“I was but a humble commoner, tilling the fields of Nanyang. Though the Crouching Dragon now lies low in this tiny, wretched corner of the world, the day shall come when he soars once more!”

  Charon stood before the cracked mirror, tugging at the frayed collar of his faded T-shirt. He spoke with a gravitas so profound one would think he’d just snubbed a legendary emperor’s personal invitation.

  “Look, kid, if you’re short on the five bucks and twenty cents, just say it. Don't pull this epic blockbuster monologue on me, alright?” The middle-aged woman behind the counter rolled her eyes. The bag of near-expired bread in her hand crinkled with a sharp, grating sound. “QR code or cash? People are waiting.”

  “…Code.”

  Charon’s 'noble' facade collapsed instantly, replaced by the distinct, excruciating awkwardness of a modern youth. His hand trembled as he opened his digital wallet—its balance barely clinging to double digits. The crisp ding of the transaction sounded like the shattering of his very dignity.

  Sigh. Modern people. They have no soul for the romance of a good boast.

  Back in his ten-square-meter rental room—a place where sunlight was a foreign concept—Charon flicked his phone across the room with two fingers. He followed it with a flop, burying his face into a pillow that was soft, yet clung to a faint scent of damp mildew.

  “If only there were a place that actually needed my brilliant mind…”

  He closed his eyes, scouring his unremarkable eighteen years of life for a single shred of evidence that he was 'special.' After a long search, the most impressive feat he could recall was winning a microwave in a livestream giveaway with ten thousand participants.

  Was that 'Dragon Luck'? A complete disaster when it came to changing his destiny, yet a grandmaster at winning free kitchen appliances?

  “Ugh, I’m done. Sleep. In dreams, I can have everything.”

  He pulled over the thick, slightly musty duvet, wrapping himself into a loose cocoon. His breathing slowed. The world began to drift away.

  But just as his consciousness was about to sink into the deepest dark, a jarring sensation struck.

  It wasn't the usual drift into sleep. It was a weightless plunge. Charon felt as if a giant, invisible hand had plucked him from his bed, dragging him through layers of viscous, lukewarm water toward a frigid abyss.

  Gurgle…

  The muffled sound of water hammered against his eardrums. Charon snapped awake, only to find the ceiling gone.

  The world was a dim expanse of gloom, as if it had been soaked in diluted ink. The air was unnaturally cold, scraping against his lungs like a serrated blade with every breath. More unsettling were the distant peals of laughter—hollow, screeching giggles that sounded like small imps mocking the dead.

  Beneath his feet, agonizing wails drifted through the thick grey mist. Charon looked down, and his pupils constricted. He wasn't standing on soil. He was standing on a mountain of pale, withered, twisted limbs, interlocking like broken branches.

  “Is this… the Underworld?”

  Charon froze. Before him, a river so wide its far bank was invisible flowed in eerie silence. The water was a stagnant, leaden grey. A sense of grief and despair crawled up his legs like a swarm of slimy maggots.

  His instincts screamed at him: Run! Get away from this river!

  Charon spun around and bolted over the crunching remains. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, his sweat turning into a cold, icy film the moment it surfaced. He didn't slow down until his lungs felt like scorched bellows.

  Yet, when he looked up, he felt as if he’d been struck by lightning.

  The scenery hadn't changed.

  The leaden river was still there. The grey mist was still there. He had been running for five minutes, yet it was as if he’d been on a treadmill. Even the position of a broken hand-bone beneath his feet remained exactly the same.

  “One obol.”

  A voice—ancient, withered, and sounding as if the speaker’s throat was filled with gravel—rang out right beside his ear.

  Charon’s heart nearly stopped. He whipped his head around, terror flaring in his chest.

  A small wooden boat had appeared by the shore. Standing at the prow was an old man, skin as shriveled as a dried orange peel, draped in tattered grey rags. His eyes, sunken deep into his skull, were fixed on Charon with a chilling, deathly stillness.

  “One obol,” the old man repeated, his voice sharpening with impatience.

  Charon forced his racing heart down. If he couldn't run, terror was the most useless thing he owned. Gritting his teeth, he shouted back, “Who are you?!”

  “I said, one obol!” The old man’s eyes widened, and his sallow face flushed a sickly, wrathful blue. A terrifying pressure erupted from him, kicking up a spectral wind across the water.

  “I asked for your name!”

  Fighting fire with fire, Charon used the same bravado he employed against unreasonable neighbors. He squared his shoulders and yelled even louder than the old man.

  The old man froze.

  He had ferried the dead for centuries. He’d seen souls who begged, souls who wailed, and souls who tried to jump into the river (despite being already dead). But he had never seen a 'newcomer' put their hands on their hips and scream back at him.

