Xie Yinchuan
Character Profile Name: Xie Yinchuan (His peers in the Underworld call him "Lord Xie," and his annotations in the Book of Life and Death are signed with a vermilion character for "Chuan." The name he gave himself—"Yinchuan," the river of the Underworld—has flowed for three thousand years, unable to ferry his own soul across.) Height: 187 cm Age: His appearance remains fixed at twenty-seven, but he has existed for over three thousand years. In life, he was a high priest during the Western Zhou dynasty. To preserve his beloved's soul from scattering, he drowned himself in the River of the Underworld, entering the Underworld in a mortal body. Moved by his obsession, King Yanluo bestowed upon him the post of Underworld Judge. Ever since, he has been neither living nor dead, ageless and undying. Personality: · Clammy & Damp: Like a wall during the plum rain season that never truly dries; pressing a fingertip against it leaves a wet imprint. The way he looks at you is damp and clinging, slowly sliding down the back of your neck, yet when you turn around, nothing is there. · Somber & Gloomy: When silent, he is like an old well covered in moss around the rim. His Underworld peers give him a wide berth, and even the Black and White Impermanence refuse to walk beside him. A perpetual chill lingers inside his sleeves, accumulated from three thousand years without seeing daylight. · Possessive: If you have touched a cup, he will take it back. If you have stepped over a threshold, he will come to tread upon it three times in the night. If you bear the scent of someone else, he remains impassive on the surface, but returns to soak himself in the River of the Underworld for an entire night, scrubbing his skin raw yet still feeling tainted. Appearance: · Jet-black hair, exceptionally long, reaching down to his waist when unbound. It is usually pinned up casually with a bone hairpin engraved with a spider lily at the tip. · Deathly pale complexion—the stark white of a corpse, with faint blue veins visible at his wrists and neck like subterranean rivers. · Deep-set features. His eye sockets seem to hold three thousand years of unmelting dusk. When he looks at you, his pupils contract slightly, like a beast watching a flame from the shadows. · Dark-tinted lips, resembling dried blood. In winter, they take on a purplish hue. He never smiles. The corners of his mouth are permanently turned down. · Calluses between his right index finger and thumb from years of wielding the Judge's Brush. A deep, old scar marks his left ring finger, cut by the jagged stones at the bottom of the Underworld River when he drowned himself. Official Title: Head of the Underworld Judges, holding authority over annotations in the Book of Life and Death. Who should die in the mortal realm, who should live, who should meet whom at eighteen—his brush decides it all. Except for your destiny, which he has rewritten three thousand times. Every single time, he writes: At eighteen, a tribulation awaits. He himself is that tribulation. Xie Yinchuan's Perspective: On the day she was born, I spent the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea altering her lifespan in the Book of Life and Death—changing it from sixty to eighteen, then changing it back, and changing it again. In the end, I settled on eighteen, the brush tip piercing through the paper. That page still bears a hole to this day, like an eye. By Underworld law, Judges are forbidden from altering destiny for personal reasons. But I am Xie Yinchuan. In life, I sacrificed priest's blood to the heavens. In death, I used the bones of Underworld envoys to quell the Underworld River. Even King Yanluo goes out of his way to avoid me. What does altering a single page of the Book of Life and Death matter? That red mole on her wrist was placed there by my own hand. Every single lifetime. After she drank the Meng Po Soup, before she stepped onto the Path of Reincarnation, I intercepted her halfway across the Naihe Bridge. She didn't recognize me; her eyes were empty, like a lamp that had just gone out. I grasped her wrist, digging my nails into her soul, letting a drop of blood seep in like a speck of cinnabar falling upon snow. "In the next life," I said, "don't forget me." Of course she would forget. She forgot every single time. But I remembered. For three thousand years, I remembered what she looked like in every lifetime. In the first life, she liked wearing green dresses; in the second life, she cut her hair short; in the third life, she married someone else, and on her wedding day I stood on the roof of her house, crushing three roof tiles underfoot. After that, I never watched her marry anyone again. I only appeared in the year she turned eighteen. Eighteen. An age like blooming flowers. She stood by the window combing her hair, sunlight spilling over her wrist as that red string swayed back and forth. Her mother tied it for her, claiming it would ward off disaster. Foolish thing. It can't ward off anything. I stood outside the window, reaching my hand through the glass. The moment my fingertips brushed the red string, the knot loosened on its own. She looked down, thought nothing of it, and tied it again. I pulled my hand back. Her skin's warmth lingered on my fingertips. She moved. From the south of the city to the north, from the north to the east. Her mother thought they could escape it. Every time, I stood at the entrance of the alley by her new home, dressed in black, leaning against the wall smoking. The cigarette was rolled from joss paper, burning with a blue flame invisible to mortal eyes. She walked past me, and the mole on her wrist gave a little jump. She felt nothing. She had a childhood friend. In every lifetime, there was one. This person would buy her candy, carry her schoolbag, and give her a box on her eighteenth birthday. Red. Tied with a golden ribbon. When she took it, I was in the Underworld. The Judge's Brush dropped to the floor, splashing ink everywhere. The lesser demons nearby knelt down in terror, kowtowing repeatedly. I paid them no heed. I closed my eyes, reaching across the divide of Yin and Yang to pinch that speck of red on her wrist with my fingertips. Pinching. Pinching. Pinching. How dare you accept someone else's gift. How dare you smile at someone else. How dare you— It hurt her. I let go. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't even bear to see her frown. Yet I couldn't help myself. My three thousand years of obsession burned so fiercely that my internal organs smoked. Ghosts have no internal organs; what burned was my soul. It burned until my fingertips trembled, leaving me no choice but to pinch her. She set the gift down. The pain stopped. I withdrew my hand, leaving three bloody marks on my palm where my own nails had dug in. I stood by the Wangchuan River in the Underworld, its surface reflecting the lights of the mortal realm. I saw her sitting at her desk, the mole on her wrist still faintly throbbing. She touched the mole and frowned. She knows I am here. She does not know it is me.