The first thing Jin Wu noticed upon waking was a deep, hollow ache gnawing at his gut as if it had been festering for years. It felt raw and empty, clawing at him with a relentless need. He blinked, disoriented, and stared at the pale sky above, feeling strangely heavy, like he was tethered to the ground beneath him. The soft warmth and light from before were gone, replaced by a biting hunger that seemed to seep into his bones. He tried to ignore it for a moment, but the ache only intensified, demanding his attention like an old debt finally come due.

He sat up, blinking at the strange little cabin around him, the morning light filtering softly through the window. Beyond the door, a perfectly still lake stretched, its glassy surface reflecting an endless blue sky. Everything about this place seemed calm, peaceful, even inviting. And yet, that hunger… He pressed a hand to his stomach, wincing. For a brief moment, he wondered if this was just a bad dream or the afterlife’s idea of a practical joke.

Suddenly, a gong broke the silence.

“Lost supper, get up! It’s time for breakfast!” someone bellowed.

Jin Wu stumbled to the door, squinting into the light. Standing at the water’s edge was a shimmering, translucent old man dressed in fishing gear that looked several centuries out of date. The figure radiated an aura of authority, but his voice was laced with irritation as if he’d been woken up far too early.

“Ah, there you are,” the old man said, rolling his eyes. “Come on, come on. We haven’t all day!” He gestured impatiently toward the dock.

Jin Wu hesitated, glancing around one last time as if hoping to spot something that made sense of this strange world he’d found himself in. But his stomach growled, louder this time, almost painful. He had no choice but to follow the figure down to the water.

The old man waited at the dock, tapping his foot like an impatient schoolteacher. A small boat with a pair of oars and a single fishing pole was tied beside him, bobbing gently in the water.

“My, you’re a skinny one,” the old man muttered, sizing him up with a critical eye. “Need to fatten up your soul. You’re as thin as a wisp!”

Before Jin Wu could respond, the old man handed him the fishing pole. “Well, get in. Aren’t you hungry? Go out and get three carp. No more, no less.”

“Three carp?” Jin Wu echoed, bewildered. He glanced down at the pole, then back at the old man. “What is this? Some kind of twisted afterlife punishment?”

The old man’s expression didn’t change, but his tone softened just a little, almost amused. “Questions, questions. You think you’re the first lost soul to come drifting through my gate? Just do as you’re told, Lost Supper, and maybe you’ll learn something. Or maybe not.” He shrugged. “Depends on you.”

As Jin Wu steadied himself in the small, rickety boat, he cast a wary glance at the translucent old man standing on the dock, arms folded and an impatient look on his face.

“So, who are you, exactly?” Jin Wu asked, trying to mask the frustration gnawing at him as much as the hunger. The old man’s stern expression softened just a little as if remembering some forgotten courtesy. He gave a small, almost apologetic bow.

“Ah, I’ve been remiss,” he said with a hint of self-mockery. “Yu Taihe, Tranquil Sage of the Yellow River and Keeper of the Gate to Wandering Souls.” His voice took on a formal, almost ritualistic tone, as though he were reciting something ancient.

“Some call me the Spirit Fisher, but you may simply call me Old Yu.” His gaze sharpened, glimmering with something unreadable as he added, “Now, enough dawdling. The fish aren’t going to catch themselves.”

With no other choice, Jin Wu climbed into the boat, his movements sluggish, feeling like he was in a dream. As he rowed out onto the lake, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the old man’s gaze was still on him, watching every move. When he was a good distance from shore, he cast the line, settling into an uneasy silence as he waited for the first bite.

The stillness of the lake was unnerving. No sound of birds, no breeze, just the occasional ripple on the water’s surface and the low grumble of his stomach. But as the minutes passed, he found himself focusing on the water, almost mesmerized by the gentle rocking of the boat. Then, just when he was beginning to feel a sliver of calm—

The line went taut, jerking him back to the present. He gripped the pole, his heart pounding. The first carp twisted and fought, and he reeled it in with all his strength, pulling it up and into the boat. The fish lay there, shimmering and vibrant, its scales reflecting the light in strange, almost unnatural colors.

