Courtyard House: Time Traveler Not Yet a Ghost

Spring arrived in 1959 quietly.

In the courtyard of the villa atop Victoria Peak, the pomegranate tree that He Yushui planted five years ago has grown taller than a person without anyone noticing. Numerous tender buds have sprouted from its branches, glistening green, swaying gently in the morning breeze. The flagstones beneath the tree are polished smooth by He Yushui's footsteps, marks left from her daily routine of running three laps around the tree before going to school.

He Damin stood on the second-floor balcony, a cup of freshly brewed Longjing tea in his hand. The steaming tea, mingling with the damp morning air, condensed into a pale blue hue in the sunlight. He squinted, gazing at the distant Victoria Harbour. Five years had passed, and the changes in Hong Kong were astonishing. Several more high-rises had sprung up in Central, their glass curtain walls reflecting the sunlight so bright it hurt the eyes. There were also more cargo ships at sea than before, one after another, waiting to enter the port like a queue.

But that's not what he was looking at.

His gaze pierced through the sea, through the clouds, and across vast distances of time and space, finally settling on the inescapable net he had laid out himself.

It's been two years.

For over seven hundred days and nights, the eighteen Soul-Refining Banners split into countless forms, silently roaming, hunting, and reaping across the world. From the secret chambers of politicians in Tokyo to the gangster hideouts in Seoul; from drug lord villas in Manila to underground casinos in New York; from extremist rallies in London to street shootouts in Los Angeles—they were present in every place where evil bred.

How many souls have they harvested in the past two years?

He Damin hadn't calculated it precisely. But he knew that the soul power stored within the Soul Refining Banner was so dense it was almost overflowing. On the dark banner surface, soul shadows were densely packed, layer upon layer, like a black sea that could never be calmed. Every time he probed with his divine sense, he could feel that surging power surging, roaring, and waiting.

Waiting for what?

Waiting to return to its original position.

He Damin put down his teacup and turned to walk into his study. On the rosewood desk lay a huge world map. The map was densely covered with red dots, each dot representing an area of ​​activity for a split entity. Over the past two years, the map had been so covered in red dots that its original color was almost completely obscured.

He stretched out his hand, his fingertips tracing the red dots, starting from Tokyo, heading south, passing Seoul, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Manila, Bangkok, Singapore… then turning west, passing New Delhi, Tehran, Istanbul… then turning north, passing Moscow, Warsaw, Berlin, Paris, London… finally crossing the Atlantic, passing New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Mexico City, Rio de Janeiro…

My fingertip hovered over the red dot in Rio de Janeiro and tapped it lightly.

"That's about it," he said softly.

The moment he finished speaking, the air in the study suddenly froze.

It wasn't the kind of cold that comes from a drop in temperature, but a deeper, more solidified feeling, as if time itself had stopped. The birdsong outside the window had vanished, the distant horns had disappeared, even the ticking of the clock on the wall had stopped.

He Damin slowly closed his eyes.

His divine sense surged forth like a tidal wave, instantly piercing through the walls of the study, through the rocks of Taiping Mountain, through the earth's crust, and reaching that place he knew all too well—

Small World: Cathode Space.

The cathode space was shrouded in darkness.

The projection of the eighteen levels of hell floated in the void, each level clearly visible. Mountains of knives, seas of fire, cauldrons of boiling oil, pools of blood, icebergs, stone mills... those legendary scenes were now quietly displayed there, like a silent museum.

But they are just projections.

empty.

He Damin stood beneath the projection of hell, gazing up at the eighteen layers of emptiness. Two years had passed; he had been waiting for this moment. Waiting for those split entities to have absorbed enough souls, to have amassed enough power, and to return with the millions of souls they had harvested, to fill these empty cells.

Now, the time has come.

He extended his right hand, palm facing up.

"Come back," he said softly.

The sound wasn't loud, yet it penetrated every corner of the cathode space, the barriers of the small world, and the boundary between reality and illusion, reaching the eighteen fragments scattered across the world.

-

Tokyo, Yasukuni Shrine.

A dark light rose from the shadows of the shrine's main hall. It had lurked there for two years, silently devouring the souls of right-wing extremists who came to worship. In those two years, it had reaped over three thousand sinful souls, each one imbued with intense malevolence and resentment.

At that moment, it sensed the call.

The light trembled slightly, then transformed into a streak of light that shot into the sky.

-

The basement of an office building in Seoul.

A faint light emerged from the body of an unconscious gang leader. This leader was the owner of Seoul's largest underground casino, his hands stained with the blood of gamblers. The split entity possessed him for half a year, not only reaping his own soul but also gaining access to the entire Seoul underworld network through him.

In two years, it harvested more than two thousand souls.

Now, it's gone.

-

Manila, the drug lord's luxury villa.

A faint light rose from the corner of the bedroom. The owner of this villa was one of the biggest drug lords in the Philippines, with over three hundred armed men under his command, controlling the drug trade throughout Luzon. The Splinter had been lurking here for a year, not only reaping the soul of the drug lord himself, but also sending the drug dealers who came to make deals to their doom through his traps.

In two years, it harvested more than four thousand souls.

Now, it's gone too.

-

London, an old church.

