Chapter One: Soul Chaser (Revised)

A few days ago, in a parallel world.

It was not the first time he had this kind of dream. Yes, Obsidian was quite certain that he was dreaming.

He always wandered alone in his dreams, drifting among the passing crowds. The people seemed utterly colorless; they could not see him, nor could he touch them. He simply strolled through the bustling streets and winding alleys, sometimes witnessing curious events, which brought a faint, knowing smile to his lips...

But this dream was markedly different. He found himself floating in midair, looking down at his own sleeping body on the bed. Suddenly, a flash of white light blinded him, and the body lying on the bed vanished without a trace. Suspended in the air, Obsidian could only sigh helplessly. An absurd thought crossed his mind: Could this be the legendary out-of-body experience?

No sooner had the idea arisen than he dismissed it. No, he was just dreaming.

Obsidian was an orphan. It was said he was abandoned at the orphanage’s doorstep on a rainy day, much like the weather in his dream now—a sky shrouded in endless gray, the air oppressively heavy, thunder cracking, rain pounding in thick, heavy drops. He had been left in a bamboo basket at the orphanage entrance, a slip of paper inside bearing his name.

He tried to drift out of the room and land on the street outside. The thought crossed his mind, and in this dream, he managed it effortlessly.

One would expect to feel nothing in a dream, but as Obsidian touched down, a chill seemed to rise from his feet, nearly knocking him off balance.

The rain came swiftly and departed just as quickly, and Obsidian resumed his solitary journey.

Truth be told, Obsidian rather preferred living in dreams. There were fewer rules, fewer worries, and far less strife. Sometimes, he foolishly imagined that life in dreams might be freer, a choice not wholly without merit.

He wandered on, relishing this rare peace, passing through streets and parks, by lakes...

He saw a little girl crying helplessly at the roadside, clutching a bundle of colorful sticks.

He saw the orange tabby that Old Wang from next door had been lamenting, missing for so long.

He saw a worker, his face anxious, steps hurried and unsteady, still in his work clothes, not yet changed after his shift.

The man rushed straight towards him. Obsidian knew he didn’t need to move—this was just a dream—but in the next moment, the worker collided with him, sending him tumbling to the ground. Dazed, he barely registered the man’s apology.

“I’m terribly sorry, brother, truly sorry! My mother is dying—I must see her one last time. Forgive me!”

How curious. For the first time, someone in his dream had actually run into him.

Instinctively, Obsidian followed, boarding the bus with the worker, then accompanying him to the train station.

As soon as the worker got off the bus, he dashed to the ticket hall, joining a line that seemed to stretch endlessly. Carefully, he pulled out a crumpled train ticket wrapped in plastic. He was drenched and flustered, his face flushed with anxiety as he eyed the queue.

At last, as if steeling himself, the worker rushed to the front of the line and negotiated with someone. The man eventually relented, stepping back, and the worker bowed gratefully. Just as he was about to take his place, he was shoved from behind, landing hard on the floor, his train ticket tumbling from his grasp. He sat there, stunned, his face growing pale and faintly green.

A sudden gust of wind swept through, carrying the ticket away.

The worker leapt up, chasing after the fluttering ticket.

Obsidian watched the scene unfold, his feelings mixed. He glanced at the sneering faces of those who had shoved the worker, their eyes dark with malice.

Suddenly, a violent tremor blurred his vision. It was a long time before the world came into focus again.

He was still at the train station, but now he stood on the platform.

A procession of robed figures passed by in orderly rows, their steps perfectly synchronized, clearly trained. Though it was his first time seeing them, Obsidian felt a strange sense of familiarity.

Once more, he followed.

It wasn’t long before they reached a disaster site—the very train the worker had failed to board had been in an accident. The scene was utter chaos: cries, shouts, and pleas for help blended together.

Obsidian pinched his cheek reflexively—nothing. He supposed he must still be dreaming.

It was as if two worlds unfolded before his eyes: one gray, one black.

In the gray world, firefighters, police, and medics worked together desperately to rescue the injured—a scene Obsidian could accept.

In the black world, the accident victims crawled from the twisted wreckage, oblivious to missing limbs or gaping wounds. Dull and expressionless, they formed a line, each questioned and recorded by the robed figures, then led into a black portal that appeared in the air.

Obsidian froze, cold sweat running down his face as he watched. He noticed all those who had shoved the worker now stood in the black world. Please, he prayed, let it not be what I think. How could I dream something like this?

While he stood there, dazed, one of the robed figures met his gaze. That chill he’d only just shaken off crept back in.

Panicking, Obsidian backed away, closed his eyes, and fled, never noticing the shock on the robed figure’s face or the black portal that appeared before him.

That robed man was Judge Guideng of the Underworld, and his astonishment was mixed with suspicion. The man bore an uncanny resemblance to Black Impermanence, who had long been missing from the Underworld. Guideng marked him with a tracking spell as he fled.

It was unclear how far he ran before exhaustion forced Obsidian to a halt, gasping for breath by a riverbank lined with unopened flower buds. In the distance, he could just make out a bridge.

After resting a while, Obsidian walked slowly toward the bridge, noticing that the mist grew denser with every step he took.

At last, he reached the bridge. Through the haze, a figure appeared. Once again, Obsidian followed, though fear gnawed at him. It was that peculiar compulsion—a terror that made him want to look away, yet unable to resist peeking, only to regret it, heart pounding with fright. Obsidian felt this very keenly.

On the far side of the river, he caught up and saw he was not mistaken. The person wore elegant black robes, long black hair shining like silk, falling to his waist.

He had no idea where he was, but at least he wasn’t alone, and that gave him some comfort.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Obsidian reached out to tap the person’s shoulder, hoping to strike up a conversation.

The figure slowly turned, regarding him with a puzzled gaze...

Obsidian’s face turned ashen.

That person...

He had no face.

No face.

It bears repeating three times: no face!!!

Obsidian shrieked in terror, his body shuddering violently as he snapped his eyes open—only to find a dark shadow looming above him.

His mind blanked for a moment before he realized something was pinning him down, and a warm, soft pressure lingered against his lips. Could it be…?

As his vision adjusted, Obsidian saw, close enough to touch, a face of such striking beauty it seemed almost unearthly. And—it was a man. Obsidian felt his heart take another blow.

"Don’t misunderstand. I was merely returning something to you," the man said, releasing him and rising to his feet as Obsidian woke.

Obsidian scrubbed his lips fiercely, his expression dark as thunder.