Mr. Clark was a man of the Tang Dynasty and had held the position of Judge for thirteen hundred years without ever being promoted. Still, he seemed quite content in his role. No wonder—there was only one Judge, but ten sets of higher-ups: King Qinguang, King Chujiang, King Songdi, King Wuguan, King Yanluo, King Biancheng, King Taishan, King Pingdeng, King Dushi, King Wudao Lunhui, and so on. Most of these were empty titles with no real power, while he alone held the authority over personnel. With the Book of Life and Death in his hands, he had been able to profit handsomely for thirteen hundred years.

However, in recent years, a wave of anti-corruption had swept through the underworld, aiming to improve oversight mechanisms—such as property declaration systems, developing monitoring software, establishing an anti-corruption bureau, and even having King Yanluo personally head the anti-corruption leadership group. Mr. Clark didn’t pay much attention to these measures. He had already made his fortune, and besides, with thirteen hundred years’ worth of case files piled up like mountains, who could possibly investigate them all? The people involved had either returned to the living or drunk Meng Po’s soup and forgotten everything, including any bribes they might have given. A few years of clean living wouldn’t hurt; in fact, it was a good opportunity for self-cultivation. So, in recent years, he never took risks for small bribes. Many little ghosts tried to slip him money in secret, but he sternly rebuked them or handed the money over to the anti-corruption bureau. As a result, he was named an “Outstanding Honest and Incorruptible Individual” for three consecutive years.

After listening to his wife’s account, Mr. Clark quickly began to assess the risk-to-reward ratio. First, this Edward Thompson hadn’t yet crossed the Naihe Bridge. He was listed in the Book of Life and Death, but not yet registered in the underworld’s community household system. In other words, King Yanluo, who was in charge of supervision, didn’t even know he had arrived. The risk was minimal, and the reward was a full two hundred million ghost coins—far outweighing the risk! Stroking his goatee, Mr. Clark grinned slyly. Of course, he wouldn’t let this opportunity slip by.

Mr. Clark was a veteran at this sort of thing, and handling off-the-record resurrections was second nature to him. He pulled out the electronic Book of Life and Death, used a fuzzy search to find the characters “Li Wei,” and tens of thousands of records popped up. He then filtered by “lifespan not yet expired” and “awaiting return,” narrowing it down to just over a hundred entries.

As he searched, Mr. Clark muttered to himself, “Li Weiwei, Li Weiping, Li Weima, Li Weita... Li Weizheng... Li Weihe, wait a minute!”

Mr. Clark’s gaze snapped back to a “Li Weizheng” on the list—a man from the Hongwu era of the Ming Dynasty, murdered and sent to the underworld with fifty years of life left. Suddenly, he chuckled. This was the ghost he needed. He picked up his pen and added a horizontal stroke to the “止” in Edward Thompson’s name, turning it into “正,” so now there were two Li Weizhengs. The Judge then swapped their life-and-death codes. Beside him, Meng Erpo, being a woman, realized her husband was committing an occupational crime and nervously asked, “I heard the IT department in King Yanluo’s Hall is upgrading the lottery monitoring system. If the new system finds out we’re the ones buying the ticket, and they trace it back to you...”

“Of course I know!”

Before his wife could finish, Mr. Clark waved her off and reassured her, “Don’t worry. There’s always a policy up top and a countermeasure down below. The new system only checks three generations of direct relatives. As long as we have your third aunt’s second uncle buy the ticket, we’ll avoid detection. He’s just an old farmer growing vegetables in the countryside—no one would ever connect him to me, a department-level official. Besides, their tech department’s systems are always unstable and often mix up names. If I mix up two Li Weizhengs, it’s just an oversight, not a big deal. Even if they find out, at most it’ll be an internal warning. Compared to a two hundred million jackpot, this risk is nothing! Nothing at all!”

...

“All right.” After finishing the name swap, Mr. Clark said to his wife, “The drawing is tomorrow. This has to be handled right away—no delays. I’ll go take care of him now.”

Before his wife could say anything, he immediately switched systems, tapped the screen lightly with his pen, and in an instant, time rewound more than six hundred years. He now found himself in a grand hall—this was the Hall of Return, a VIP passageway for returning from the underworld to the world of the living, reserved for high officials and wealthy merchants from past lives, as well as for ghosts like Edward Thompson—no, Li Weizheng—whose lifespans had not yet expired. Usually, underworld messengers would escort them here, but today was special: Mr. Clark was handling it personally. He glanced at the ghostly figure of Edward Thompson following behind and said coldly, “Come with me!” Then he strode quickly into the hall.

At this moment, the dizziness in Edward Thompson’s head gradually faded. He remembered clearly that he had been chatting and joking with some newly acquainted net-ghosts in front of a computer at the shelter—so how did he suddenly end up here? He looked around the grand hall curiously. Although it was spacious, it was empty except for dozens of large plaques hanging on either side, labeled Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming, Qing, pre-1949, post-1949, and so on.

“Uncle, can I possess my own body from 1978?” Edward Thompson asked in a low voice, a bit uneasy. The lottery-selling aunt had agreed too readily, which made him suspicious.

Mr. Clark, preoccupied, didn’t quite catch what he said. He pointed under one of the large plaques and said, “Stand under that sign.”

Edward Thompson walked over and looked up at the plaque. It read “Ming.” Although he didn’t know what this ghost official was up to, he was sure there had been a mistake. He quickly pointed to the “post-1949” plaque and said, “Uncle, I should be standing over there, right?”