  Seeing the boy’s "not a cent to my name, take my life if you want" attitude, the flicker in the old man's eyes danced with a hint of absurdity. “I am Charon, the Ferryman of the Styx.”

  “…?”

  The anger on Charon’s face froze, replaced by a sense of pure, unadulterated irony.

  You’re Charon? Then who the hell am I? I’ve used this name for eighteen years, and now I’ve run into the 'Official Account'?

  “Can you get on the boat now?” The old man calmed slightly, his tone returning to a mechanical, impatient coldness.

  “Wait, hold on.” Charon finally snapped out of it. Identity crisis aside, survival was more pressing. “I don’t have any money. Look at me—I don’t even have pockets. Where am I supposed to get a coin for you?”

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  At those words, the old man exploded like a powder keg.

  “No money?! How dare you show up here without money! Do you think being a Ferryman is easy? Eh? Look at this place—wind, sun, rain… okay, there’s no sun, but can you handle this chill? I’ve been here for centuries! Never seen a year-end bonus, and now I have to deal with paupers like you? Tell me you have no money? Check your mouth! Dig in your eyes! A normal dead man always brings a coin!”

  Charon winced, unable to stop himself from complaining internally: Wind and sun? In the Underworld? Besides, I slept my way here; I didn't exactly come through the official channels with funeral rites!

  “Alright, alright, I’ll look. Just take a breath, old timer.”

  Charon humored him while his mind raced. He couldn't run; this old man was the only NPC in sight. Under the Ferryman’s scrutinizing and dissatisfied gaze, he went through the motions of searching every inch of himself.

  By the time Charon lifted his pant leg for the third time—considering even taking off his socks to prove he wasn't hiding a secret stash—the old man finally sighed.

  “Enough, stop it.” The old man waved him off with a look of utter disgust, though a faint, unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes. “I see you really are a beggar. Get on. Consider this a charity case to meet my daily quota.”

  Persistence pays off!

  Charon felt a surge of secret joy, but kept his face straight as he stepped onto the rickety wooden boat.

  The boat pulled away, the leaden water leaving not a single ripple. Silence hung between them for a few minutes before the old man, rowing steadily, spoke in a low, haunting tone.

  “You said earlier… what was your name?”

  “My name is Charon.”

  “If you're Charon, then who am I?!” the old man roared, his voice rattling the mist on the river.

  Charon thought, I was about to ask the same thing. He looked at the old man with a face full of sincerity. “I'm not lying to you. My name really is Charon. Maybe it’s… fate?”

  The old man stared into his eyes for a long time. In those murky depths, a very subtle, almost relieved light began to shine.

  The wooden boat glided soundlessly across the leaden expanse.

  Charon sat on the swaying deck, tempted to reach out and touch the deceptively calm water. But before his fingertip could break the surface, a nauseating stench of decay wafted up through the mist.

  "Don't touch the waters of the Styx!" the old man barked, his rowing coming to a sharp halt. "If you were truly dead, this water would be nothing more than your final bed. But you..."

  "If I were dead, I wouldn't feel a thing, right?" Charon pulled his hand back, heart hammering against his ribs.

  For a split second, he had heard the shrieks of ten thousand souls clawing at his ears. The sheer weight of their despair had nearly dragged him under. He clutched his chest, face pale as bone. "Why is this happening? Am I dead or not?"

  The old man remained silent for a long moment, the long oar dipping back into the water with a rhythmic splash.

  "Simple. You aren't actually dead," the Ferryman finally said, his voice echoing far across the empty river. "You carry no obol. Normally, a 'thing' like you wouldn't even be allowed on my boat. You’d either be tossed to the hounds or sent off to the Eastern realms to deal with their King of Hell. You aren't my business."

  "Then why am I here?"

  "Because two years ago, the Styx began to splinter." The old man’s gaze grew deep and troubled as he peered into the thick fog ahead. "Souls who shouldn't be dead, yet have no home to return to, began appearing on the banks in droves. You carry the scent of the living, yet you walk the path of the dead. I can feel it... the river split just so I could ferry souls like yours to that place."

  "What place?" Charon’s pulse quickened. This mysterious destination sounded like a nightmare far worse than any hell.

  The old man shook his head, a wry, self-deprecating smile flickering on his withered face.

  "I don't know. I’ve rowed this boat for centuries, but I’ve never set foot in the realms beyond the split. All I know is that it’s a place where danger outweighs the Underworld itself. The rules are broken there. Logic is fractured. It’s like a festering wound on the fabric of existence."

  The boat pressed on, but the mist didn't clear. Instead, it took on an eerie, spectral blue glow.

