Chapter 287: Frost, Death, and Night Voyage
This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation.com
Frost was a city-state known for its extreme cold, enduring relentless, chilling winds from the turbulent frigid sea for most of the year. The cold air continuously swept in from the northern Cold Sea, whistling over Frost’s towering city walls and steep coastal cliffs, deterring many from settling there.
Despite the harsh climate, Frost was the largest city-state in the frigid region. The center of this massive island housed the northern region’s richest metal alloy mines, crucial for producing steam cores and supporting the industrial era. This industrial foundation sustained the northern city-state, bringing it immense wealth and prosperity – as well as death.
Near the edge of Frost’s mining area, at 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 carefully carrying a coffin out of the car. Another tall, thin figure in a black robe stood by, their face concealed in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat, with multiple bandages visible in the dim light.
A few steps away, a withered old man stood at the cemetery entrance, shrouded in darkness as he watched the pallbearers move about with indifference.
The pallbearers from the Death Church were particularly quiet, their movements making no sound as they handled the coffin. Only occasional light collisions broke the silence, making the already somber cemetery seem even more eerie.
Eventually, the stern old man guarding the cemetery broke the silence, “Cause of death?”
“Accidental fall into a machine well,” replied the tall, thin figure wrapped in bandages, her voice slightly hoarse but youthful. “Died on the spot, already baptized. The specifics are in the handover documents; you can check them yourself.”
“How long will they stay?” The stern old man’s expression and tone remained unchanged, as if he were discussing a stone about to be moved into his room.
The tall, thin figure wrapped in bandages quietly regarded the old man.
“Three days,” she replied briefly, “Three days of soul purification, then to the Great Furnace.”
“That’s quite short.” The caretaker snorted, glancing at the cemetery gate beside him. The black, carved iron fence stood like cold, sharp thorns under the lamplight and night sky. Beyond this gate lay the divide between life and death, with neatly arranged corpse platforms, narrow paths, and tombstones and small houses looming deeper within.
This cemetery was not the final resting place for most bodies brought here. 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 housed in the cemetery, and gradually found peace under the watchful eye of the god of death, Bartok. After a few days to half a month, they were 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 steam pipes, and a little residue scattered into the city-state’s soil, leaving no trace in the world.
Only a modest tombstone would be reserved for the deceased, soon buried among countless others.
“The dead shouldn’t occupy the places of the living,” said the woman 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.”
“That’s not the only reason, is it?” The somber caretaker raised his eyes, his dull, yellowish gaze fixed on the bandaged woman. “You’re concerned about corpses rising up – 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 vision of ‘restless’ briefly awakening is worth being cautious about,” the bandaged 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 no corpse will leave this garden, but the ‘cemetery’ you and your colleagues guard is much larger than my little garden.”
The pallbearers carried the coffin into the cemetery, their silent, black-clad figures resembling corpses as they walked 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 stood by.
The four pallbearers took out Bartok’s talisman – a triangular metal amulet with a door-shaped relief 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, leaving only some delicate features and soft lines unique to women visible. 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. Vanished 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, a heavy double-barreled shotgun appearing in his hand. The triangular amulet of the god of death, Bartok, was faintly visible 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, putting her dark, wide-brimmed hat back on. She nodded at the cemetery guard and led the pallbearers towards the 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 graveyard’s edge. The somber old guard stood at the entrance, watching the direction the car left, 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 are around.” He muttered, grabbing his trusty double-barreled shotgun and slowly headed towards his small guardhouse on the mortuary’s edge.
A moment later, the old man emerged from the hut again, this time holding something extra.
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. 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 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 to pick up his shotgun, and slowly walked away.
…
“We’re sailing north, heading to Frost,” Duncan said, noticing 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 explained, 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.”
Why is that pale pink flower mentioned? Will it have some ties with the ressurection? Will it only be an innocent flower? Stay tuned for the next episode-
nothing is random, remember that. in fact, the author already dropped some big hints here and there
There’s a zombie movie called Cemetary Man where the zombies come about because of a type of ivy or vine.