The ghost city had begun to change—quietly, unmistakably—around the name *Joseph Gates*.

Everywhere his shadow passed, the once-starved economy of the dead began to stir again.  

Inside the *Hundred Ghosts Jewelry Hall*, the **Ghost Manager** was a blur of efficiency, issuing orders through flickering mirrors and spectral phones.  

“Triple the workforce,” he barked, voice echoing through every ghost circuit of the district. “Each house must be furnished within the week. Humans like light—our master prefers light. The rest? Make it as cold as you like.”  

On the other end of the connection, ghost artisans hissed and muttered in agreement.  

Within hours, dozens of **Spectral Carpenters**, **Poltergeist Painters**, and **Wraith Designers** began pouring into the *Empty Quarter*.  

Hammers rang against walls that weren’t quite solid, paint dripped in colors the living eye could barely perceive.  

Joseph’s own mansion—House 001—stood at the center. It gleamed with human brightness: warm light, clean marble, glass windows that reflected sunrise instead of blood.  

Every other property, however, was a cathedral of the grotesque—arched corridors, floating chandeliers that bled mist, floors that whispered when you stepped across them.  

It was the perfect paradox.  

The living owned the dead.  

And both prospered.

By the third day, Joseph stood at his window overlooking his empire.  

The city had begun to orbit him.  

Ghosts came not to haunt, but to trade.  

Humans whispered his name as rumor, myth, or warning.  

And then, his **Manager** arrived—flanked by a dozen entities.  

“Sir,” he said, bowing low. “I’ve taken the liberty of recruiting a personal guard. They volunteered the moment they heard your name.”  

Joseph turned to look.  

A strange sight met him:  

Twelve figures—partly solid, partly smoke—each distinct in form and temperament.  

One was a headless knight with a spectral sword burning blue; another, a floating librarian whose body was made of fluttering, empty pages; one resembled a child with mirror eyes.  

They bowed in eerie unison.  

“Your protection, Mr. Gates,” said the Manager proudly. “They are elite-class. I negotiated lifetime contracts—your lifetime, that is.”  

Joseph smiled faintly. “Efficient as always.”  

He adjusted his suit, pocketed a few *Mingbi* volumes, and said, “Let’s go shopping.”

The sight that followed was enough to make even high-ranked ghosts stop and stare.  

A **living man**, walking calmly through the center of the dead city,  

surrounded by an honor guard of twelve ghost elites.  

The living *did not walk here*.  

The living *ran, hid, or prayed.*  

But Joseph strolled like a monarch through mist.  

They passed under crumbling neon signs, through haunted alleys, past cursed plazas that once devoured trespassers.  

And wherever he went, new missions appeared—floating blood-red text only he could see.  

> **Ghost Mission: The Forgotten Bookstore**  

> *Objective: Answer the Question of Knowledge.*  

He stopped at the entrance of an ancient bookshop.  

The air inside smelled of ink and ash.  

Behind the counter, a half-transparent old man with cracked spectacles looked up and smiled too widely.  

“Well now, a human with bodyguards,” he croaked. “Let’s see if your mind is as sharp as your money. Answer me—what is two plus two?”  

Joseph stared at him for a beat. “Four.”  

The store fell silent. The ghost blinked.  

A faint chime rang in Joseph’s ear.  

> **Mission Complete: The Forgotten Bookstore.**  

The old ghost’s smile widened into something genuine.  

“Well then, businessman… I’m retiring anyway. The store’s yours—one hundred twenty thousand *Mingbi.*”  

Joseph pulled the exact sum from his ring without hesitation.  

The notes burned into the contract; the ghost bowed, fading peacefully into the paper itself.  

After that, the city became his marketplace.  

A tailor’s shop that made clothes from shadows.  

A flower boutique that sold bouquets which screamed when they wilted.  

A theater that projected memories instead of plays.  

All purchased, all branded with the sigil of *J.G.*  

Each acquisition came easier than the last.  

The sight of his ghost entourage was a walking contract in itself—  

no one dared refuse, not when his name was already whispered by the Ghost King’s own court.  

By the end of the week, Joseph sat again in his bright human mansion,  

surveying a map of his new empire:  

- **Hundred Ghosts Jewelry Hall**  

- **Ghost Horse Car Company**  

- **Specter’s Crown Hotel**  

- **The Empty Quarter Residential District**  

- **The Forgotten Bookstore**  

- And a dozen smaller ventures, all humming with currency flow.  

Outside, humans still struggled to survive,  

clutching scraps of *Mingbi* or hiding from rules they didn’t understand.  

But Joseph had already rewritten those rules in gold and smoke.  

He closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and murmured—  

“I didn’t survive the apocalypse to live small.”  

In the mirror across from him, the reflection flickered.  

For a brief moment, his reflection wasn’t human anymore.