You Are Not Qualified

"Hell?" Hearing that word, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. If he had merely fallen into Hell, wouldn't bringing him back be a simple matter? Since ancient times, countless people had summoned the souls of sinners from Hell. Many ancient families had attempted to use magic to summon an "ancestor" suffering in Hell, then negotiate a deal with a hell lord. Paying a sufficient price was all it took to ransom a sinner's soul. Perhaps Anbaixiu was too special, making his soul exceptionally valuable, but no matter how steep the cost, the Elegy Poetry Society could always pool their resources to meet it. Hope ignited within the Rose of Decay as well, and she quickly pressed, "Is it Zariel or Tiamat?" Anbaixiu had signed contracts with both of these hell lords, and the transactions involving the soul coins were not yet completed. The odds of his soul landing in their hands were the highest. The President hid nothing and pointed her directly in the right direction. "His soul has fallen into the first layer of Hell. Barring any accidents, it should be in Zariel's hands." Just as the Rose of Decay was about to express her thanks, the President added, "Don't get your hopes too high, however. His soul is already severely fractured, and he can no longer respond to anyone's summons. If you want to bring him back, you can only seek out Zariel directly—though I do not advise you do so." "Why?" she asked agitatedly. "Because you have no way to mend his soul." "But you do, don't you, President?" "I do, but I cannot," the President said, shaking his head at the group. "When the Elegy Poetry Society was first founded, the help I could offer you was extremely limited. Mending his soul already crosses that line." The Rose of Decay was about to press further, but the Poet cut in, "All right, Rose. Let's focus on finding a way to retrieve his soul first." She fell silent for a moment before deciding not to pursue the matter. As the Poet had said, if they wished to revive him, retrieving his soul came first. As for whatever restrictions bound the President, it was likely that deities were constrained by Ao from interfering in mortal affairs at will, which was something that could always be negotiated. Thus, the urgent priority was still to secure him from the hell lord. The Rose of Decay said to the others, "Pardon me, everyone, but I must head back. I can't wait any longer to bring him back." None of the society members tried to stop her. Everyone could see that her obsession had shifted from Ryan to that lich. When it came to an undead's obsession, persuasion was useless. Aige, however, hurried after her. As a demigod on the verge of ascending to godhood, she felt she could be of assistance when bargaining with a hell lord, and she was equally eager to help bring Anbaixiu back. Once the two of them departed, the gathering swiftly drew to a close. After chatting idly for a brief while, the others dispersed one after another, until only the ghoul Youjiaxi and the giant Imu remained. Both had joined the Elegy Poetry Society very early on, holding greater seniority than the rest. Once the newcomers had left, Youjiaxi could no longer suppress the grin on his face. His mouth split open wide, baring razor-sharp, blood-red fangs. "The day has finally arrived." He downed another drink, then spoke to the President, "All the candidates have lost their eligibility. President, isn't it time for your trial to yield a result?" The God of Death was to be replaced—that was the very reason behind the establishment of the Elegy Poetry Society. Every member was a candidate. Yet Gareth and Canggu were lost in their personal romance, Aige had embarked on a different path, the Rose of Decay had long been trapped in hatred... Each member had their own issues, and none of them even knew the society's true secret. They were completely oblivious to the fact that the God of Death was changing seats. Only Youjiaxi had striven toward this goal from the very beginning, persisting for who knew how many millennia. Now that Anbaixiu, the newly arrived competitor, had also fallen into Hell, there were no rivals left in the entire Elegy Poetry Society. That meant the final victory should rightfully belong to him. Youjiaxi looked at the President with eager anticipation, hoping he would present the prize he had dreamed of for ages and crown him as the God of Death. Yet the President simply shook his head and said, "No. You are not qualified." Youjiaxi never could have imagined receiving such an answer. In a fit of fury, he crushed the goblet in his hand into dust and demanded, "Why am I not qualified? All these years, I have endured gnawing hunger. Even when fresh flesh was before my eyes, I restrained my appetite. I have transcended my own desires! "In the entire Elegy Poetry Society, I am the only one who has achieved this. What right do you have to say I'm not qualified?" Youjiaxi even knew the criteria for becoming the God of Death, which was why he had exercised restraint from the start. Over all these years, he was likely the ghoul who had eaten the least. Endless hunger had ceaselessly tormented him, yet he had preserved his sanity, scheming step-by-step to eliminate his competitors. Youjiaxi believed he had done more than enough; no undead could defy their instincts and endure for so long as he had. Yet the President still merely shook his head. "You are not qualified." With a loud crash, Youjiaxi smashed the table in front of him to splinters. He couldn't help but roar, "Not qualified! Not qualified! What exactly does it take to be qualified?! I've waited for so long—how much longer do you expect me to endure?! If I am not qualified, then who is? Could it be Imu?!" Beside them, the giant Imu said expressionlessly, "I am not qualified, nor do I want to be the God of Death. I am going back. When Arthur resurrected the first time, I arrived too late to kill him. During his second resurrection, I missed the chance again. But I will keep waiting. When he resurrects a third time, I will kill him with my own hands." Youjiaxi spat furiously, "Idiot! Arthur Ryan is utterly obliterated! No one can save him from Ao's grasp. He is dead beyond dead! Your promise is meaningless!" Imu showed no anger. He merely stood up and calmly replied, "The first time, many said the same, yet I waited until the second. No matter how long it takes, I will wait for his return, and then I will kill him. That is my pact with him, and the very meaning of my existence." With that, Imu strode out of the tavern. In the end, only Youjiaxi remained to face the President and the Poet. For a moment, Youjiaxi felt like a clown. Over the years, the other members of the Elegy Poetry Society had indulged their desires, striving for what they truly wanted. Aige had successfully found a way to recover her father and was on the brink of stepping into godhood; the Rose of Decay had brought about the destruction of the Ryan royal family; Gareth and his wife had lived lovingly for so many years... It seemed he alone had endured for all this time. Tormented by hunger for thousands of years, whenever he was on the verge of madness, Youjiaxi had reminded himself that only by enduring could he become the God of Death. Yet after all this time, he still wasn't qualified. Fuming, Youjiaxi demanded of the President, "Has all the torment I endured across millennia been for nothing?!" "So long as you still view it as torment, you will never become the God of Death." The President set down his cup, turned, and walked out of the tavern. Thousands of years of forbearance, brushed aside by a single dismissive sentence? Youjiaxi stared at his departing figure. The man looked so emaciated that a single swipe of claws could tear him to shreds. Youjiaxi's hands cracked and popped as sharp blades extended from his fingertips, his nails coated in a crimson glow as if he were ready to strike at any second! The Poet did not intervene, but out of their long acquaintance, he offered a quiet warning: "Youjiaxi, let me remind you of something. The President's name is Jergal." Those two syllables doused Youjiaxi's rage like a bucket of freezing water. Retracting his talons, Youjiaxi smoothed himself back into his polite, gentlemanly demeanor. Jergal, Recorder of Souls—a name long forgotten by the mortal world, yet Youjiaxi knew its sheer weight. No matter how enraged he was, if he truly dared bare his claws, his soul would be shattered just like that lich's, beyond all hope of resurrection. Youjiaxi said to the Poet, "Apologies, I let my impulses get the better of me. Don't worry. Since I am the only candidate left, the outcome is already written. I will remain patient and continue to wait." The Poet said nothing more. Yet in his view, Anbaixiu, fractured soul and all, had a better chance than Youjiaxi. This ghoul had spent thousands of years without ever understanding the rules of the game. To become the God of Death meant transcending one's desires. Not suppressing them, not indulging them, nor substituting them... but truly rising above desire itself.