I Work as an Accountant in a Death Instance

Lin Yan opens his eyes and finds himself trapped in an old-fashioned finance office. On the desk lies a ledger, with the first page reading: 'You must balance the books before leaving work every day. Do not alter the figures on the vouchers. Do not ask about the whereabouts of that bad debt. Today's end of work: 17:30.' Six people, three rules. Someone just stands up to smash the door, but turns into a puddle of red stain on the spot. The others kneel and beg for mercy. Lin Yan pulls out a calculator, scans the ledger: 'Debit side: 6 lives, credit side: blank—this account is wrong.' He flips through vouchers, traces the source, changes the entries, using audit logic to force a crack in the deadly rule space. But when he finally balances the first bad debt, a line appears on the last page of the ledger: 'There are still 1146 pages of general ledger to be audited. Next stop: Underground Vault.' This ledger was left by his great-grandfather, whom he never met, in 1927. Behind every bad debt lies an answer that should not be opened. And time left: 183 days. If that century-old mess of accounts cannot be balanced, all of humanity will be insolvent. This is not an escape. It is a year-end settlement spanning four generations. 'Everything in the world can be entered into the books. Only the human heart is not accrued or depreciated.'