A faint light rose from the shadows of the stained glass windows. This church, ostensibly God's domain, was secretly a meeting place for European extremists. The separatists had been lurking here for a year and a half, each gathering a hunting ground for them.

In two years, it reaped the souls of more than three thousand extremists.

Now, it has left too.

-

New York, Wall Street.

A faint light rose from the top floor of a skyscraper. This was the headquarters of a hedge fund, ostensibly a legitimate financial company, but in reality one of the world's largest money laundering centers. A spun entity had been lurking here for two years, reaping the souls of financial tycoons, one after another.

In two years, it harvested more than five thousand souls.

Now, it took one last look at the dazzling, decadent world below, then transformed into a streak of light and disappeared into the horizon.

-

Eighteen beams of light rose from different corners of the world, all flying in the same direction at the same time.

They traversed the clouds, the atmosphere, and the barriers of the microcosm, eventually converging above the cathode space.

He Damin looked up at them.

Eighteen beams of light hovered above his head, like eighteen stars. Each beam contained thousands of souls, the fruits of their hunting over the past two years.

"Come here." He Damin opened his arms.

Eighteen beams of light fell simultaneously, landing in his palm and transforming into eighteen small banners, each the size of a palm.

On the dark banner, countless ghostly figures, layer upon layer, seemed to overflow from it. These figures struggled, howled, and roared in fury. But no matter how hard they struggled, they could not break free from the banner's binding force.

He Damin looked down at the eighteen small banners in his palm, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"Two years," he said softly. "Thank you for your hard work."

The eighteen small banners trembled slightly, as if in response.

He Damin raised his head and looked at the projection of the eighteen levels of hell in the void.

Empty mountain of knives, empty sea of ​​fire, empty cauldron of boiling oil, empty pool of blood... They have waited too long.

Now, it's filled.

He Damin formed a hand seal, and his true essence surged wildly into the eighteen small banners.

"Eighteen hells, each in its proper place—" he chanted softly, his voice growing louder until it finally erupted into a deafening roar, "Return to your places!"

-

boom!

Eighteen small banners exploded simultaneously!

It's not destruction, it's liberation.

Countless souls surged from the banner like a flood bursting its banks, overwhelming the projection of the eighteen levels of hell. They screamed and struggled, but they were powerless to resist the invisible force and were forcibly dragged into their respective destinations.

The first level is the Hell of Knives.

Thousands of souls were thrown into the mountain of blades. The blades pierced their bodies, blood gushing out, and screams deafening. Yet they could not die, only to be reincarnated in endless agony.

The second level is the fiery hell.

More souls were thrown into the sea of ​​fire. The flames burned their souls, tearing their skin and flesh apart, turning their bones to ash. But the ashes reformed, enduring new burning.

The third level is the oil cauldron hell.

The ghostly figures were thrown into a scalding pot of oil, where they sizzled and were fried until their skin and flesh tore open. They rolled, struggled, and howled in the oil, but could never escape.

The fourth level is the Blood Pool Hell.

The fifth level is the Iceberg Hell.

The sixth level is the Stone Mill Hell.

……

Layer upon layer, countless souls were filled into the eighteen empty cells. Each layer held different punishments, each layer was filled with endless suffering. And those souls, who had committed countless evils in their lives, had finally found their final resting place.

He Damin stood below Hell, watching this scene unfold.

The eighteen levels of hell are turning from a phantom into reality.

From an empty shell to overflowing.

From fantasy to—

A true hell.

After an unknown amount of time, the last wisp of soul was cast into the eighteenth level of hell. That was the deepest level, specifically for imprisoning evil spirits who had committed heinous crimes and were condemned to eternal damnation.

The gates of hell slowly closed.

The eighteen levels of hell have been fully formed.

He Damin closed his eyes, feeling the power emanating from the eighteen levels of hell. Each level of hell was in operation, each level generating new soul power. That soul power was like countless streams, gushing out from the depths of hell, converging into a river, and finally flowing into the Soul Refining Banner itself in his dantian.

The dark banner trembled slightly, as if in celebration.

He Damin opened his eyes, his smile growing wider.

It became.

The eighteen levels of hell have been formed.

From this day forward, no evil will escape punishment in this world. Those who deserve to die will come here after death to receive their due punishment.

The soul power generated by those punishments will become his resources for cultivation.

Endless and ever-renewing.

He Damin took one last look at the eighteen levels of hell, then turned and left the Yin-Yang Space.

---

Back in the study, the sunlight outside the window was still bright.

He Damin walked to the window, picked up the cup of Longjing tea that was still warm, and took a small sip. The tea was slightly bitter, but with a faint aftertaste.

He gazed at the distant Victoria Harbour, at the cargo ships coming and going, and at the ever-growing buildings in Central.

The world is still as lively as ever.

But he knew that beneath that bustling facade lay an unseen shadow.

The eighteen levels of hell are right there.

Waiting for them.

He Damin put down his teacup, picked up the phone on the table, and dialed a number.

"Hey, Lawrence," he said, "check out the flight routes to South America for me. Yeah, I want to go there."

After hanging up the phone, he walked to the world map, picked up a red pen, and drew a five-pointed star next to the red dot in Rio de Janeiro.

"Next," he said softly.