Chapter 5: The River’s Daughter Returns

3.

I was beaten unconscious.

When I woke again, it was night. My aunt had brought people to drag me to the riverbank.

“Splash her awake—don’t let this little witch die so easily!”

Her voice was no longer dignified, but filled with uncontrollable rage. After all, my hairpin had ruined her eye.

The moon was just a sliver behind drifting clouds, throwing silver shadows on the muddy riverbank. The men’s lanterns danced and flickered, painting their faces monstrous in the gloom.

Waking to this scene, my expression was calm. I said only one thing.

It had to be said:

“Aunt.”

“Clara will come back to see you often.”

Aunt sneered:

“Fine. If you dare come back, every time you return, I’ll kill you again.”

With that, she ordered them to throw me into the river.

The river surged, and I was gravely injured—there was no way I could survive.

The water was black and cold, swollen from days of rain, churning with the smell of mud and rotting leaves. My lungs burned, my limbs heavy as stone.

But Aunt was still not at ease. She had my hands and feet bound and a stone tied to me before I was thrown in.

I am not afraid of death.

This was the path I had planned for this life.

Born a daughter in this ruthless era, a good end is too hard to come by—this suits my desire for a miserable death.

But for some reason, now that the moment has come, I’m reluctant.

Just a little more.

Just a little longer, maybe I could have had a happy ending.

How ridiculous.

Clearly, I came here determined to become a vengeful ghost as quickly as possible.

But now, I just want to stay a few more years—a few more years…

I am a malevolent spirit registered in the underworld.

I remember, at first, I only wanted to be a normal ghost who reincarnates.

But after dying miserably again and again in each reincarnation, my soul was nearly shattered.

The old ferryman said my fate was cursed.

So I chose to wade through the River of Souls.

After crossing the River of Souls, I became a malevolent spirit, burdened with deep obsession and able to keep my memories.

And a malevolent spirit who dies miserably nine times in reincarnation—her soul will not dissipate, but instead gather resentment, forming a protective aura.

She can become a mighty vengeful ghost, never again suffering the pain of reincarnation.

This path is actually much smoother.

I’ve already died miserably eight times. Clara Foster is my ninth life.

Blame me for wanting to take a shortcut in this ninth life.

I bribed one of the underworld’s errand boys—ghost coins for a tip on where misery blooms best.

He didn’t cheat me. In this place, if I was unlucky, I could have been drowned at birth.

But not only did I survive, I lived here for thirteen years, nearly dissolving the resentment I’d accumulated over several lifetimes.

Father was a mistress-born son, not the old matriarch’s own child. Even his birth mother had many conflicts with the old matriarch in her youth.

So the old matriarch never allowed Father to split from the family, keeping him trapped in the house under constant surveillance.

Father knew he couldn’t fight back, so he was always gentle and humble, indifferent to the world, accepting whatever came his way.

Until he had Mother and me.

He began to argue with the old matriarch, even at the cost of being labeled rebellious and ungrateful.

Even if our home was only a small side house.

But it was truly a happy time.

Those mornings, when sunlight crept in through patched curtains and my mother poured black coffee by the stove, I almost believed in mercy. For a while, we were just a family, poor but at peace.

I sank to the bottom of the river, letting the water engulf me.

I hate.

I truly hate.

Amid thunder and pouring rain, I slowly opened my eyes.

The world above the water was gone, replaced by the shadowed banks and the endless downpour. Lightning crackled, illuminating the twisted oaks along the river road.

In the distance stood two spirit messengers, watching me with fear.

I ignored them and turned to leave.

Spirit messengers manage ghosts and evil spirits, but not—and cannot manage—vengeful ghosts.

They’re probably hurrying back to report right now.

Looking at my terrifying form as I regained my original body, I sneered.

This place was unfamiliar; I didn’t know where the river had carried me.

But just as I was pondering, I suddenly sensed a powerful obsession pulling at me.

Vengeful ghosts feed on obsession and hatred. I was like someone starved for three days, uncontrollably drawn toward that place.

But as soon as I arrived, the feeling vanished.

Before me lay a thin girl, already lifeless.

Her dress was torn, feet bare and muddy, hair matted to her forehead. There was a look of peace on her face, as if death had finally offered her a kindness.

Though I didn’t gain much, there was still an unexpected windfall.

A ghost can’t linger in the world long without a body. Feeling my soul grow faint, I entered her body.

The sensation was cold and strange, like slipping into a secondhand coat still haunted by someone else’s scent. But it was enough. I breathed in, or imagined I did, and felt my anger return—hot and alive.

I had promised Father to be a good person.

But now, no one deserves peace.