Chapter 1

The continuous roars had completely shattered the tranquility of Cemetery No. 3. The flames erupting from gun muzzles illuminated the dim mist time and again, and swaying, distorted figures emerged from the fog, only to fall one by one under the sacred fire and metallic bombardment. And where they fell, black, ominous matter spread across the path.

These were clearly no longer merely "restless corpses"—they were something more blasphemous, more ominous, and they had to be completely eradicated here.

The old man's marksmanship was excellent. The deformed things emerging from the mist were like slow-moving insects in his eyes, and even through the thick fog, he could take them down with a single shot.

In truth, he was even more skilled and experienced with a short sword and cane—but the old man knew that he had to avoid close combat with those monsters as much as possible, at least for now.

He was already very old. An old soldier's experience could not overcome the decay of his flesh, and the enemies seemed endless. Once he was engaged in close combat, he would have no chance of holding those monsters back from crossing the path.

He had to calculate precisely, to eliminate as many monsters as possible with as little exertion as possible, to buy time. The Cathedral and the city-state authorities must be taking action. Reinforcements would come, from one side or another—this city would not fall in such a bizarre fog.

Faintly, other gunshots could be heard in the distance.

"Grandpa Watchman!" Annie called out, handing the reloaded rifle to the old man once more, while anxiously looking in the direction of the gunshots. "There's gunfire elsewhere... Are people coming to help us?"

"Those are the watchmen from Cemetery No. 4 and Cemetery No. 2," the old man said without turning his head, as a shot shattered an ugly head emerging from the mist. "Someone will come to help us. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," Annie said, trying to sound brave, although her voice trembled slightly. The old cemetery watchman did not expose the little girl's forced courage.

Because she was already brave enough.

"You are indeed very brave," the old watchman said, trying to sound as relaxed as possible, even though his arm had already begun to tremble. "Where did you learn all this? How do you know how to load rifles and shotguns?"

"My mom has several guns. She hangs them in the bedroom and living room," Annie said, quickly pressing bullets into the tubular magazine of a double-barreled shotgun. "The year Dad didn't come back, Mom bought several guns. She said she needed to protect the house… Ouch!"

The magazine latch suddenly snapped open, and the sharp metal edge cut a long gash in the little girl's finger, causing her to exclaim.

But in the next second, she used another finger to force the latch back into place, handing the loaded shotgun to the old man. "Here you go."

The old watchman noticed the blood on the gun, and heard Annie's exclamation, but he remained silent for a moment, then tossed another gun behind him. "…Reload."

Gunfire roared again.

The hunched black-clad old man was like a bent but resilient tree, firmly rooted in the thick mist. He and Annie gradually stopped talking, and there was only the silence of shooting, and an increasingly grave look between them. He calculated, calculating how many monsters he had taken down, calculating how many times Annie had handed him a loaded shotgun or rifle.

"Last box of bullets," he muttered softly.

"Grandpa Watchman, last box of bullets!" Annie exclaimed almost at the same time.

"I know," the old watchman said without turning his head. He silently eliminated a deformed monster that had almost reached the front of the cottage, then waved his hand behind him. "Load the shotgun, then put the gun and the remaining bullets at my feet. Go under my bed. There's a dark brown box there, with spare ammunition."

"Okay! Dark brown box, spare ammunition!" Annie immediately said quickly, then pushed the gun and bullets out the door with all her might, turning to run inside.

The old watchman silently looked down at the shotgun and bullets at his feet, then turned slightly, casually closed the door, and drew the short sword from his chest, using it to nail the door shut onto the outside hook.

Almost the next second, he heard hurried footsteps from inside the cottage, followed by the sound of the girl banging on the door and screaming.

"…Last time I lied to you."

The old watchman said softly, then fired his gun with one hand at the deformed monsters closest to him, then quickly turned, using the door frame to leap up, his free left hand sweeping across a corner above the door frame, and a black cane appeared in his hand—before landing, he slammed the black cane down hard on another monster emerging from the mist, and at the moment the shattered corpse fell, he landed steadily on the ground.

Scanning the mist before him, the old man vigorously swung the black cane in his hand, and dirty black fluid like mutated blood was flung from the cane. He slammed the cane hard on the ground, and a metallic mechanism clicked. The black cane immediately shortened by half an inch, but countless sharp blades popped out on both sides.

