Frost is a very cold place. Eighty percent of the year, the city-state is bathed in the incessant cold wind from the Frigid Sea - the cold air blows continuously from the frozen sea further north, whistling through the towering walls and steep coastal cliffs of Frost. This chill keeps many people away.

However, Frost is also the largest city-state in the entire Frigid Sea. Despite the cold, the center of this huge island has the Boiling Gold Mine with the richest reserves in the north. It is the most critical raw material for the steam core and can even be regarded as the industrial foundation of the current era. The industrial system built around the Boiling Gold Mine supports the operation of this northern city-state and has brought it endless wealth and prosperity.

And death.

In Frost, at the edge of the mining area, at the entrance of the city-state cemetery, a completely black steam car has not yet been turned off. Under the bright light of the gas street lamps, several corpse carriers in thick black robes are working together to lift a coffin out of the car. There is also a tall and thin figure in a black robe standing next to the car. The whole face of this figure is hidden in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat, and where the shadows intersect, one can see bandages one after another.

A few steps away, a shriveled old man with a slightly hunched back and his entire body shrouded in a gloomy shadow stood at the entrance of the cemetery, watching the busy people delivering the corpses with indifference.

The corpse carriers from the Church of Death were extremely silent. They made no sound while carrying the coffins, with only slight bumping sounds occasionally heard, making the already eerie cemetery seem even more eerie and silent.

After an unknown amount of time, the sinister old man who was guarding the cemetery finally broke the silence and asked, "What was the cause of death?"

"He slipped and fell into the well," said the tall, thin figure wrapped in bandages. It was a slightly hoarse female voice that sounded very young. "He died on the spot and has been baptized. The details are in the handover documents, you can read it yourself."

★Illustration 5★

"How long?" The sinister old man's expression and tone remained unchanged, as if he was discussing a piece of stone that was about to be moved into his room.

The tall, thin figure wrapped in bandages looked quietly at the sinister old man.

"Three days," she answered briefly, "three days to purify the soul, and then send it to the melting pot."

"It's so short." The guard snorted and looked up at the cemetery gate next to him. The black carved iron fence stood under the light and the night like a cold and sharp thorn. Opposite the gate, which symbolized the separation between life and death, one could vaguely see many neatly arranged morgues, narrow paths between the morgues, and shadowy tombstones and huts deeper in the cemetery.

This is a cemetery, but for most of the bodies sent to the cemetery, this is not their permanent resting place - except for a few permanent tombs with special significance, the dead are only staying here temporarily, and no one, from city-state officials to peddlers and hawkers, can circumvent the rules here.

After they died, they were temporarily sent to the cemetery, where they gradually calmed down under the watchful eye of Bartok, the god of death. After a few days or as long as ten days or half a month, they were sent to the melting pot adjacent to the cemetery. Their sins in life turned into smoke and dust in the sky, and their good deeds were integrated into the hissing of the steam pipes. A little residue was scattered into the land of the city-state, and nothing remained in the world.

There would be only one small tombstone left for them in the cemetery - very small, and soon to be buried deep among the many tombstones.

"The dead cannot take over the place of the living," the woman wrapped in bandages shook her head. "For those whose death was 'clean and innocent', three days is enough time for their souls to regain peace."

"Is it not just because of this reason?" The sinister guard raised his eyes, his yellow and turbid eyeballs staring quietly at the "bandage girl" in a thick black coat in front of him. "Are you worried that the corpse will crawl up - just like the recent rumors."

"There is no evidence that the dead in the city-state are really 'resurrecting', and the current reports are contradictory. But even if it is just a short-term revival of the 'restless' phenomenon, it is worth being vigilant." The bandaged woman shook her head, "So keep an eye on your cemetery. As for the affairs in the city-state, the church and the city hall will handle it."

"I wish it were as simple as you say, Agatha," the caretaker muttered. "I can see to it that no body ever gets out of this garden, but the cemetery you and your colleagues have to look after is much larger than my little garden."

The corpse bearers carried the coffin into the cemetery. These silent figures in black moved along the paths of the cemetery like corpses. They found an empty morgue prepared in advance, placed the coffin on the platform, and then stood at the four corners of the coffin, ready to perform the appeasement ceremony of Bartok, the god of death.

