The *Obsidian Star Hotel* had officially changed ownership.  

Its new name, registered under both mortal and spectral ledgers, read: **The Gates Estate.**  

For the first time in centuries, a living man owned one of the crown jewels of the underworld.  

The paperwork had barely cooled when a courier arrived—a silent ghost in a uniform woven from gray mist—delivering a sealed envelope that shimmered with faint crimson runes.  

Joseph recognized the crest immediately: a serpent devouring its own tail, carved in flowing sigil lines.  

**Josmar Matuwen. The Ghost King.**

He broke the seal. Inside, in elegant, looping handwriting that pulsed faintly with ghostlight, was the message:

> *To the mortal merchant who plays among the dead,*  

> *You are invited to the Manor of Thorns.*  

> *Bring no faith. Bring no fear.*  

> *Bring only what you value most.*  

>  

> *—J. Matuwen.*

Joseph exhaled, the corners of his mouth curling upward.  

“So,” he murmured, “the king wants a visit. Let’s make it worth his time.”

He opened the *Ring of All Things* and began filling it with gifts, each carefully chosen.  

A **Ghi Phaerielie** watch—crafted with reversed time signatures, ticking backward toward eternity.  

A **Ghoullex** pendant shaped like a bleeding eye.  

A crystal of frozen lightning, a chalice forged from nightmare silver.  

Dozens of rare *Mingbi* bundles were folded into shimmering stacks, glowing like molten gold before vanishing into the void of the ring.  

When he finished, he looked around his office at the towering skyline—the *Gates Estate*, the *Hundred Ghosts Boutique*, the *Gui Baojini* dealership.  

Every one of them a foothold in a world where money could buy even existence itself.  

“Three months into the end of the world,” he muttered, “and I already have an empire.”

He adjusted his tie, his reflection in the black glass faintly transparent. “Let’s go meet the king.”

By nightfall, the *Gui Baojini* roared down the dead highway, blue flames streaking the air.  

The further he drove, the more distorted the scenery became—buildings twisting into spires of bone and smoke, the horizon bleeding faint red light.  

At last, he arrived at the *Manor of Thorns.*  

It stood like a fortress carved from obsidian and sorrow, surrounded by forests of black briar that pulsed faintly with ghostfire. The gates themselves were shaped from coiling vines tipped with blades.

Outside the gate stood dozens of humans—living, trembling, holding pale invitations that flickered with cursed ink.  

Joseph parked the car, stepping out calmly.  

The crowd turned toward him, eyes hollow with exhaustion and fear.  

They whispered among themselves.  

> “He’s human too?”  

> “You think we’ll die in there?”  

> “Every task here is a death sentence…”  

> “Why does he look so calm?”  

Joseph scanned their faces. They looked like he once did—before the world ended, before he learned what *Mingbi* really meant.  

Most of them were still stuck in survival mode, waiting for a miracle that would never come.  

He smiled faintly. “You’re all thinking too small,” he said under his breath.  

A young man nearby turned to him nervously. “You were invited too?”  

Joseph nodded. “Seems like it.”  

“They say this place… this is where the Ghost King himself tests people,” the man whispered. “Nobody’s ever passed. Everyone who enters… either disappears or turns into one of them.”

Joseph chuckled softly. “Then I guess I’m overdue for an exception.”

The man blinked, confused. “You’re not scared?”  

“Scared?” Joseph adjusted the **Ghi Phaerielie** on his wrist, its reversed ticking marking a rhythm only he could hear. “Let’s just say the King and I already did business once. I pay my dues on time.”

The murmurs around him grew uncertain—fear mixing with disbelief.  

Then, with a sound like tearing silk, the gates creaked open.  

A gust of cold air rolled out, carrying the scent of dust, roses, and dried blood.  

Two sentinels emerged—armored ghosts with eyes like burning coals and halberds made of bone.  

Their voices were deep, metallic, and impossibly old.  

> “Guests of His Majesty, step forward.”

The crowd hesitated, clutching their invitations like lifelines.  

Joseph didn’t wait.  

He walked first, the **Ghoullex** pendant at his collar glinting faintly as he passed between the guards.  

One of the sentinels turned toward him, pausing for a brief moment as if recognizing something in his aura. Then it bowed.  

> “The mortal under royal favor. You may enter the inner grounds directly.”  

Gasps rippled through the other humans.  

“Royal favor?” someone whispered. “He’s protected?”  

Joseph smiled over his shoulder, his tone casual.  

“Perks of good accounting,” he said, and kept walking.

Beyond the gate stretched a garden of thorns that gleamed like obsidian glass. The vines moved slowly, alive, curling toward him but never daring to touch.  

Statues lined the path—some looked like angels, others like monsters, all cracked and half-melted into one another.  

The manor itself loomed ahead, its windows flickering with faint red light.  

Music drifted from within—a slow, haunting melody played on an unseen violin.

Joseph walked calmly to the massive doors.  

The carvings along their frame depicted scenes of war, feasts, coronations—and executions.  

When the doors opened, a familiar voice greeted him.  

“Ah,” said Josmar Matuwen, seated upon his throne of black thorns, his smile slow and knowing.  

“The merchant arrives.”

Joseph inclined his head. “I don’t keep kings waiting.”  

“Good,” the Ghost King said. His eyes burned faintly brighter. “Then let’s see what kind of guest you truly are.”