By dawn, the boutique was spotless again.  

The corpses—or what was left of them—had evaporated into smoke. The cracked glass had sealed itself, the shelves gleamed, and the faint smell of burnt souls was replaced by perfume distilled from ashes. The Hundred Ghosts Boutique was ready for the next round of “employees.”

Taragan stepped quietly into the storeroom, hands behind his back.  

“The assignment’s complete,” he said. “You can leave now, Mr. Gates.”

Joseph didn’t move. He was studying the ring on his finger, the runes glimmering faintly in the lamplight. “Leave?” he asked. “You’re sure this place isn’t for sale?”

The manager blinked. “…For sale?”

“Yes,” Joseph said casually, as though inquiring about a cup of coffee. “How much for the entire boutique?”

Taragan hesitated, expression unreadable. “Even if it were possible, the price would be—” he paused, calculating— “at least twenty million Mingbi. And that’s a conservative estimate. The property’s bound by the Rules, and it’s owned by a high-tier ghost merchant. You can’t simply—”

Joseph cut him off. “Done.”

He raised his hand, the *Ring of All Things* pulsing with golden light.  

In a single breath, he withdrew a fortune—bundles of radiant Mingbi cascading across the table like molten sunlight. The entire room dimmed as the paper glowed, whispering softly as it stacked itself.

“Twenty million,” he said flatly. “Tell your boss to draw up the papers.”

Taragan stared at him as though witnessing blasphemy. “You… you’re serious?”

“Always.”

The manager swallowed hard, his composure cracking for the first time. He turned, reaching for a bone-carved comm device embedded in the wall. “Master,” he said into the receiver, his tone strangely respectful, “someone wants to… buy the store.”

There was a long pause on the other end, followed by a burst of laughter that sounded like breaking glass.  

But the laughter faded quickly—replaced by a voice trembling with disbelief.  

> “Sell? Now? During the End? Who in the name of the dead can pay—?”  

> “He can,” Taragan interrupted quietly.  

> “…I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The air shimmered. Moments later, the boutique’s front doors swung open, and a figure stepped in—a tall, gaunt specter dressed in mourning silks, the smell of old coins and burnt ink following him. His translucent hands trembled slightly as he looked around the room, eyes falling upon the glowing stacks of Mingbi.

“Twenty million…” he whispered. “By all the rules, I haven’t seen that much in a century.”

“Transfer,” Joseph said calmly.

Documents materialized between them—thin sheets of parchment stitched with sinew, glowing faintly with seal-marks. In the underworld, *paperwork was law.* Without a written record, not even ghosts could trade without being erased by the Rules.

Taragan prepared the ink. The ghostly owner signed with a flourish, his name dissolving into smoke. Joseph followed, the ink searing faintly as it recognized a living soul’s mark.

The documents vanished in a burst of crimson flame.

The deal was sealed.

The old owner laughed with relief, clutching the Mingbi in both spectral hands. “You’ve saved me from annihilation, boy. The upkeep on this place was draining me dry. May the Rules favor you.”

He bowed once and vanished into the ether, leaving only the faint shimmer of gold dust behind.

Joseph turned toward Taragan. “Well,” he said, “looks like you work for me now.”

The manager composed himself instantly, straightening his tie. “Yes… sir.”

“What’s your salary?” Joseph asked.

“One thousand Mingbi per month,” Taragan replied automatically.

Joseph blinked. “That’s it?”

Taragan tilted his head. “It’s… average for my position.”

Joseph laughed, short and sharp. “Average? Not anymore.” He reached into the ring again and withdrew a thick bundle. “Starting today, you’re paid ten thousand per month.” He tossed the stack into Taragan’s hands. “That’s sixty months’ worth—five years, upfront.”

The air trembled. The scent of pure currency filled the storeroom. Taragan’s hands shook slightly as he felt the weight of it—real, impossible wealth.

He looked up, eyes bright with something new: loyalty.

“Sir,” he said, voice low. “You have my service for as long as you wish. I’ll see to this place as if it were my own grave.”

Joseph smirked. “That’s all I ask.”

He turned toward the now-quiet boutique, the chandelier reflecting faint gold over his face. For the first time since his rebirth, he felt the subtle pulse of power run through his veins—a ghostly current syncing with his heartbeat.

Owning a ghost property changed him.  

He could feel the boutique’s essence, its walls breathing with his rhythm. The Rules acknowledged him now—not just as a visitor, but as part of the system.

Taragan bowed deeply. “Sir, if I may ask—what next?”

Joseph looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. “Tell me, Manager. You’ve been around. Know any other good shops for sale? Preferably ones with interesting histories.”

Taragan’s grin was thin but genuine. “Oh, I know a few, sir. Some are… haunted in very profitable ways.”

“Perfect.” Joseph brushed the dust off his suit and turned toward the door. “Let’s go shopping.”