Chapter 407

Chapter 407: The Curtain Rises

The nonstop thunder of gunfire had already shattered the quiet of Graveyard No. 3. Flames bursting from the muzzle lit the dim fog again and again. Twisted, swaying figures kept emerging from the mist, only to fall one by one under the holy blast of fire and metal—and in the spots where they fell, black, ominous matter was already spreading across the path.

These were clearly no longer just “restless corpses”. They were something more profane and more ominous, and they had to be wiped out here.

The old man’s aim was very good. The deformed things walking out of the fog looked to him like slow-moving insects. Even through the thick mist, he could pick them off one by one.

In truth, he was even better with his short sword and his Gatekeeper’s cane, and had far more experience with them. But the old man knew he had to avoid close combat with the monsters for as long as possible.

He was already very old. A veteran’s experience could not make up for an aging body, and the enemy seemed endless. Once he was caught in hand-to-hand fighting, he would no longer be able to keep the monsters on the far side of the path.

He had to calculate exactly, to kill as many monsters as possible with as little strength as he could, and to buy time. The Cathedral and the city’s authority had to be taking action. Reinforcements would come, from one side or another. This city would not fall in some inexplicable fog like this.

Faintly, other gunshots sounded in the distance.

“Grandpa Caretaker!” Annie cried, handing him the freshly loaded rifle again. She glanced nervously toward the direction of the distant shots. “They are shooting in other places too… is someone coming to help us?”

“That is the Wardens from Graveyard No. 4 and No. 2.” The old man raised his gun and blew apart an ugly head that had appeared in the fog, speaking without looking back: “People will come to help us. Do not be afraid.”

“I am not afraid.” Annie tried to say it loudly, though her voice trembled a bit. The graveyard’s Old Caretaker did not call out the brave front she was putting up.

Because she was already brave enough.

“You really are brave,” the Old Caretaker said. He tried to sound relaxed, even though his arms had already started to shake. “Where did you learn all this? How do you know how to load rifles and shotguns?”

“My Mother has several guns. She hangs them in the bedroom and in the sitting room,” Annie said as she quickly pressed shells into the shotgun’s tube magazine. “The year Dad did not come back, Mother bought a bunch of guns. Mother said she needed to protect the house… ah!”

The spring on the latch of the magazine suddenly snapped open. The sharp metal edge sliced a long cut on the young lady’s finger, and she cried out.

But in the next second, she used another finger to push the spring back into place and handed the loaded shotgun to the old man in front of her: “Here you are.”

The Old Caretaker noticed the blood on the gun and heard Annie’s cry, but after a moment of silence he only tossed another gun behind him: “…Load it.”

The gunfire thundered again.

The black-clad old man, bent with age, stood like a crooked yet stubborn tree, nailed in place amid the dense fog. He and Annie slowly stopped talking. Only silent gunfire remained, and his expression grew more and more grave. He was counting—how many monsters he had already put down, and how many times Annie had handed him a loaded shotgun or rifle.

“Last box of bullets,” he muttered under his breath.

“Grandpa Caretaker, this is the last box of bullets!” Annie cried out almost at the same time.

“I know.” The Old Caretaker did not look back. He silently took down a twisted freak that had almost reached the hut, then beckoned behind him: “Load the shotgun, then put the gun and the rest of the bullets by my feet. You go to my bed. Under it there is a dark brown chest. Inside is spare ammunition.”

“Okay! Dark brown chest, spare ammunition!” Annie answered at once. She pushed the gun and bullets out the door and ran back inside.

The Old Caretaker looked down quietly at the shotgun and bullets at his feet. Then he turned slightly, closed the door with one hand, and drew the short sword from his chest, driving it hard through the outer latch.

Almost at once, he heard hurried footsteps inside the hut, then the sound of the girl pounding on the door and crying out.

“…This is the last time I trick you.”

The Old Caretaker said it softly, then, holding the gun in one hand, fired in quick bursts at the twisted freaks closest to him. He spun around, kicked off the doorframe, and leaped up. His free left hand swept across a corner above the frame, and a pitch-black Gatekeeper’s cane appeared in his grip. Before he landed, he brought the black staff down hard on another monster rising from the fog. As that head shattered and the corpse hit the ground, he landed as well, steady on his feet.