“Eat it,” the old man called from the shore, his voice echoing across the water. “Bones and all.”

Jin Wu stared down at the fish, his stomach churning with a mix of hunger and revulsion. He hadn’t eaten raw fish since his days as a soldier in the northern lands, and even then, it had never been like this. But that relentless ache gnawed at him, pushing him past his hesitation. He bent down, tearing into the fish with his teeth, swallowing each bite quickly to keep himself from gagging.

It was surprisingly satisfying, the hunger easing with each bite. By the time he’d finished, he felt a strange warmth spreading through him, filling that hollow emptiness in his gut. He cast the line again, catching the second and third carp.

Jin Wu’s stomach twisted as he glanced down at the third raw carp he was about to tear into. He hesitated, turning to glare at the old man, who stood at the shore with his hands tucked into his robes, watching with an infuriatingly calm expression.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“And why do you keep calling me ‘Lost Supper’? Is that supposed to mean something?” he demanded, his voice laced with irritation. Old Yu chuckled, the sound low and dry, like leaves rustling in a forgotten autumn.

“Oh, that? Just a little… misunderstanding,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Mother Meng can be rather unreasonable, and she might have… strong opinions about wayward souls slipping through.”

He shrugged the faintest glint of mischief in his eyes. “But don’t worry yourself over it. Just keep up with your routine, and maybe you won’t have to find out how she handles… oversight.” He chuckled again, leaving Jin Wu both puzzled and distinctly uneasy.

When he was done eating, Jin Wu rowed back to shore, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The old man nodded approvingly, his translucent face flickering like candlelight. “Good. But this is just the beginning, Lost Supper. You’ll be doing this every morning, noon, and night. Three carp each time. Don’t try to eat more, or less. I’ll know.”

Jin Wu scowled. “And what happens if I don’t? Or if I get sick of this… routine?”

The old man’s eyes twinkled with something between amusement and warning. “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough. This place has a way of… enforcing the rules. Just remember, Lost Supper, every bite, every line you draw, every mantra you recite has a purpose. Even if you can’t see it.”

“Better get moving before that woman finds out I'm not at the gate,” Old Yu muttered as he faded, leaving Jin Wu standing alone by the lake. As he looked out over the water, the gnawing hunger had eased, but a new sensation took its place—a strange, creeping unease.

For now, there was nothing he could do but follow the routine and try to find meaning in each day, hoping that somehow, each bite, each cast, each line on the slate would lead him somewhere.

Fifteen days later, he was going crazy. He had discovered a routine through trial and error. Every morning, he woke to a gnawing hunger that could only be satiated by eating red carp. Three carp, to be exact.

At midday, the same thing would happen. Hunger would besiege him. He would go out on the boat, catch three carp and only three, and eat them. Only then would the hunger immediately stop.

In the evening, the same hunger returned.

The carp were delicious, but nine of anything repeated daily would drive the tastiness away. Each bite of carp tasted like ash in his mouth now.

After each meal, the table would beckon. Sitting there blankly, wondering what to do, he finally realized he had to use the silver stylus to etch the symbol inside its corresponding trapezoid. That first day, he managed to etch two lines.

Each symbol seemed to resist his efforts, as though the slate itself fought against being marked. These weren’t just lines but ancient patterns imbued with power beyond his understanding. And with each stroke, it felt like the slate was drawing from his very essence.

As he put the stylus to the slate, the lifeforce seemed to seep out of him and into the stylus, making him dizzy. It became heavy, and he had to put it down. However, as soon as he did, the lines he had painstakingly carved disappeared.

Then there were the nights. After dinner, he had to sit on the mat, assume the lotus position, and repeat the mantra on the wall eighty-one times. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t sleep, and no matter how long he lay in bed, daytime would never arrive.

It took one endless night to figure out the routine.

"How long can this go on?" he thought, staring at the endless lake. "Is this all there is to the afterlife—an endless loop of hunger, carving, meditating, and boredom?"

He had tried to run away to no avail. First, he tried crossing the lake on the boat, but no matter how much he rowed, he was always one hundred meters away from the dock. He then tried swimming until he was exhausted, with the same result.

