The convenience store's fluorescent lights hissed. Feng stood in the aisle shadows, fingertips brushing damp spirit money. The "800 million" gilded numerals glowed faintly in camera blind spots, while the "Underworld Express" seal on the back clung to incense ash.

  "A pack of cigarettes." He tossed a crumpled 100-yuan bill. The cashier's scanner erupted in garbled codes. As the clerk turned to fetch another device, Feng pressed the spirit money under UV light—no watermark, but a distorted face with rice grains stuck to its lips.

  Midnight wind whipped plastic bags down alleys. Crouching behind the store, Feng lit the bill's edge with a lighter, sprinkling Nuo mask cinnabar powder into the flame.

  Emerald fire birthed three new spirit notes. Annals of Folk Mysteries flipped to "Ghost Currency Chapter," yellowed illustrations merging with the burning bills.

  The watermark read "PhantomEats Delivery." Feng tweezed the note: "Authentic Underworld coins have encrypted patterns. This knockoff's stitching bleeds." Black-red ooze seeped from the edges under UV scrutiny.

  His phone map blazed crimson. Importing Li Zhi's delivery routes into mapping software, Feng's back chilled with sweat—the winding paths nearly completed a "Soul-Guiding Sigil." The ritual's head crowned an abandoned building, its core over an unmarked grave, lacking three final strokes.

  "Living treads mend ghost roads." Feng ripped open an energy bar, sugar dusting ancient manuscripts. Century-old Taoists never imagined delivery scooter tracks drawing sigils. He gulped bitter convenience store coffee—dregs forming a rodent skull at the cup's bottom.

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  The unmarked grave reeked of damp earth and rotting takeout containers. Feng's trekking pole parted weeds, revealing a worm-eaten plank: "Wang Youde, 1944." His phone flashed—Li Zhi's PhantomEats account auto-logged in, alerting: "New Reaper Order: Deliver to Old City God Temple."

  "Got you." Feng donned the Zhong Kui Nuo mask. Moonlight through eyeholes tinted the world sepia.

  A figure in modified black uniform floated above the grave, "Underworld Officer" plaque peeling from its chest. Mud-caked 1990s work boots contrasted with the GhostRider anti-theft lock chaining its waist.

  "Wang Youde—starved policeman from 1944." Feng's muffled voice echoed through the mask. "Stealing delivery riders' lifespans for reincarnation points? The Underworld approves this startup?"

  The fake reaper spun, revealing Republic-era police trousers under the uniform: "Who sabotages my business?" Its chain lashed out as Feng unveiled Annals—the pages reflected a corpse with clay-caked jaws, devoid of underworld majesty.

  Feng retreated, spirit money fluttering. The face value surged to "9.9 billion," PhantomEats logo morphing into a rat-skull. The impostor screeched as if burned: "Lord Grey sanctioned this..."

  Police sirens wailed from the convenience store. Feng vanished into bushes, spirit money dissolving into ash. Moonlight revealed fresh tire marks by the grave—not scooter tracks, but triple treads with claw indentations.

  The term "Underworld Express" is a fictionalized translation of "阴司速递" (Yīn Sī Sù Dì), In traditional Chinese folklore, the "阴司" (Yīn Sī) is the bureaucratic system governing the afterlife, often depicted as a mirror of the mortal world but with its own rules and hierarchies.