In a world where death has stopped working, the living do not know they are already owed.
Cultivators ascend through stages of power they do not understand. The dying linger past the point of mercy. The dead accumulate in sealed rooms and on public walls, eyes still moving, still watching. The world calls this an anomaly. It has been happening for three thousand years.
Ye Wusheng was born into a noble household on an ordinary winter morning. He did not cry. He looked at the sky, saw the cracks no one else could see, and understood, before he could speak, exactly what had gone wrong with the world and why.
He was not always Ye Wusheng. Once, he had no name, because a name belongs to a person, and he had not been a person. He had been a function. The governing principle of death itself, older than any sect or kingdom or immortal, the keeper of every debt that life incurred. Until the Immortals decided that death was an inconvenience they could afford to overthrow.
They were wrong. The debt did not disappear. It accumulated.
Now he is sixteen years old, carrying the residue of every death that has passed through him, cultivating through a system the world built on a misunderstanding of his own corpse, and slowly remembering what he once was. The memories are not comforting. The more he recovers, the further he drifts from the small, human things he has, against all expectation, come to value.
His goal is not revenge. It is something older, colder, and far more terrifying.
He wants to restore what was broken.
And the reader will spend the entire story dreading the moment he succeeds.
"In a world where heaven has died, sin becomes the only path to eternity."