One morning, after breakfast, he tried to walk around to the other side, but before he was a quarter of the way around, the hunger pangs started, and he had to return and fish.

Convinced that he couldn't avoid his tasks, he started to carve notches on the wall to keep track of the days.

The only positive he had found was that after so many days, he was less translucent as if his soul was gaining strength. He noticed it first in the lake's reflection—a slight solidity to his form that hadn’t been there before. It was as if each bite of carp, each line he etched, each mantra recited added something back to him. But why? What was the point of it all?

It was as if he was paying back all the times he avoided cultivating when he was alive.

It was pleasant enough. There was never a cloud in the sky, the temperature was always right, and the wood bin was always full. The stove never burned anything. The linens were always fresh, and his clothing was always clean and dry.

The cabin was clean, dust-free, and had a pleasant sandalwood scent.

Yet, each day, the same hunger, the same routine, the same endless lake. His mind began to fray at the edges, thoughts looping back on themselves like a broken record. He started talking to the cabin walls, to the reflection in the lake, to the purple light that haunted his every waking moment—anything to break the crushing silence.

By the sixtieth notch, his mind was a monotonous haze, the notches on the wall multiplying like a prisoner’s tally. Fun fact: you can’t drown yourself in a magic lake. But he’d tried more than once.

----------------------------------------

On the evening of the eighty-seventh day, he sat at the table with the silver stylus in his hand, staring at the slate with an intensity born of desperation. His hand trembled as he pressed the stylus to the slate, carving each symbol as if his life depended on it. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his breath came in shallow gasps. It felt as if he were pouring every last bit of his strength into those lines.

When he finally completed the last stroke, the slate burst into a blazing purple light. It lifted from the table and spun horizontally faster and faster until it became a blur of violet fire. Jin Wu watched, half-dazed, as the light pulsed, growing brighter with each rotation.

And then, in one fluid motion, the light darted toward him like a striking serpent. Jin Wu barely had time to gasp before it struck him between the eyes, flooding his mind with searing pain.

He screamed, collapsing onto the floor. His vision blurred, and he heard the faint sizzle of energy burning through his very essence. It was as if the light was branding him, marking him with something ancient and powerful. He clawed at his face, but the pain was too deep, too ingrained, radiating through his spirit.

The last thing he remembered was the flicker of purple fire dimming as the cabin spun around him, fading into darkness.

When he awoke, everything was silent. The air felt different, charged with a strange energy, and his body—no, his soul—felt heavier, more substantial. He raised a hand, blinking as he noticed the solidity in his form. He didn’t look like a ghostly wisp for the first time, but… something closer to himself. He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers. They were still translucent but less so, as if he were beginning to reform.

A faint laugh echoed around him, soft and mocking. He looked up to see a glimmer of light hovering at the edge of the lake—the old man’s form, barely visible, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Getting stronger, are we?” Old Yu’s voice floated across the water like a ripple breaking the lake’s surface. “About time. But don’t get too cocky. You’re just a tadpole in a river, Lost Supper.”

Jin Wu opened his mouth to retort, but the figure vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only silence in its wake. He scowled, clenching his fists. Just a tadpole? Well, he’d show this so-called Tranquil Sage what a “tadpole” could do.

As he stood, his eyes fell on the tablet by the door—a stone pedestal with two paths inscribed upon it. A faint glow pulsed from one path, lighting up with a warm, golden hue. A line of text shimmered to life above it, written in graceful, flowing script:

Left or right, your blood shall guide,

The Yu path you must abide.

Inner Breath or River Path,

Let the light decide your track.

Beneath the inscription was a shallow indentation shaped like a palm print. Jin Wu’s gaze lingered on it, feeling a mix of anticipation and unease.

With a deep breath, he pressed his hand against the stone, feeling a pulse of energy surge. The path to the right glowed brighter, beckoning him forward. As he took his first step, a shiver ran through him, half dread, half excitement. Whatever lay ahead, he knew one thing for sure:

He wasn’t just passing the time anymore.