Synopsis: (Back cover)
In the tenth court of hell, spirits wealthy enough to bribe the bureaucrats of the underworld can avoid both the torments of hell and the irreversible change of reincarnation.

It's a comfortable undeath … even for Siew Tsin. She didn't choose to be married to the richest man in hell, but she's reconciled. Until her husband brings home a new bride.

Yonghua is an artificial woman crafted from terracotta. What she is may change hell for good. Who she is will transform Siew Tsin. And as they grow closer, the mystery of Yonghua's creation will draw Siew Tsin into a conspiracy where the stakes are eternal life – or a very final death.


Personal Review:
When considering this story, I must acknowledge that I have much to learn about Chinese culture before offering a fully informed evaluation. What I can do, however, is focus on the author’s style, evaluate her work objectively, and reflect on my emotions while reading.

Zen Cho employs her narrative to critique machismo, patriarchy, and misogyny, which I deeply appreciate and value in contemporary literature. However, I often wonder if such criticism will be understood as intended or dismissed as normalized by the reader. We live in such a misogynistic and patriarchal society that social critiques can sometimes fail to resonate—unless the reader has already deconstructed these issues and can recognize the systemic flaws. If you've read other texts I’ve written, you know I often seek to uncover an author’s intended message. The older I get, the more interested I am in what people want to convey, beyond just the story itself. Layers are key. I enjoy being made to think, and Zen Cho has certainly achieved that with this story.


About the Characters:
Siew Tsin is a brilliant character with a perfectly developed arc. She is introduced as a naive, ignorant child with a desire to understand the world she’s been thrust into following an accident. Throughout the story, she experiences a range of emotions—anger, apathy, sadness, resignation—before taking control of her own story. She decides to learn all she can to grow more intelligent and better understand Hell. The more she learns, the more she connects with herself. Despite being trapped in a child’s body, she becomes more mature, finding everything more fascinating. A pivotal event in her new life triggers the perfect turning point, leading her to make the most important decision a person can make.

I have reservations about certain characters, such as Junsheng. A man in his early forties who behaves, speaks, and laments like an eighty-year-old. Initially, the author presents him as someone worth noting, but he gradually loses substance, becoming irrelevant in my view. What I appreciate (and admire greatly) is how this happens as the protagonist becomes more aware and grows into adulthood. It’s a masterful move by the author, though it does not benefit Junsheng’s character. He is insipid, appearing and disappearing like a character in a play. He tries to be a voice of wisdom and a jailer for the girl, but his arrogance evokes little more than repulsion for how he treats women. While I understand Junsheng’s role in Siew Tsin’s growth through his disdain, he feels as uninspired as poorly made tea.

Ling’en, Junsheng’s first wife, is portrayed as a cold, calculating woman tired of being married to a man who no longer values her as he did in life. She is intelligent, vengeful, and sarcastic. What unsettles me about her is her abrupt and unexplained character shift. There is no clear motive for the change. Her presence in the story feels unresolved, and she is not particularly necessary. That said, her story involving the terracotta woman captivated me. I always love when the red thread of fate is referenced—it warms my heart.

Yonghua, the terracotta woman, is an intriguing character. She adds a steampunk element to a tale that otherwise feels like a cultural legend. I enjoyed her role in the story and what she represents for the other characters. The author’s exploration of this character—how she expresses herself, how she acts—is thought-provoking. She prompts reflection on life, ethics, and morality. This plotline is exceptionally well-executed.


About the Narration:
It’s evident that Zen Cho took her time refining this story. The narrative is filled with details that don’t feel heavy but rather flow naturally and refreshingly, like water from a spring. I must also praise the translator, Rebeca Cardeñoso, for her fantastic work.

If I were being picky, I’d say the story drags in some weaker parts while accelerating through the more critical and fascinating moments, diminishing their impact. Despite the occasional loose ends—which are often unavoidable unless the author presents a lengthy book, which this is not—Cho has effectively condensed the story into a short format.

Despite the heavy religious, cultural, and symbolic exposition, the story maintains a beautifully simple narrative. It offers a linear journey through life, death, and the desire for something better beyond the next door. Simplicity is the most fitting description from my perspective, and it makes for a well-thought-out and well-constructed narration.


Regarding the Story:
The story is a tragedy from start to finish, emotionally impactful due to its pervasive depiction of machismo, misogyny, and patriarchy, which are repeatedly laid bare. If I set aside the discomfort caused by the raw social critique, it is an excellent fantasy tale. The author mentions in her notes that this was initially a submission for a literary contest, which is evident in its structure and conclusion. However, she also admits that her creativity ran wild during the process, transforming what began as a short story into something far more expansive. I relate to this deeply. Who hasn’t planned a series of events only for the story to demand a different direction? That’s the magic of writing (and not being an outline-driven writer).

The story is rich with symbolism and Chinese cultural elements that I don’t fully grasp, as I mentioned earlier. Subtleties and significant nuances may elude me, unlike someone familiar with and understanding this culture. That said, the reflections throughout the plot are exquisite and universally comprehensible. They delve into the harsh realities of life (or death, in this case) and force the reader to confront topics we generally or instinctively avoid.

One specific aspect of the story puzzled me throughout. In life, Siew Tsin was a child with a family, school, and likely friends. While other characters in the story (those with human pasts) receive offerings from their families as a form of honor, Siew Tsin receives nothing. Of the entire cast, she is the only one overlooked by the living. I find this curious. Is it because she died as a child and, in Chinese culture, children are not honored in the same way as adults? Was it due to her accidental death? Or did the author intend to heighten her personal tragedy by leaving her without support? The question lingers, leaving me unsettled.


Final Thoughts:
I waited a few days to reflect on the story, needing time to process all the points I’ve mentioned. It’s a tale with a solid plot arc and compelling characters. Yet something about this story leaves me unsatisfied. Perhaps it’s the slow beginning and abrupt ending or the weight of the social critique. It’s not a story I’m likely to revisit soon, which is an important metric for me. Thus, I’d describe it as an entertaining, quick read with original ideas. However, my rating will be moderate due to the lack of promised emotional impact..


Rating: 5 / 10