  It wasn't a pure blue; it was sickly, like rotting phosphorus struggling in the dark. Charon stared into the deep indigo light, and strangely, his fear began to subside, replaced by a restless, unnameable urge.

  "Do you find your life boring?"

  Charon’s sudden question made the old man pause.

  "Boring?" The old man’s murky eyes brightened for a fleeting second. "In this place, boredom is the only eternity."

  "My life was the same," Charon said, turning to look at the Ferryman who shared his name. He gave a self-mocking laugh. "Eighteen years of repeating the same day over and over, trapped in narrow classrooms and narrower rental rooms. If that was my destiny, then I was already living like a dead man."

  He paused, his gaze sharpening with a resolve he hadn't known he possessed.

  "Since I’ve ended up here as a 'living corpse,' if there’s a chance to change that boring existence—even if it’s a gamble with my life—I’m taking it. I don't care if it leads to heaven or a deeper hell."

  As he spoke, the blue light ahead surged, sweeping across the water like a massive, silent wave.

  "We’re here, aren't we?"

  The old man didn't answer directly. He let go of the oars. His eyes, once clouded and dull, were now piercingly clear, like twin beacons illuminating the soul. He watched the boy named Charon in silence, as if looking through time at a version of himself from an age long forgotten.

  Perhaps he had rowed this boat every day for centuries just for this final crossing.

  "Kid," the old man whispered. "Your name is Charon, right?"

  The blue light had completely enveloped Charon now. An invisible force began to pull at his physical form, drifting him away from the boat and into the heart of the indigo glow.

  "Try not to die too easily."

  Suddenly, the old man did something bizarre—he bit down hard on his own thumb.

  The fluid that emerged wasn't bright red blood; it was thick, pitch-black, and shimmered with a faint light. The black blood dripped from his fingertip, but instead of sinking into the river, it rippled across the surface before transforming into a thin streak of light. It struck like lightning, sinking directly into Charon’s wrist.

  "What is this?!"

  Charon tried to scream, but the air was gone.

  He felt himself floating in a sea of stars where nothing had form. Then, an agonizing, bone-deep pain erupted from his wrist, lashing through his entire body. It felt like ten thousand ants were devouring his marrow, like a dull blade was sawing repeatedly at his nerves.

  Any other version of Charon would have given up and collapsed. But now, fueled by his loathing for a "boring life," he gritted his teeth, letting out a silent roar in the ocean of his mind.

  Then, the pain vanished as abruptly as it had come.

  And with it, all his senses blinked out.

  Splash!

  A bucket of ice-cold, metallic-smelling water crashed down on him.

  Charon jolted awake, his body convulsing. It was pitch black, and the air was thick with a heavy, suffocating scent—a mix of wet paint and old blood.

  "Dammit... can't this place give me a grace period for scene transitions?"

  He tried to move, only to hear the heavy clank of metal. His hands were shackled behind his back, the chains bolted firmly into the ground. He was pinned down, unable to even stand up straight.

  Thump!

  A dull, heavy sound echoed through the darkness. It was the sound of something massive hitting the floor—like an iron barrel, or perhaps the footstep of a giant.

  Silence followed.

  Charon’s heart raced as his mind kicked into overdrive. A time loop? A scripted scenario? Or some kind of survival trial?

  Thump!

  The same sound rang out again, followed by a faint, ragged breath. Judging by the sound, there were others near him.

  "Anyone—?"

  Charon tried to speak, but his throat felt like it was filled with thick mud. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't form a single clear word.

  Since he couldn't talk, he had to make noise. Holding his breath, Charon shifted his weight, trying to kick the iron chain with his toe.

  Clink.

  The moment his toe hit the metal, a much louder sound exploded in his ears.

  RUMBLE—!!!

  That wasn't the chain.

  Charon whipped his head to the left. The wall that had been part of the darkness was moving. A massive iron shutter was slowly rising, and a blindingly bright light poured through the gap, tearing through the silence like a jagged blade.

  "Ladies and gentlemen! In this boring eternity, let us... please welcome!"

  A distorted, frantic voice blared from the speakers above.

  The glare was so intense it brought tears to his eyes. As Charon squinted and looked up, the sight before him caused his brain to go blank for a split second.

  "Please welcome our... Warriors of the Week!"

  He was at the bottom of a massive, circular pit. Around him were seven other spots, each occupied by a terrified "living corpse" shackled just like him.

  And on the high stands above, tens of thousands of stick-figure people made of yellow clay were writhing in excitement. They had no faces, yet from the red, hand-drawn lines that served as their mouths, a tidal wave of cheering erupted.

  Charon looked down at the dark red coin-shaped mark glowing on his wrist, and for the first time, a small, cold smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  It's time to begin.