Chapter 152: Where the Underworld Gloom Deepens, the Soul is Washed Clean

Chapter 152: In the Gloom of the Netherworld, When Souls Are Washed Clean

Beyond the outskirts of Huangyun Town lay the last stretch of the Great Qian Dynasty’s territory—the vast forest. Beyond it was the northern kingdom of the Jin nation. Outside the phantom carriage, the scenery was exceptionally enchanting: mists curled and swirled, veiling the landscape in a hazy embrace. Moonlight, soft as scattered silver, bathed the earth. Wisps of eerie ghostly flames, usually invisible, flickered with spectral light in the air, casting strange, shifting shadows.

These energies, bizarre and otherworldly, were drawn irresistibly toward the phantom carriage as it passed. Only within its eerie confines did these strange forces converge and gather.

Yet inside the carriage, Wu Hong sat cross-legged, unable to calm the tumult within his heart.

The scene inside the phantom carriage was chilling beyond measure. Though Wu Hong had killed before and witnessed death, the increasingly gruesome vision before him unsettled him deeply. He wished to close his eyes, but his mind was haunted by countless distorted, grimacing faces.

Countless souls filled the carriage—mad, tormented spirits of all ages and walks of life: adults, children, wanderers, enemies, and the innocent alike. They were locked in a frenzied, brutal battle, utterly indifferent to old grudges or new. Every possible means of violence was employed. Some bore bloodied mouths—not from coughing blood, but from biting fiercely into another’s ear. Flesh was torn in chunks from thighs; intestines spilled onto the ground; blood saturated every corner of the carriage.

Wu Hong alone seemed comparatively safe, yet even he was disturbed by the hellish spectacle. Closing his eyes did not help; he imagined the howls of countless demons echoing in his mind.

Observing closely, Wu Hong noticed that most of the souls wore the dress of the Great Qian people. They fought relentlessly. Some bodies emitted an ominous black glow; others shone with a crimson light, like bloodthirsty horse-faced demons of the underworld. A few were mottled black and white, while a rare few glowed pure white.

Those souls radiating impure colors or pure darkness were powerful but burdened with endless enemies. The pure white souls, in contrast, were few and did not engage in fighting, yet even they were visibly weakened and collapsed in fear amid the infernal chaos.

Could the color of a soul represent the good or evil of that person in life? Wu Hong, perhaps the calmest and most unique presence within the carriage, pondered. No ghost dared approach him, no matter how strong. Even his enemies were repelled by an invisible force if they came within ten meters.

Moreover, Wu Hong’s body was saturated with demonic energy, stronger than when he had fully succumbed to it before. The dense energy was almost tangible, sharp and deadly. Weaker souls that approached were pierced through, screaming in agony as blood sprayed.

What Wu Hong did not know was that although he was not in a true soul state aboard the phantom carriage, his madness fueled by sacred energy outside had driven him to slaughter the entire population of Huangyun Town. He had almost destroyed Yunluo Town as well and killed countless innocents and villains alike—perhaps hundreds of thousands in just a few days, surpassing even the grim tally of the underworld’s horse-faced king.

Had Wu Hong been in a soul state now, he would have joined these tormented spirits in endless trembling and madness.

Outside the carriage, the landscape began to shift. Once lush and verdant, the plants faded into shades of gray—strange and unique flora unlike anything Wu Hong had ever seen.

Then came a thunderous roar, like raging waterfalls, flooding the ears of every spirit within the carriage. The frenzied fighting ceased, replaced by vacant, stunned expressions—the wild sound had shaken them all.

Wu Hong looked out the window and saw an endless river stretching beyond sight. The water churned violently, as if heated from below, boiling fiercely. Its yellowish hue was unsettling, disturbing the mind.

Above the river stretched a colossal bridge, spanning toward the horizon. Its length was unimaginable, vanishing into the darkness of the sky like a monstrous beast swallowing the heavens.

Outside, the horse-faced and ox-headed guardians—once monstrous—had regained human form. They struck large bronze gongs, their rhythmic pounding ringing out: “The Netherworld has arrived! Time to cleanse the souls!”

