Volume One The Griffin of the Johnson Family

Chapter One: Fallen in Hell for Ninety Thousand Years

“He’s not dead yet.” Two ox-headed beings, clad in blood-red armor and wearing red helmets, holding blood-red spears, whispered to each other.

“If it were me, I’d rather be dead.” The other shook his head.

From afar, the two could see the endless, undulating crimson mountain range stretching beyond sight. Even though they had lived here for countless ages, a trace of fear lingered in their hearts.

Because beneath that mountain range lay the Eighteen Levels of Hell, and the ‘he’ they spoke of had been inside for ninety thousand years.

If there were only a single blood moon hanging high, then in the Eighteen Levels of Hell, only blood would remain.

This is a legend about ‘undying’.

Before the Stone of Judgment, he interrogated himself about all his deeds in life, and in a word: no regrets in this life.

The Ten Kings Hall of the Underworld demanded he confess his crimes, but he swore never to yield, eventually shaking the Nine Capitals of the Netherworld and being sent into hell.

“To be cast into the Eighteen Levels of Hell, never to reincarnate for all eternity”—this was always a jest, for aside from the legendary immortals and gods, no one had ever survived there for a hundred thousand years.

But he, to this day, has lasted ninety thousand years. Although he once set foot on the path of cultivation and cannot be considered a mere mortal, it is still a miracle.

...

Seventeenth Level, Millstone Hell.

Gray mist shrouded the surroundings, the ground beneath was crimson, faintly tinged with blood, giving off an eerie and sinister air.

Henry Johnson gazed indifferently at the massive blood-red millstone before him, upon which countless gears turned, even with traces of flesh and bone remaining. Beside the millstone, a horse-faced being in blood-red armor watched him.

“You’re used to it by now. Get on!” the horse-face said.

Familiar with the process, Henry Johnson didn’t need the ghost soldiers behind him to push or drag; he stepped forward and lightly set foot on the millstone’s gears.

A flash of blood-red light swept by, and in an instant, Henry Johnson felt his body grow heavy. His once-dispersed spirit merged into flesh and blood, as if he had been reborn from death.

However, before he could savor this sensation, the gear beneath his foot gently turned, immediately grinding off a layer of skin from his newly restored foot.

Henry Johnson felt a pain that pierced to the depths of his soul, sweeping through his mind. He wanted to scream, but an invisible and terrifying force pinned him firmly to the massive blood-red millstone.

“Hiss, hiss, hiss!”

Layer by layer, the freshly reborn flesh was ground away by the millstone, starting from the soles of his feet, as if bare feet were being rubbed hard against sand and stone, over and over, never ceasing.

“Crack!”

Flesh and skin obliterated, the bones of his foot were gently kneaded by the gears, the bottommost layer turning to powder, the blood and bone ground away like pebbles.

Waves of unbearable agony invaded Henry Johnson’s sea of consciousness, nearly driving him mad. The veins on his arms bulged, his face flushed red, yet he could not utter even a single roar.

Millstone Hell, as the name suggests, grinds people into meat paste, reshapes the body, and grinds again, in endless cycles, until eternity or death.

It starts from the feet, then the calves, thighs, abdomen, and finally the head.

Eyes wide open, Henry Johnson stared as two gears scraped past his eyeballs, then pressed down hard. A faint popping sound followed, as if something had burst open...

Henry Johnson felt his thoughts nearly come to a complete halt, struggling to keep his mind clear, because only then could he continue to survive.

The millstone grinds the flesh, but wounds the heart.

The body is ground away, turned into flesh, bone, and blood, yet Henry Johnson’s spirit and will once again coalesced into a soul form, though his face was much paler, and even cracks had begun to appear on his soul.

There is a kind of pain that does not reach the marrow, but penetrates the very essence of the spirit.

“Kid, how much longer can you last? A thousand years? Ten thousand years?” the expressionless horse-face asked. He spoke little, but he was too ‘familiar’ with this ghost, and was a bit curious.

“I will return alive.” Henry Johnson’s eyes flickered, his voice low and suppressed.

“A simple visualization technique let you master the world’s invincible Sutra of Conviction. I hope your fantasy comes true.” The horse-face didn’t care about his attitude. “The Bodhisattva of Yin Mountain said, ‘Hell will not be empty, I swear not to become a Buddha.’ With you here, I don’t think hell will ever be empty.”

“It’s precisely because of the Bodhisattva that hell will surely be emptied, it must be.” Henry Johnson said softly.

“Let’s go, there’s one more level!” the ghost soldier behind spoke.

Eighteen Levels of Hell—every day, Henry Johnson must start from the first level, pass through all eighteen without dying, to live one more day. If he can’t endure, he dies.

How much longer this can go on, Henry Johnson himself doesn’t know—maybe ten thousand years, maybe he’ll die tomorrow.

“No matter what, as long as I’m alive, I must live well.” Henry Johnson lifted his head slightly, as if trying to pierce through the overlapping hells of time and space, to see that ‘beautiful’ blood moon above the earth.

“Buzz!”