packed up his stall, covering it with plastic sheeting. He muttered under his breath and spat toward the sky.
“Screeech—!!”
Suddenly, a long, piercing sound of screeching brakes rang out from the street corner!
Rubber tires rubbed against the asphalt, leaving a long black skid mark. Accompanied by several dull thuds, the private car at the very front slammed to a halt, and the taxis, minibuses, and trucks behind it rear-ended one another in quick succession!
Several vehicles piled up together, their hoods crumpled, and shattered glass splinters showered the ground:
“Bastard! Do you even know how to drive?!”
“Someone ran onto the road looking to die!”
“Call the cops! It's a ghost!”
Right in the center of the intersection, a young man stood out of thin air.
Looking to be in his early twenties, he wore a black training uniform, his expression completely dazed.
Standing in the middle of the traffic flow, he looked as if he had just woken from a dream:
“I... I'm back alive?”
“Where is Captain Chen?!”
Rate on N.U.
