Morris's wife Mary stared at the cover of the letter for a long time before she took a letter opener from the side and carefully opened it.

A thin folded paper fell out of the envelope. Before opening the paper, the first thing Mrs. Mary noticed was the uneven marks on the back of the paper.

That was handwriting - it was written with so much force that the traces of the strokes were clearly visible on the back of the paper.

The person who wrote this letter must have been extremely emotional at the time.

The old woman sitting in front of the fireplace adjusted her sitting posture slightly, placed the letter she had read on the small round table next to her, and glanced at the date stamp on the cover of the letter from Frost in her hand.

The letter was dated December 5th.

The second letter was written by the late "Brown Scott" only three days after the first one was sent.

Mrs. Mary opened the folded letter and saw a few lines of scribbled words. They were not as elegant and neat as the first letter sent by the folklorist a few days ago. In these few lines, the writer was filled with great anxiety and fear:

〖My friend, the situation is… not right. I don’t know how to explain it to you. I am very confused now, and it is even difficult for me to think. My mind is being disturbed by something, and my memory… Don’t come to Frost! In short, don’t come to Frost! Even if you see other things I write to you in the future, or see other forms of invitations, don’t come to Frost!

There is a huge conspiracy here.

Don't come to Frost!

There was not even a signature at the end of the letter, and even the stamp on the envelope was pasted crookedly.

Mrs. Mary looked at the few scribbled words, as if she could imagine the scene where a folklorist, whose mind had gone mad due to a huge cognitive tear, used up his last bit of sanity to write down these words, then struggled into the frosty cold wind and delivered the letter to the post office with difficulty.

She slowly refolded the paper and stuffed it back into the envelope.

It was a disturbing letter, and the whole thing had an air of horror that, under normal circumstances, would have sent the subject running for shelter in a church.

Mrs. Mary's eyes swept across the small round table beside her, and across the letter from the Lost Homeland -

〖…The offspring of the deep sea do have a unique taste, more delicious than ordinary fish. The captain has mastered special cooking techniques, and Anomaly 099——Miss Alice, has learned the essence of it. Maybe I should give it a try…〗

The old woman silently threw the letter from Frost into the fireplace next to her and watched it quickly burn in the bright flames and turn into ashes.

"They have already gone..."

She muttered softly, then stood up, took the ink, pen and stationery from the shelf next to her, and began to write a letter - this letter would be sent to the antique shop in downtown.

※※※

Church staff in black coats walked around the cemetery, checking all remaining traces - every path, every coffin, every street lamp, were marked and sampled in the hope of reconstructing what happened here last night.

The "gatekeeper" Agatha stayed in the guard's hut, and opposite her sat the old guard with a gloomy temperament and a hunched back.

After an unknown amount of time, the young woman, whose body was mostly wrapped in bandages, raised her head and glanced at the sky outside the window. She saw that the sun was gradually setting and a slightly reddish glow began to float over the sky above the entire city.

As evening approached, the guards she brought with her had been busy in the cemetery for several hours, and the old guard in front of her had been silent for several hours.

Strictly speaking, the old guard was not just silent - he maintained an almost closed-minded state, not moving, not speaking, and not responding to any external stimuli. Ever since the church guards received the report and came here, he had been sitting quietly in the chair, like a breathing sculpture of flesh and blood.

A black-clad guard pushed open the wooden door of the guardhouse, came to Agatha, bent down and whispered something to her. Agatha nodded slightly, "I see. Send the sample to the cathedral first. Keep the scene as it is. Tonight may be critical, so we need to keep someone on guard."

The black guard nodded his head, but before leaving, he couldn't help but glance at the old man sitting motionless on the chair. When he saw the old man's cloudy eyes that seemed to be frozen, the young guard's face was obviously a little uneasy: "He... how long will he maintain this state? Is it really okay?"