The caretaker and the black-clad priestess called "Agatha" also followed into the cemetery and came to the morgue.

The four corpse bearers took out Bartok's talisman - a triangular metal emblem with a door-shaped relief in the center that symbolized the door of life and death. They placed the talisman on the four corners of the coffin, chanted a short prayer in unison, and then stepped back half a step.

Agatha then stepped forward, took off her wide-brimmed hat, and looked at the coffin on the morgue in the cold wind.

The light from the gas street lamp illuminated her form.

Layers of bandages were wrapped all over her body, even covering half of her face. Only in the places not covered by the bandages could one see some of the delicate and soft lines unique to women. Her long, slightly curly dark brown hair was draped behind her head, and her equally dark brown eyes showed only calmness and compassion.

"May the grace of Bartok, the god of death, protect your soul and restore peace to you in your last three days on earth... All your debts to the world are written off today. Lost, you can travel light..."

Agatha's low and hoarse prayer echoed in the silent cemetery and gradually blended into the deep night.

The sinister-looking guard stood aside and watched the ceremony indifferently. In his hand, he had a heavy-looking double-barreled shotgun. On the handguard of the shotgun, one could vaguely see the triangular emblem of Bartok, the god of death.

After a moment, the ceremony ended, and Agatha turned to look at the cemetery warden: "It's done."

"I hope your prayers are effective," the guard raised the double-barreled shotgun in his hand, "although I trust my 'old partner' more."

"The soothing ceremony performed by me, the 'gatekeeper', should have some effect," Agatha said calmly, and then put on her dark wide-brimmed hat again. She nodded to the cemetery guard and led the corpse escorts to the exit of the cemetery. "We should leave."

Bartok's followers left, and the black steam train went farther and farther away in the night, until its taillights gradually merged into the night of the city.

The cold night wind blew through the cemetery, passing by the rows of morgues and the carved iron fences at the edge of the cemetery. The gloomy old caretaker stood at the door, looking at the direction where the hearse left. It was a long time before he retracted his gaze and tightened his clothes in the cold wind.

"The living are finally gone. I'm not used to the cemetery being so busy."

He muttered, clutching his reliable double-barreled shotgun, and walked slowly towards his caretaker's hut on the edge of the morgue.

A moment later, the old man came out of the hut again, and this time, he had something more in his hand.

A small pink and white flower picked from somewhere.

He came to the newest coffin, picked up a stone from the side, and pressed Xiaohua on a corner of the morgue.

The night wind blew through the path, causing the delicate petals to tremble in the wind, and on the rows of morgues nearby, one could see the same little flower pressed in an inconspicuous corner.

Most of the flowers have withered in the wind.

"Go to sleep, have a good sleep. It's hard to sleep so soundly when you are alive," the old guard muttered, "Your family will come to greet you tomorrow morning. This is the rule. Say goodbye to them and leave with peace of mind. The world of the living is not that good..."

The old man shook his head, bent down, grabbed the double-barreled shotgun, turned around and slowly walked away.

※※※

"We are sailing north, our destination is Frost," Duncan found Vanna on the deck of the Lost Homeland, staring at the distant sea in a daze, and walked up to her and said, "I saw you staring into the distance in a daze, I guess you are curious about the direction of this ship."

"Frost?" Vanna was a little surprised. She was indeed guessing about the next itinerary of the Lost Homeland, but she didn't expect Captain Duncan to take the initiative to mention this matter to her. "Why Frost? Did something happen over there?"

"It all started because Morris received a letter from a deceased friend," Duncan said. He came to the edge of the deck, leaned on the railing with both hands, and looked at the boundless sea in the distance at night. "But the bigger reason was that I became interested in the sea."

"You're interested?"

"In a sense, Frostbite is Alice's 'hometown'," Duncan said with a smile, "even though she herself has no idea of ​​this."

"...I don't know much about Frost. I only know that the main belief there is the God of Death, Bartok, but there are also some believers who believe in the Goddess of Storms. The local industry in Frost seems to be very developed, and the largest economic pillar of the entire city-state is the Boiling Gold Mine..."

Vanna paused here, then subconsciously glanced in the direction of the cabin.

"Of course, Frostbite is most famous for the rebellion half a century ago - Alice doesn't mind people discussing this, right?"

"She doesn't mind - because she doesn't understand at all."

"……All right."