His gaze swept the dense fog before him. The old man swung the black staff hard. Filthy black fluid, like mutated blood, flew from its surface. Then he slammed the Gatekeeper’s cane onto the ground. Metal mechanisms clicked. The black shaft shortened by half an inch, and countless sharp blades sprang out from its sides.

When the blades sprang open, it seemed as if countless layered cries and roars from the past burst out with them.

For a heartbeat, the fog-drenched graveyard even fell silent.

The Old Caretaker turned and glanced at the hut door, at the corner above the frame where the hidden compartment lay. Like most veteran Guardians, he had chosen, in the year he retired, to rest the weapon that had followed him for half his life above the last door he guarded. He had never thought that he and this old partner would stand together again in front of that door.

“We guard a door… we are Bartok’s Wardens…” The old man’s back was still bent. In the cold, dim fog, he slowly turned, his eyes falling on the swaying shapes as he recited the oath Guardians had passed down for generations: “We swear to guard the boundary between life and death. The dead rest because of us. The living sleep in peace because of us…”

The twisted freaks in the fog grew restless. Countless swaying figures began to cross the path, rushing toward the little hut that still stood.

What answered them was the Old Caretaker’s gunfire and the whistle of his blade-staff cutting the air.

“If you will not rest, I will send you to rest!”

The sounds of hacking and slashing, of roars, and of rifles and shotguns roaring together made the graveyard tremble at the Guardians’ final battle.

Inside the Warden’s hut, Annie curled her small body up by the door, holding her head as she listened to the noise outside.

She began to sob softly, and finally, under the roaring gunfire, her sobs turned into loud, helpless crying.

At twelve years old, she had been tricked by Grandpa Caretaker once again.

…

At the same time, off the coast of Frostholm.

The spreading fog was not limited to the city-state itself. By noon, it had already drifted past the inshore boundary and covered the patrol range of the Sea Mist Fleet.

In such dense and eerie fog, even the curse Fleet, which itself carried an supernatural nature, had to stay on edge.

On the bridge of the Sea Mist, Tyrian stood before the wide viewports, brow tightly furrowed, staring at the wall-like fog over the sea. First Mate Aiden came up behind him and reported in a serious tone: “Up to now, our links with Cold Harbor, Ice Bay, and Pirate Island have all been severely disrupted. We get no response on any band. Our communications with the Frostholm navy and the Harbor district on Frostholm Island are also affected, but we can still barely get through. The fog has spread to at least a hundred nautical miles beyond Frostholm Island…”

“In addition, according to the boats we sent to the edge of the fog, the spread of the fog has stopped and its density is no longer increasing. But every attempt to sail out has failed—all the boats that tried to leave the fog just circled in place and, without noticing, turned back into the depths of the fog.”

“How is the Stargazing Room?”

“They still could not see the proper star chart,” First Mate Aiden said, his face grim. “It is as if a blurry lens has suddenly appeared between the Spirit Realm and the Abyssal Deep Sea. Every star we observe has a double image, and the mental strain from stargazing has risen sharply. It is impossible to observe for long.”

“…It seems the blockade is complete. The city-state of Frostholm and the surrounding sea have already been cut off from the ‘normal world’ outside,” Tyrian said, expressionless, his single eye calm. “Do not waste effort trying to run.”

“A blockade… who put this blockade up?”

“Try using your head once in a while—do you really need to ask?” Tyrian glanced back at Aiden. “The cultists. That bunch of madmen who worship the Abyssal Lord. They are the ones stirring up trouble lately, are they not?”

“I know that.” Aiden stared, his face clearly saying, Is this not a bit much? “But can a bunch of cultists really pull off something this big?”

“A rabble of madmen may not have that kind of power, but the ‘Lord’ they worship is another matter,” Tyrian rested his hand on the rail before him and spoke in a low voice. “The Abyssal Lord… sealing space and time, disturbing the stars… so this is the power of the Elder Gods…”

Aiden swallowed hard without thinking.

“So… this time we are really going to stand against the power of an Elder God?”

“Scared?”

“A little,” Aiden nodded, but a twisted grin still squeezed onto his face. “But there is no help for it. The world is like this. When we went up against the old captain back then, did we not grit our teeth and charge anyway? At least now the old captain is on our side.”

“That is enough. Have everyone get ready,” Tyrian let out a slow breath and waved to his First Mate. “After being away from Frostholm for so many years, it seems we are about to stir up this sea again.”