Chapter Thirty-Five: Braveheart (Part Ten)

No one could have imagined that sound, when reaching a certain magnitude, would wield such immense power. Under this colossal shockwave, all living creatures in the tropical jungle suffered grievous harm—death, unconsciousness, or at the very least, deafness. The once vibrant forest was utterly drained of life, becoming silent, eerie, and saturated with the presence of the dead, as a heavy pall of yin energy settled over the land.

As for the three culprits behind this disaster—Luo Hanya and her companions—they fared little better. The trio now lay sprawled on the ground like dead dogs, convulsing uncontrollably, crushing the wilted plants beneath them.

In the wake of this unprecedented sonic explosion, the Japanese 56th Division suffered annihilation. All those near the epicenter perished, while those farther away were not spared—madness or deafness claimed them all. This division, once dominant in Burma, was thus wiped from the pages of history in a single tragic accident.

None of this, however, was known to Luo Hanya and her friends. Their minds still thundered with the aftershocks, their consciousnesses adrift. Though they had prepared for the blast—aware that such a soundwave would inflict damage through internal and external pressure—they had equipped themselves with earplugs, nose plugs, and had tightly shut their mouths and covered their ears. Yet, their proximity rendered these precautions futile.

Fifty years later, historians would look back on this event, dubbing the Burma Cataclysm a turning point in World War II. The Indian theater was transformed; the 56th Division was all but obliterated. For Japan, not only was its military might crippled, but, more importantly, the fervor of its Bushido spirit was dealt a devastating blow. The Japanese referred to this explosion as the Wrath of the Gods. In the wake of this calamity, as Japanese morale plummeted, the American forces seized the opportunity, claiming victory in the Pacific theater in 1943. Inspired by the Expeditionary Army’s achievements, the Chinese people at home were galvanized, securing a series of major victories in 1944, and by early 1945, Japan surrendered and China regained all its lost territories.

Beyond its historical significance, the Burma Cataclysm became one of the world’s enduring unsolved mysteries, rivaling the Tunguska event. The thunderous blast left no trace; later investigations found the bodies of Japanese soldiers mutilated—not by explosion, but as if they had endured a fierce melee, their limbs torn asunder. The site became notorious, a cursed land where no one dared settle.

But all this was yet to come. Upon awakening, Luo Hanya and her companions would face a new crisis.

The trio had been unconscious for several hours under the soundwave’s assault. When they finally came to, they found themselves deaf, forced to communicate only through hand gestures. This in itself was bearable—their mission could still proceed. The true threat was the horde of monsters that now appeared before them.

It was a grim twist of fate: who could have guessed that the burial ground of the Japanese 56th Division was a land of perpetual gloom?

This land of perpetual gloom, also known as the Netherworld Domain, was said to be veined with the energies of the underworld, connecting to the Nine Hells and the Yellow Springs. Even the slightest trace of yin energy or restless spirits would draw forth supernatural phenomena—phantom armies would march through, and the spectral dead would consume all.

By this time, the Japanese forces alone had left behind tens of thousands of corpses, while the death toll among other creatures numbered in the hundreds of millions. Even a blessed paradise would be shrouded in shadow, let alone this cursed nexus of nether energies.

Within mere hours, countless spirits had converged here. Once a tropical jungle, the place was now swept by chilling winds and the wails of ghosts. The cold penetrated to the bone.

Ordinarily, such weak spirits would not be feared. But now, the Netherworld Domain had opened—a spectral prison reemerged, and the land of gloom became tangible. With fresh corpses aplenty, the spirits seized the bodies to return to the world, their ferocity unchecked.

As time passed, strange phenomena multiplied. First, a massive gate inscribed with countless patterns slowly descended. Above it hung a plaque bearing two ancient characters: “Netherworld.” On the left side of the gate was engraved the Ten Kings of Hell, each presiding over their own domain:

The First Hall, King Qinguang, who governs human fate and the fortunes of the underworld.
The Second Hall, King Chujiang, lord of the Pavilion of Disrobing and the Icy Hell.
The Third Hall, King Songdi, master of the Black Rope Hell.
The Fourth Hall, King Wuguan, ruler of the Blood Pool Hell.
The Fifth Hall, King Yanluo, who judges and examines souls, lord of the Wailing Hell.
The Sixth Hall, King Biancheng, master of the Great Wailing Hell and the City of Wrongful Deaths.
The Seventh Hall, King Taishan, lord of the Boiling Hell, also known as the Mortar Hell.
The Eighth Hall, King Dushi, master of the Great Boiling Hell, also called the Cauldron of Anguish.
The Ninth Hall, King Pingdeng, ruler of the Iron Web and Avici Hells.
The Tenth Hall, King Zhuanlun, who presides over reincarnation and governs the Six Realms: Heaven, Human, Asura, Animal, Hungry Ghost, and Hell.

On the right side was depicted the Vow of Kṣitigarbha Bodhisattva, his expression resolute yet merciful, radiating infinite Buddha-light, swearing not to attain Buddhahood until all beings of the six realms were delivered: “Not until hell is empty will I become a Buddha; once all beings are saved, enlightenment shall be achieved.” Beneath the Buddha-light, billions of evil ghosts knelt in repentance, their faces transformed, hands pressed together as if atoning for the sins of their previous lives.

Below the gate stood eighteen Judges of Hell, each with iron sinews and dragon-like arms, fierce and terrifying, each holding an object symbolizing the eighteen levels of hell.

Then, yellow spring water welled up from the earth—these were the Yellow Springs, comprised of nine layers, also known as the Nine Springs, each with its own warden:

Feng Spring, ruled by the Celestial Demon.
Ya Spring, ruled by the Negligent Steward.
Huang Spring, ruled by the Mountain Specters.
Han Spring, ruled by River and Lake Monsters.
Yin Spring, ruled by the Blood-Feeding Deities.
You Spring, ruled by the Forest Poisons.
Xia Spring, ruled by the Ancient Corpses.
Ku Spring, ruled by the Rebel Shamans.
Ming Spring, ruled by the Wronged Dead.

The confluence of the Yellow Springs became the River of Forgetfulness. Upon its waters drifted a spectral ferryman, clothed in tattered straw rainwear, his bones aglow with ghostly fire, silently ferrying countless souls across.

On the banks of the River of Forgetfulness stretched a boundless sea of blood, where rows of crimson flowers of the other shore exuded a haunting fragrance, luring the newly dead. Legend held that these flowers bloomed for a thousand years, fell for a thousand years, nourished by bone and blood, blooming without leaves and leafing without flowers—a harbinger of death, a summons from the underworld.

In that moment, the boundary between yin and yang dissolved. The Netherworld descended upon the earth, forging a realm unto itself—a terrestrial domain of the dead, independent of the three realms and five elements, transcending the six paths of rebirth. In this land of death and shadow, a fearsome weapon was being born.

What Luo Hanya and her companions now beheld were the spirits who had seized the fresh corpses, returning to the world by possessing the dead. Their faces were twisted and terrifying, ghostly flames flickered about them. For Luo Hanya and her friends, as the only living beings in this place, their life force was an irresistible temptation to the spirits of this cursed land.

The spirits encircled them, eyes glinting with greed, as if they were lambs awaiting slaughter.