I drag my mutilated self across the Naihe Bridge as my innumerable stab wounds begin to stitch themselves shut. The blood (or whatever it is that spills out when a soul is damaged in Diyu) remains, staining the once white robe that envelops my skeletal frame.

I must look like a mess, but no messier than my fellow sufferers. They either crawl or stumble along this sprawling platform, their faces contorted by the agony carved into their souls. Some have shattered legs that slowly regenerate. Some have stumps for hands that are sprouting back. Some are humanoid charcoal regrowing tendons and flesh. Some I know, the same ones tossed into the Mountain of Knives with me by Ox-Head and Horse-Face once judgment was passed. Glancing at them, I feel somewhat relieved, for I, too, am no longer a human pincushion.

With each step we take, another wound heals itself until every tortured being regains the ability to walk upright. The feeling of wholeness embraces me, sudden and comforting like a springtime breeze. The scars, however, will not fade. Such are the prices inflicted on one’s soul after a lifetime of sin. 

I was a butcher, and down here, I in turn was butchered by the ruthless knives that made up the mountain I was forced to climb. How many years have I spent here? I’ve lost count, but I’ve at long last done my time. My feet know where to go, and I join the train of souls marching toward a kitchen ahead, where an elderly lady awaits.

She appears thin and frail, a seemingly ordinary woman in her seventies or eighties, her skin marred by the time-dug trenches. Yet, her eyes glow like constellations that have been burning for millennia, piercing and unfathomable. One glance from those eyes, and every soul looks down, unable to bear the weight of countless eons collapsing on their thoughts. We all know her name, but none dare to speak it.

Meng Po, whose Soup of Oblivion is the singular mercy of Diyu, beckons us forward. “Next,” she simply says, her soft voice reverberating. The souls obey, receiving a bowl from the deity. With one gulp, memories of their past lives will dissipate like dewdrops at dawn. Quietly, everyone drinks it and moves on, toward a luminous pit of light.

Eventually, my turn comes. 

With shivering hands, I accept my bowl and bow. A clumsy word of gratitude tumbles out of my recovered tongue. Meng Po says nothing. I avoid her gaze and swallow every drop of soup in the artifact bestowed. The effect is immediate. My thoughts start to slip away, and I’m inescapably drawn toward the light, where I throw myself off the cliff. Into a new life, my soul will then be cast by the whims of fate.

In my final moment of consciousness, my mind perceives a pig, thrashing and whining as it’s being dragged away, and the sound of a blade being sharpened echoes faintly inside its newborn’s ear.

[Ngo Binh Anh Khoa is a teacher of English in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. In his free time, he enjoys reading fiction and writing speculative poetry. His works have appeared in Penumbric, Star*Line, Weirdbook, Spectral Realms, and other venues. He also enjoys writing haiku, some of which have received awards and honorable mentions in international contests in the USA, the UK, Japan, Canada, and elsewhere.]