The moment the blades sprung open, they seemed to be mixed with countless cries and roars from past times, layer upon layer.

The mist-filled cemetery even fell silent for a moment.

The old watchman turned his head and looked at the door of the cottage, looking at the corner where the hidden compartment was above the door frame—like most guardian veterans, he had chosen to place the weapon that had accompanied him for half his life above the last door he guarded upon his retirement, but he never expected that he and this old comrade would fight side by side again in front of this door.

"We guard a door… We are the watchmen of Bartok…" The old man's back was still hunched, and in the cold, dim mist, he slowly turned his body, his eyes falling on those swaying figures, reciting the oath passed down through generations of guardians, "We vow to guard the border between life and death, so that the dead may rest in peace, and the living may be at peace…"

The deformed monsters in the fog stirred, and countless swaying figures began to cross the path and rush towards the still-standing cottage.

Responding to them was the old watchman's gunfire, and the whistling of the cane-sword through the air.

"You don't want to rest in peace, I'll send you to rest!"

The sounds of slashing, roaring, and the booming of rifles and shotguns filled the air, and the guardian's last battle caused the cemetery to tremble.

In the watchman's cottage, Annie curled up in a small ball by the door, holding her head and listening to the noises outside.

She sobbed softly, and finally, amidst the roaring of gunfire, burst into a wail.

The twelve-year-old had been tricked by Grandpa Watchman once again.

At the same time, in the Frost Outer Sea.

The pervasive fog was not limited to the city-state's skies. By noon, the fog had already crossed the near-sea boundary and covered the patrol area of the Sea Fog Fleet.

In such a dense and bizarre fog, even the Cursed Fleet, which possessed transcendent attributes, had to be on high alert.

On the bridge of the Sea Fog, Tyrian stood in front of the wide porthole with a frown, gazing at the wall of fog on the sea. First Mate Aiden came up behind him and reported in a serious tone: "...As of now, our connections with Cold Harbor, Ice Bay, and Pirate Island have been severely disrupted. All frequency calls have gone unanswered. Communications with the Frost Navy and the port area of Frost Island are also being disrupted, but we can barely maintain contact. The fog covers at least one hundred nautical miles outside of Frost Island..."

"Also, according to reports from our small boats sent to the edge of the fog, the fog has stopped spreading, and the density has not continued to increase, but efforts to sail outward have failed—all small boats attempting to leave the fog are spinning in place, and unknowingly returning to the depths of the fog."

"What is the situation in the Observatory?"

"Still unable to observe the correct stellar positions," First Mate Aiden said with a grave expression. "It's as if a blurry lens suddenly appeared between the spirit world and the abyssal sea. The observed stellar positions have double images, and the mental stress from stargazing has also increased sharply, making it impossible to observe for long."

"...It seems that the blockade is complete. The Frost City-State and the surrounding waters have been isolated from the 'normal world' outside," Tyrian said expressionlessly, his single eye filled with only calmness. "Don't waste your efforts trying to run out."

"A blockade… Who created the blockade?"

"Use your brain occasionally—do you even need to ask?" Tyrian looked back at Aiden. "The cultists, the bunch of lunatics who worship the Abyssal Lord. Aren't they the ones who have been causing trouble lately?"

"I know," Aiden said, his eyes wide, with a look on his face that said, "Isn't this situation a bit of an exaggeration?" "But can a bunch of cultists really cause such a big commotion?"

"A rabble of lunatics may not have this ability, but the 'Lord' they worship is another matter," Tyrian said, placing his hand on the railing in front of him, his voice low. "The Abyssal Lord… Blocking time and space, interfering with the stars… Is this the power of the ancient gods…"

Aiden swallowed involuntarily.

"So… Are we really going to directly confront the power of the ancient gods this time?"

"Afraid?"

"A little," Aiden nodded, but forced an ugly smile on his face. "But there's nothing we can do, that's just the way things are—actually, if you think about it carefully, it's nothing. Didn't everyone brace themselves when they went up against the old captain? At least the old captain is on our side now."

"That's good enough. Get everyone ready," Tyrian said, breathing a sigh of relief, and waved his hand to the first mate. "After leaving Frost for so many years, we may have to make a big scene in these waters again."