Frost was an extremely cold place, with the city-state enduring relentless, chilling winds from the turbulent frigid sea for eighty percent of the year. The cold air continuously blew in from the Cold Sea to the north, whistling as it swept over Frost’s towering city walls and steep coastal cliffs. This deterred many people from living there.
However, Frost was also the largest city-state in the entire frigid region. Despite the cold, the center of this massive island was home to the northern region’s richest metal alloy mines, a crucial component of steam cores and the industrial foundation of that era. The industrial system built around these mines sustained the operation of the northern city-state, bringing it immense wealth and prosperity – including death.
At the edge of Frost’s mining area, near the entrance to the city-state’s cemetery, a black steam-powered car idled, its engine still running. Under the bright gas streetlights, several pallbearers dressed in thick black robes were working together to carry a coffin out of the car. Another tall, thin figure wearing a black robe stood by the car, their face hidden in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat, with multiple bandages visible in the shadows.
A few steps away, a withered old man stood next to the cemetery entrance, seemingly shrouded in darkness as he watched the pallbearers bustling around indifferently.
The pallbearers from the Church of Death were particularly quiet, making no sound as they carried the coffin. Only occasional light collisions could be heard, making the already somber cemetery seem even more eerie and silent.
After some time, the stern old man who guarded the cemetery finally broke the silence, “Cause of death?”
“Accidental fall into a machine well,” the tall, thin figure wrapped in bandages replied with a slightly hoarse female voice that sounded quite young, “Died on the spot, already baptized. The specifics are in the handover documents; you can look for yourself.”
“How long will they stay?” The stern old man’s expression and tone remained unchanged as if discussing a stone about to be moved into his room.
The tall, thin figure wrapped in bandages quietly looked at the stern old man.
“Three days,” she answered briefly, “Three days of soul purification, then sent to the Great Furnace.”
“That’s quite short.” The caretaker snorted through his nose, looking up at the cemetery gate beside him. The black, carved iron fence gate stood like cold, sharp thorns under the lamplight and night sky. Beyond this gate symbolized the divide between life and death, and one could vaguely see the neatly arranged corpse platforms, the narrow paths between them, and the tombstones and small houses looming deeper within.
This was a cemetery, but for most of the bodies brought here, it was not their final resting place. Except for a few long-term graves with special significance, the dead were only temporary residents. From city-state officials to common laborers, no one could bypass the rules here.
They died, were temporarily sent to the cemetery, and gradually found peace under the watchful eye of the god of death, Bartok. After a few days or as long as half a month, they were then sent to the Great Furnace adjacent to the cemetery. Their sins and transgressions turned to smoke in the sky, their good deeds melted into the hissing of the steam pipes, and a little residue was scattered into the city-state’s soil, leaving no trace in the world.
Within the cemetery, only a small tombstone would be reserved for the deceased – very modest and soon to be buried deep among countless other tombstones.
“The dead shouldn’t occupy the places of the living,” said the woman wrapped in bandages, shaking her head. “For those who have experienced a ‘clean and innocent’ death, three days are enough for their souls to find peace.”
“It’s not just for that reason, is it?” The somber caretaker raised his eyes, his dull, yellowish eyes staring at the woman in a black, heavy coat wrapped in bandages, known as “Bandage Woman.” “You’re concerned about corpses rising up – just like the recent rumors.”
“There’s no evidence yet that the dead in the city-state are truly ‘resurrecting,’ and the few reports available are inconsistent. But even the phenomenon of ‘restless’ briefly awakening is worth being cautious about,” Bandage Woman shook her head. “So watch your cemetery closely. As for what’s happening in the city-state, the Church and City Hall will handle it.”
“I hope things are as simple as you say, Agatha,” the caretaker muttered. “I can guarantee that no corpse will leave this garden, but the ‘cemetery’ you and your colleagues have to guard is much larger than my little garden.”
The pallbearers carried the coffin into the cemetery, their silent, black-clad figures resembling corpses walking along its narrow paths. They found the vacant body platform prepared in advance, placed the coffin on it, and stood at the four corners of the casket, ready to perform the soothing ritual of the god of death, Bartok.
The caretaker and the black-clad priestess called “Agatha” also entered the cemetery and came to the side.
