As Asha walked beside the reaper, his steps measured and calm, the distance seemed to stretch endlessly before them.
"How long will you be staying?" Leech asked, its ethereal form floating in front of Asha as he walked.
"I only have a day," Asha replied, his voice deep and controlled, the memories of his transmigration and the succubus who raised him shaping the way he spoke.
As Asha's footsteps echoed in the afterlife, his thoughts turned to the strange and ethereal language that filled his mind. The language of the underworld, not English or any other known tongue, flowed through his mind with a natural ease.
"The succubus," he remembered, her voice ringing in his ears as she had taught him each and every word. The memories, vivid and real, almost eclipsed his knowledge of the world before his transmigration.
The memories of his transmigration, like a floodgate of knowledge, swept over Asha's consciousness. The succubus' teachings, the language of the underworld, and the sense of belonging he had found in this world all served to cloud his previous life and make it feel distant and unreal.
"The transmigration," he thought, the word barely registering as he immersed himself in the world of the afterlife. Almost forgetting his true origins.
As they walked, Asha gradually became aware of the purposelessness of Leech's meandering path. Stopping in his tracks, Asha observed Leech's awaiting posture, his calm demeanour masking the urgency of his inner thoughts.
"I need power," Asha uttered in a voice that betrayed no hint of distress. "Take me to the chambers," he commanded, his tone authoritative yet serene.
Leech responded with a silent, subservient bow. Raising his right hand in a gesture of command, Leech declared, "Open," and a vortex of darkness swirled around them, consuming the blood-red light of the underworld.
Asha's eyes, though unseeing, were unperturbed. The darkness, thick as a shroud, enfolded them in its embrace until it dissipated, revealing a new location.
As Asha's vision cleared, the realization dawned on him: they had teleported.
Amidst the frenzied cacophony of the underworld, Asha remained impassive, like an island of calm amidst the turbulent sea. The prisoners, their grey, spectral forms a stark contrast to his vibrant living essence, clamoured for gold, their voices a chorus of desperation.
"Gold! Please, gold!" they shouted, their pleas an unending lamentation.
Asha understood their plight.
In the underworld, a simple truth was accepted: "Work in the living, rest in the dead." Those who died without the slightest shimmer of gold were deemed unworthy to rest, sentenced to dig with their bare hands in the pits of the underworld.
The rare gold that the prisoners were digging for was the currency that could buy them not only respite from their toil, but also passage into the paradise of the underworld.
To possess this gold was to pay the ultimate price for their supposed indolence in life. Each speck of the precious metal represented a moment of reprieve, a glimmer of hope in the darkness that surrounded them.
The rare gold offered not just monetary compensation for their sins, but also a chance at salvation.
Leech, his obsidian eyes fixed on Asha's unwavering countenance, was struck by the young man's uncanny composure. The souls within the prison, like locusts swarming in a sun-scorched desert, clamored for the golden ticket to salvation, their pleas an unending din.
Yet, Asha remained unfazed, his calm demeanor a testament to his strength of mind.
Leech, struck by this display of fortitude, could only wonder at the depths of Asha's character. Leech, his ethereal form hovering before Asha, regarded the young man with a newfound respect. The prisoners' pleas had proven ineffective, their supplications lost to the maelstrom of desperation that encircled them.
The number of souls imprisoned within the confines of this wretched pit was unfathomable, exceeding even the wildest estimates of humanity's collective mind. A figure of 100 trillion, a number beyond comprehension, yet it paled in comparison to the sheer volume of their laments.
Their cries, a tapestry woven of despair and pleading, echoed through the dank recesses of the underworld, its reverberations felt even in the realm of the gods. Even the divine, in their celestial abodes, shuddered at the ferocity of the souls' desperation.
"How may I assist you, young master?" Leech asked, his voice a balm against the din.
Asha, impervious to the noise and chaos that surrounded him, answered without hesitation. "I am planning to use [Binding Vow]," he said, his words resonating with an undercurrent of determination.