When he saw Huaiyin's hesitation, Dòu Táng understood—it wasn't the right time. "It's all right," he said gently. "Take your time. No rush."
He offered her the sheathed blade. "Put it away. Time for bed."
"Mhm." Huaiyin still looked reluctant, but obediently followed his words, tilting the sword upward and sliding it home.
Click.
The steel vanished with that crisp sound. Dòu Táng set the sheathed weapon on the bed, atop the newspaper-covered pile of other spiritual relics.
Huaiyin cast one last glance over her shoulder as she left.
Dòu Táng lingered, gaze tracing each cursed object in turn, a strange fondness softening his eyes.
The grudges that had once clung to them now slumbered peacefully within him—cleansed of hatred, floating somewhere in that absurd paradise he called the Tang Dou Ren world.
Here, in the mortal realm, only their vessels remained: quiet, sealed, waiting. "Good night," he murmured.
Then he closed the door softly behind him.
Crawling under the blanket beside the already-drowsy Huaiyin, he felt her small, warm hand slip into his. Within moments, her breathing steadied.
He closed his eyes—
and his consciousness sank once more into the world of Tang Dou Ren.
When he opened them again, he was standing tall in his wolf-headed bean-body, surrounded by a landscape of sugar and milkshakes.
Not far away, a soldier in a ghostly uniform stirred and blinked awake. It was Yamashita—the vengeful spirit he had purified.
He looked around, stunned. For a man born and dead in the Shōwa era, this place was incomprehensible: candy-colored hills, rivers of strawberry milk, air so sweet it soothed instead of sickened.
"…So this… is the afterlife?" he whispered.
No hellfire. No torment.
Only a paradise so gentle it melted even hatred away. He drew a shaky breath.
"Ahhh… to think even a ghost could finally relax…"
"Hey, stop making those weird noises," came a voice behind him— a bizarre mix of deep bass and a child's chirp, layered together.
Yamashita spun around. Before him stood a round, plump creature in a ridiculous wolf mask—the spitting image of the man who had struck him down.
"Ren-kun! Y-you too have come to Yomi?!"
"This isn't Yomi," Dòu Táng said flatly. "This is the world of Tang Dou Ren." "T-Tang… bean men?"
The concept clearly short-circuited the brain of a spirit from 1945.
Dòu Táng didn't bother explaining further. With a soft plop, he sat cross-legged on the candy ground and began describing the world in simple terms—carefully omitting his own origin. All he told Yamashita was that he was Chinese.
After listening in silence for a long while, Yamashita finally nodded gravely.
"I see… So, Ren-kun—you're a messenger of Yomi itself! A judge who walks among the living, sentencing wayward souls!"
…Wow. Industrial-grade delusion.
The soldier pointed toward the horizon, where hundreds of glowing raceways floated above the milkshake sea, spiraling into honeycomb mazes in the sky.
"These are the trials of the soul! Only the mightiest spirits may conquer them and earn rebirth as Tang Dou Ren—noble champions of combat!
Of course! No wonder Ren-kun wields such divine power! That Spacium Ray you unleashed—it was a heavenly art!"
He clasped his hands, eyes shining.
"Ren-kun, sage of Huaxia! Lord of Mount Tai! Kunpeng of the mortal world! Ren-kun—how magnificent you are!"
"Those who pass your trials may return to life, granted a single wish under your supervision. So merciful! So mighty!"
Then, with proud Shōwa-era dignity, the soldier dropped into a full dogeza, forehead pressed to the candy ground.
"To be purified by Ren-kun … an honor beyond words!" Dòu Táng said nothing for a long moment.
"Ren-kun?" Yamashita peeked up, uneasy.
The wolf-headed bean slapped a palm over his face and sighed. "…Sigh."
How am I supposed to save you, my dear delusional maniac?
"Ren-kun, why the sigh? Did I offend you?"
"No, no—you're right. All of it. Completely right," Dòu Táng said helplessly, waving a hand. "So… do you want to race?"
Yamashita hesitated, then shook his head solemnly.
"No. I came here to be purified by you. To challenge you now would mock my own words. I would never."
Why were they always like this? Nobody ever wanted to play the game. "Fine," Dòu Táng exhaled. "Then do you have anything else to say?" "Of course." Yamashita straightened, eyes suddenly grave.
"Ren-kun, what I'm about to tell you—you must not be afraid."
Dòu Táng blinked. He almost said "Don't worry, I'm a pro; I don't scare easy," but stopped himself. The old man wouldn't get the meme anyway.
He nodded instead.
"Go ahead. I'm listening."
"As expected of you, Ren-kun. Your composure honors me." He began.
"I was born in the twentieth year of Shōwa—a naval cadet and part-time cook. After our defeat in the Pacific, we were reassigned to defend Tokyo Bay."
"During one mission, near what is now your academy, the Great Tokyo Air Raid began. We took shelter nearby. Back then, this place was just another neighborhood."
"When the bombing grew unbearable, our unit—and countless civilians—perished here. Before that, we'd been given a mission… one said to change the nation's fate."
His voice wavered with awe and regret. Dòu Táng had to bite back a laugh. "Change the nation's fate," huh? Classic.
"But clearly… we failed. I don't remember how. When I awoke, I was bound to this ground—guardian of its resentment."
He unwrapped the bandages around his face.
Beneath them was horror: melted flesh, twisted scar tissue, a visage forged in fire.
"Ren-kun," he said quietly, "I cannot recall everything, but please—you must watch over this academy. Something still sleeps here, hidden. If it is not destroyed completely… the tragedy of Shōwa 20 will repeat."
His burned eyes burned brighter still, unwavering. "…I understand," Dòu Táng said softly.
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