453: 108-gun salute

"Take a break."

The Warden handed over a Soul-Power Pastry wrapped in oil paper. "Eat something first."

The Deputy took it, holding it without moving. After a long pause, he quietly asked, "These scumbags... after being fried, can their sins truly be washed away?"

The Warden poured a ladle of hot oil onto another soul, and amidst the sizzling sound, he replied, "If the law says they can be cleansed, then they can."

"As for whether they hurt or regret it, that has nothing to do with us."

The Deputy lowered his head, the oil paper rustling and wrinkling in his palm. "My eldest sister was muddled until the day she died. Whenever she saw someone wearing yellow skin, she'd immediately shrink under the bed, trembling all over..."

The Warden hung up the long ladle, turned around, and said in a deep voice, "The Underworld has its rules. When we carry out the execution according to the law, we are collecting debt for her. The more you fry them, the more pain they suffer, and the more debt is repaid."

The Deputy suddenly looked up. "I understand! I just want to watch them with my own eyes, repaying it one debt at a time." With that, he stuffed the Soul-Power Pastry into his mouth, chewed it fiercely, and swallowed it quickly and heavily.

The Warden narrowed his eyes, lightly patted his subordinate's shoulder, and didn't say another word.

The oil pot continued to gurgle, and the faint noise from the Imperial Kitchen Department outside drifted in, making the silence in the prison seem even heavier.

The Deputy wiped the corner of his mouth and re-gripped the iron fork. "Boss, can the oil temperature be adjusted higher?"

"Adjust it if you want to."

The Warden handed over a Temperature Control Talisman. "You decide the limits."

The moment the talisman was affixed to the rim of the pot, a faint blue flame suddenly shot up. The oil surface instantly boiled more fiercely, and the sound of the bursting bubbles grew louder.

He forked up the next soul and slowly lowered it into the pot.

The sizzling sound wrapped around a suddenly amplified scream, which was immediately swallowed by the boiling hot oil the moment it cracked, leaving only fragmented whimpers swirling in the pot.

The Deputy's expression was grim, with only the constantly flickering oil reflections in his eyes, shining with a searing intensity.

Debts must always be repaid.

Inch by inch, fraction by fraction, it wouldn't be over until they were fried thoroughly.

The sweet, cloying aroma of the Imperial Kitchen Department drifted in from outside, mixing with the foul, greasy smell of the oil pot inside—all just ordinary days in the Eighteen Levels of Hell.

Some debts, even if they burn through the bottom of the pot, may never be fully repaid.

But they must be repaid.

Day after day, debt after debt, the repayment must continue.

Thankfully, there is the Underworld, and thankfully, His Majesty is present... The flow of time in the Underworld is, after all, different from the mortal world.

The impromptu afternoon tea at Jiaotai Palace had just concluded, the steamer baskets in the Imperial Kitchen Department still held residual warmth, and the lingering fragrance of the flower of the other shore honey tea by the Wangchuan River remained.

In the oil pot hell, the Deputy finished processing the thirty-second soul and was leaning against the wall, slowly chewing on Yin Rice Cake to replenish his consumed soul power.

Just then—

Throughout the entire Netherworld, every Ghost Messenger and Yin Soul who was still "awake" felt a slight tremor beneath their feet.

It wasn't an earthquake; rather, it felt like a massive object had heavily plummeted to the bottom, its muffled sound overriding the silence of the Netherworld.

Mercury, western shore of the Pacific Ocean.

The territory of R Nation, which once covered four large islands and countless small islands, was now just a stretch of murky, churning seawater. The last bit of land above the waves, the peak of Hokkaido, had been completely swallowed by the ocean seventy-two hours earlier.

The once-prosperous Tokyo Bay and Osaka City were now merely the twisted outlines of ruins on the dark seabed.

Satellite cloud maps clearly showed that the color of the seawater in that region was different from other areas, tinted with an ominous gloom, occasionally having unspent energy turbulence stirring up abnormal whirlpools.

In the monitoring centers of major countries worldwide, the data panels simultaneously flashed a glaring red marker the instant R Nation's signals were completely extinguished: [Territorial Entity Vanished].

R Nation destroyed.

Aside from the extremely small number of citizens (along with their pets and some luxury goods) evacuated by foreign warships and planes in the early stages of the disaster, only about two thousand plutocrats, politicians, Transcendent, and their core family members remained.

Relying on pre-arranged overseas escape routes, they boarded planes or submarines at the last moment and escaped certain death.

Most of them flocked to M Nation, which was across the Pacific Ocean.

They carried the shock of surviving the catastrophe, clutching astronomical sums of transferred wealth, believing they could restore their families' glory in the "Land of the Free."

Little did they know that M Nation's financial groups and politicians already viewed this "windfall" and these "high-quality assets" as meat on a chopping block.

Preferential treatment? Respect? None of it existed.

What awaited them was only layer upon layer of exploitation and outright plunder, until their last bit of value was squeezed out, and they were then tossed like garbage into slums or dark alleys.

But these were matters for later.

At least on the surface, the international community still had to maintain basic "decorum."

In the capital of Xia Nation, at the site of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs' regular press conference, the media section was packed, with cameras and microphones all pointed at the podium.

The Spokesperson, dressed in a solemn black suit with a small white silk flower pinned to his chest, slowly walked to the front of the stage, lightly adjusted the microphone, and maintained a grave expression.

"Good afternoon, friends from the press."

The opening remarks were as steady as ever.

"Our government expresses its deep... regret and sorrow regarding the major national security incident encountered by R Nation, triggered by an extraordinary natural disaster, and the immense loss of life and property suffered by its people."

"During this difficult time, the people of our nation feel empathy for the people of R Nation."

He paused for about two seconds after saying this.

Sharp reporters in the audience noticed that the Spokesperson's Adam's apple seemed to bob twice, and the line of his jaw was slightly more taut than usual.

"To express our condolences for the deceased," the Spokesperson continued, his tone dropping slightly.

"With the approval of relevant departments, our nation will fire One Hundred and Eight Rounds of Salutes at midnight tonight in designated areas along the East China Sea coast, as a sign of remembrance."

When his voice fell, the audience was silent for a moment.

Immediately afterward, a very faint gasp, as if someone had choked, came from an unknown corner, but was quickly suppressed.

One Hundred and Eight Rounds of Salutes?

And "remembrance"?

In the ancient traditions of Xia Nation, the number one hundred and eight has more than one meaning. It is often used for bidding farewell to the old and ushering in the new, driving away bad luck, and even certain grand celebrations...

A foreign reporter quickly looked down to check their tablet, and their expression became somewhat strange.

The press conference concluded.

The Spokesperson turned and walked toward the backstage area, his steps steady and fast.

As soon as he entered the backstage lounge and the door closed, he immediately yanked his tie loose, let out a long breath, and his lips curled into an uncontrollable smile, which he quickly tried to cover by rubbing his face.

"Ugh, I was suffocating," he muttered under his breath, taking the thermos handed to him by his Assistant and gulping down a large mouthful of chrysanthemum tea to cool down.

The Assistant's eyes were also crinkled with a smile. "Boss, that line about 'empathy' was brilliant. I almost couldn't hold it in."

"Get lost, be serious," the Spokesperson joked, his eyes full of light. "Send out the notice: prepare the salutes, make the sound loud—it must echo across the entire East China Sea! Oh, and use red covers for all the cannons."

"Understood!"

Midnight that evening.