The four pallbearers took out Bartok’s talisman – a triangular metal emblem with a door-shaped relief in the center, symbolizing the gate of life and death. They placed the amulet on the four corners of the coffin and recited a short prayer in unison before stepping back half a step.
Agatha then stepped forward, removing her wide-brimmed hat and gazing at the coffin on the platform in the cold wind.
The gaslight illuminated her features.
Layers of bandages covered her entire body, even half of her face, and only where the bandages did not cover could one see some delicate features and the soft lines unique to women. Her long, deep brown curly hair hung behind her, and her similarly deep brown eyes were filled with calmness and compassion.
“May the grace of the god of death, Bartok, shine upon your soul, allowing you to find peace in your final three days in the mortal world… Your debts and karmic ties with the world are all erased today. Lost one, you may now travel lightly…”
Agatha’s low, hoarse voice echoed in the quiet cemetery, gradually blending into the deep night.
Meanwhile, the somber caretaker stood by indifferently as he watched the ceremony, a heavy double-barreled shotgun appearing in his hand at some point. The triangular emblem of the god of death, Bartok, could be faintly seen on the shotgun’s guard.
Moments later, the ceremony ended, and Agatha turned to the cemetery caretaker, “It’s done.”
“I hope your prayers work,” the caretaker lifted his double-barreled shotgun, “though I trust this ‘old partner’ of mine more.”
“I performed the calming ritual as the ‘gatekeeper’ myself, so it should have some effect,” Agatha said indifferently before putting her dark, wide-brimmed hat back on. She nodded at the cemetery guard and led the pallbearers towards the cemetery’s exit. “We should go now.”
The followers of Bartok left, and the black steam car gradually disappeared into the night until its taillights merged with the city’s darkness.
A cold night wind swept through the cemetery, passing rows of mortuary tables and the decorative iron fence at the edge of the graveyard. The somber old guard stood at the entrance, watching the direction the car left in, and only after a while did he avert his gaze, tightening his clothes in the cold wind.
“I’m not used to so much liveliness in the cemetery when the living is around.” He muttered, grabbing his trusty double-barreled shotgun, and slowly headed towards his small guardhouse on the edge of the mortuary.
A moment later, the old man emerged from the hut again, this time with something extra in his hand.
A small, pale pink flower, picked from an unknown location.
He approached the latest coffin, picked up a stone from the side, and pressed the flower into a corner of the mortuary table.
The night wind blew through the path, making the delicate petals tremble in the wind. On the nearby rows of mortuary tables, small, inconspicuous corners were adorned with similar flowers.
Most of the flowers had withered in the wind.
“Sleep well, it’s hard to get such a solid sleep when you’re alive,” the old guard muttered. “Your family will come to greet you tomorrow morning, as is customary. Say goodbye to them, then leave in peace. The world of the living isn’t all that great, anyway…”
The old man shook his head, bent over to pick up his shotgun, and slowly walked away.
…
“We’re sailing north, heading to Frost,” Duncan said, finding Vanna staring out at the distant sea on the deck of the Vanished. “I noticed you’ve been staring into the distance, so I guessed you were curious about the ship’s course.”
“Frost?” Vanna was surprised. She had indeed been wondering about the Vanished’s upcoming journey, but she didn’t expect Captain Duncan to bring it up himself. “Why Frost? Is something happening there?”
“It started with a letter Morris received, a letter from a deceased friend,” Duncan said, coming to the edge of the deck, his hands resting on the railing as he gazed out at the Boundless Sea under the night sky. “But more than that, I became interested in the place.”
“You became interested?”
“In a sense, Frost is Alice’s ‘hometown,'” Duncan said with a smile. “Although she has no concept of it herself.”
“I don’t know much about Frost, just that the main faith there is the god of death, Bartok, but there are also some followers of the storm goddess. The local industry in Frost seems to be quite developed, with the ore mine being the city’s main economic pillar…”
Vanna paused, then subconsciously glanced in the direction of the cabin.
“Of course, Frost is most famous for the rebellion that took place half a century ago. Does Alice mind people discussing this?”
“She doesn’t mind because she can’t understand it.”
“…Alright.”