"It's a protective mental closure. He's using this method to fight and clear the pollution he's suffered. He might also be protecting us at the same time," Agatha whispered. "The gravekeeper must have come into contact with something far beyond imagination last night. He seems to have struggled back from the brink of madness... But don't worry, he's an experienced warrior and has managed to stabilize himself. He'll be fine."

Agatha paused and added, "As for how long this state will last... it's hard to say. He may recover in the next second, or he may have to wait until this time tomorrow. It depends on how long he has been in contact with the terrible pollution."

The black-clad guard thought for a moment, then looked up out the window. Through the slightly dirty glass window, he could see church members busy on the path outside.

He withdrew his gaze and looked at the two bodies in the hut - two intruders, who had been confirmed to be Annihilation Cultists, and obviously died at the hands of the old guard. Because the circumstances were still unclear, the two bodies were left where they were for the sake of protecting the scene.

They couldn't be the reason why the old guard's mind was closed. Even if the demons behind them were out of control, they wouldn't be to this extent.

What could that be? A more powerful Deep Devil? A high priest of the Cult of Annihilation? Or something else?

The black-clad guard expressed his doubts, but Agatha just shook her head: "No, it should be a more bizarre and dangerous situation."

"Why are you so sure?" the black-clad guard asked subconsciously.

"Because there are really only a few traces left by heretics at the scene, and a pile of corpses of suspected 'restless people' without any extraordinary reactions," Agatha said lightly, "There are no observable traces left, which means..."

"This means that the visitor last night did nothing. He just existed in this cemetery for a moment, which was enough to make an old man like me reach the critical point of sanity."

The old man's voice suddenly rang out in the hut, interrupting the communication between the black-clad guard and the gatekeeper. Agatha immediately looked in the direction of the voice, and a faint smile finally appeared on her expressionless face: "You have recovered, very good."

"I can't say it's completely recovered," the old guard said slowly, stabilizing the slightly shifted perceptions after his mind was reopened. He looked into Agatha's eyes, consciously blocking out the jumping shadows behind her, "but at least I can tell which part is reality and which part is madness."

"That's enough," Agatha nodded, "What happened yesterday?"

"The corpse you sent suddenly became agitated and spoke a lot, as sober as a living person. Then four Annihilation Cultists entered the cemetery and wanted to take the agitated one away. They used the power of the Deep Demon to disguise themselves. They were skilled summoners and deceived my eyes, but not my intuition.

"I lured the two here and killed them, the two on the floor. Then I was about to go to the cemetery to kill the other two, but an accident happened."

The old guard raised his head and looked towards the door.

"An indescribable...visitor came to visit me. I stared at him for a while, or maybe only a few seconds. My judgment of time was wrong, so I couldn't be accurate."

"An unspeakable visitor?" Agatha couldn't help but frowned. "Can you be more specific?"

The old guard tried hard to recall.

All that came to his mind was a chaotic mess of light and shadows, and overwhelming noise.

The hasty closure of the mind eliminated the temporary contamination it had suffered, but it also erased some useful memories.

"No, I only remember chaotic light and noise," the old guard shook his head. "Even if I could accurately describe what I saw, it would be meaningless to you. What I saw might not be real. Even if it is real, it might not be what other people see. As human beings, our perception is too limited."

"Okay, that's the whole answer," Agatha nodded. "An unknown visitor visited the cemetery in the final stage, but did not actively cause any damage... Are you sure you want to use the word 'visit' in the report? This word is neutral, even friendly."

"Yes," the old guard replied calmly, "I have talked to Him, although we barely succeeded in communicating anything - the visitor has tried to communicate, which is a neutral to friendly signal."

"I understand. I've recorded it." Agatha nodded again. "And then? What else?"

"After the visitor left, I vaguely saw some of his remains... on the path at the door," the old guard recalled, "but I couldn't see clearly. At that time, my vision was severely damaged and my cognition was also seriously impaired. I'm not sure..."

"If you're talking about a pile of debris that was burned by the backlash of the Deep Demon, then we found it," Agatha interrupted the old guard calmly, "If I'm right, then it looks like the visitor's... 'carrier'."