The guardians removed the harnesses from the phantom carriage, which then began its slow, inexorable advance toward the boiling river of the Netherworld.

All the souls aboard recoiled in terror, shouting “I want to go home! No, I don’t want to die!” Their cries of anguish swelled into a chaotic chorus.

Even the souls glowing white showed reluctant sorrow upon hearing their arrival in the Netherworld.

Yet all the fear, despair, and resistance failed to halt the carriage’s grim progress. It drew ever closer, inch by inch, to the roiling waters—emitting a faint rustling sound as it entered.

The faces of the spirits changed drastically.

“Damn it! What kind of hell is this? Let me out!” The horse-faced king, overwhelmed by pressure, screamed madly. Suddenly, he drew his ghost-headed blade and slashed at the carriage window—but no sound or impact responded.

His son, even more deranged, wielded his blade wildly, rending the terrified souls around him. Blood and flesh splattered his body, yet he was more terrifying than any demon of hell.

Wu Hong sneered inwardly. “Hmph—though I do not know why I am dead, to see my enemies suffer such agony and madness, my anger eases somewhat.”

The phantom carriage finally vanished into the heart of the Netherworld’s shore, and beyond the window, the scene transformed into a true vision of hell: mingled bones and flesh, foul stenches filling the air, a world drenched in blood.

Suddenly, with a click, lids appeared atop the carriage and flipped open, allowing an immeasurable torrent of blood to pour inside.

“What is this? I want to go home! I want to leave this cursed place!”

“Mother, I’m scared!” “Don’t call me mother! You’re the bastard of him and that woman!”

A man with a bloated, kindly face knelt, sobbing: “Great gods of heaven and earth! I was wrong. Though I appeared good before others, I secretly violated more than a dozen helpless girls.” Instantly, he was submerged in the boiling blood.

The spirits went mad beyond measure, tearing at their own flesh, faces contorted in horror. Only the pure white souls suffered less severely, bearing some pain but not to such extremes.

Wu Hong was no exception. The surging blood washed over him, flooding his being. His emotions twisted wildly, nearly driving him insane. Such feelings could not be understood without firsthand experience.

These souls, soaked in the blood, did not suffer merely physical pain but absorbed the life-long anguish they had inflicted on others. Even those who had lived kindly now twisted in agony, their faces contorted.

For the kind-hearted, life’s joys and sorrows inevitably caused wounds; careless words and minor slights hurt others unknowingly. These subtle pains—unseen by themselves—were now borne by their souls in full.

A single moment drenched in this blood unleashed a torrent of negative emotions. How much suffering had one person caused another in a lifetime? Who could count?

The sudden flood of such torment could drive even the most virtuous to madness. Worse, the source of their pain often seemed unknown to the soul—it was the emotional scars of those they had wronged, now returned to haunt them.

Thus, no matter how good a person was in life, in death their soul would be overwhelmed by the cumulative pain they had caused, crying out in endless remorse.

Those who had lived wicked lives fared far worse, unable to endure the boundless karmic retribution. Though they wished to lose themselves in madness, their minds remained painfully clear.

The souls of those they had killed, those they had hurt, even the sorrow of their own loved ones—all these negative emotions flooded back, overwhelming their very essence.

Wu Hong teetered on the brink of madness. The first wave of pain brought a vision of a black light. He did not understand its nature, nor why it stirred anger, hatred, jealousy, helplessness, and sorrow within him. He sensed that this first karmic torment dated to his earliest childhood.

One night, lying in bed, black energy coiled around him. His father, King Wuwei, paced anxiously. Wu Hong seemed to transform into a white light, rushing into his sleeping body and battling the black light within, ultimately banishing the dark energy. The negative emotion he now felt came from the fleeing black light itself.

Wu Hong’s heart trembled, struck by a rare clarity. Suddenly, he grasped something—he recalled the false Wu Hong who had wrought havoc in the martial world.

A flood of memories surged forth: his illustrious lineage, tragic childhood, flamboyant youth, hardships as a wanderer, the thrill of vengeance, the hazy gaze of Wu Song, and the final smile of Huang Ling before her death.