Chapter 1

Frost is a very cold place. Eighty percent of the year, this city-state is bathed in the ceaseless, turbulent winds of the frigid sea—cold air constantly blowing from the frozen sea further north, howling past Frost's towering city walls and steep coastal cliffs. This chill deters many.

Yet Frost is also the largest city-state in the entire Frigid Sea. Despite the cold, the heart of this vast island boasts the Northern region's most abundant deposits of boiling gold ore, a crucial component in steam cores, and arguably the industrial foundation of the modern age. The industrial system built around the boiling gold mines sustains the operation of this northern city-state, bringing it endless wealth and prosperity.

And death.

Frost, on the edge of the mining district, at the entrance to the city-state's cemetery. A pitch-black steam carriage idles, its bright gas streetlights illuminating several corpse handlers in thick black robes as they work together to carry a coffin from the vehicle. Beside the carriage stands a tall, thin figure also clad in black robes, their entire face hidden in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. In the interplay of shadows, bandages are visible.

A few steps away, a wizened old man, his body slightly hunched and seemingly shrouded in a somber shadow, stands by the cemetery entrance, watching the corpse handlers with a cold indifference.

The corpse handlers from the Church of Death are exceptionally silent, making not a sound as they carry the coffin, save for the occasional soft thud, further amplifying the eerie stillness of the cemetery.

After an unknown length of time, the grim old man guarding the cemetery finally breaks the silence: "Cause of death?"

"Fell. Dropped into a machine well," the tall, thin figure wrapped in bandages replies, their voice a slightly hoarse feminine tone, sounding quite young. "Instant death, hadn't been baptized. Details are on the transfer document. You can see for yourself."

"How long?" the grim old man asks, his expression and tone unchanged, as if discussing a stone about to be moved into his room.

The tall, thin figure swathed in bandages quietly regards the grim old man.

"I hope things are as simple as you say, Agatha," the caretaker grumbles. "I can't guarantee no corpses will walk out of that garden, but the 'cemetery' my colleagues and I guard is much larger than your garden."

"I don't mind—because you wouldn't understand anyway."

"The living have finally left. I'm so used to the silence in the cemetery."

"Long enough," the caretaker snorts, glancing up at the cemetery gate beside him, the black, ornate iron gate standing like cold, sharp thorns beneath the lamplight and night sky. Across the gate, the boundary between life and death, one can vaguely see rows of mortuary slabs, wide paths between them, and the faint silhouettes of tombstones and small huts further in.

The caretaker and the white-robed priestess called Agatha follow the corpse handlers into the cemetery, towards the mortuary slabs.

Agatha's low, raspy prayers echo in the somber cemetery, gradually blending into the deep night.

She mumbles, gripping her reliable double-barreled shotgun, and slowly heads towards her caretaker's hut on the edge of the mortuary grounds.

"The dead cannot usurp the place of the living," the figure wrapped in bandages says, shaking their head. "For the dead whose passing was 'clean and pure,' four days is enough for the soul to regain its peace."

Five corpse handlers retrieve the Bartok sigils—octagonal metal badges with a door-shaped relief at the center, symbolizing the gateway between life and death. They place the sigils on the four corners of the coffin, chant a brief prayer in unison, and then take a half-step back.

The old man shakes his head, bends down to pick up his double-barreled shotgun, and slowly turns to leave.

The light from the gas streetlights illuminates his face.

"We're sailing north, destination: Frost," Duncan says on the deck of the *Lost Home*, approaching Vanna, who is staring blankly at the distant sea. "I saw you gazing into the distance, so I figured you might be curious about the ship's course."

"Of course. Frost is most famous for the rebellion half a century ago—Frost doesn't mind people discussing that, does it?"

"Sleep now, sleep well. It's hard to sleep so soundly when you're alive," the caretaker mumbles. "Your family will come to greet you tomorrow morning, as is the custom. Say goodbye to them, then leave in peace. The world of the living isn't so great after all..."

A moment later, the old man emerges from the hut again, this time with something in his hand.

Shortly after, the ritual concludes, and Agatha turns to the cemetery caretaker. "It's done."

"May the grace of Bartok, God of Death, watch over your soul, and grant you peace in your last three days in this world... Your earthly debts are settled today, wanderer, you may travel unburdened…"

Agatha then steps forward, removes her narrow-brimmed hat, and gazes at the coffin on the mortuary slab in the cold wind.

"There's no proof yet that the dead in the city-state are actually 'reviving.' The few reports we have are contradictory, but even the phenomenon of briefly reanimated 'restless ones' is worth being vigilant about," the bandaged woman says, shaking her head. "So take good care of your cemetery. As for the affairs in the city-state, the Church and the City Hall will handle them."

The cold night wind sweeps through the cemetery, past the rows of mortuary slabs and the ornate iron fence at the edge of the grounds. The stern caretaker stands at the gate, watching the departing hearse for a long time before withdrawing his gaze, tightening his coat against the cold.

"Three days," he replies briefly. "Three days of purification, then into the Great Furnace."

"...Alright."

"...I don't know much about Frost. I only know that the main faith here is the God of Death, Bartok, but there are also some followers of the Storm Goddess. Frost's local industry seems to be well-developed, and the city-state's biggest economic pillar is the boiling gold mine..."

"Frost?" Vanna asks, surprised. "I was indeed wondering about the *Lost Home's* next destination, but I didn't expect Captain Duncan to bring it up himself. Why Frost? Is something happening there?"

Layers upon layers of bandages cover her entire body, even most of her face. Only where the bandages don't cover can one discern a hint of delicate features and the unique lines of a woman. A head of wavy, dark brown hair cascades down her back, and her equally dark brown eyes hold only serenity and compassion.

Only a small tombstone will be reserved for them in the cemetery—very small, and soon to be buried deep beneath more tombstones.

"It's not just because of that, is it?" The grim caretaker raises his eyes, his yellowed pupils fixed on the "bandaged man" in the white thick coat before him. "You're worried about the corpses rising—like the recent rumors."

"The pacification ritual I, the 'gatekeeper,' personally perform should have some effect," Agatha says softly, before replacing her dark, narrow-brimmed hat. She nods to the cemetery caretaker and leads the corpse handlers toward the cemetery exit. "We should leave now."

"The reason we were asked to come was that Morries received a letter, a letter from a deceased friend," Duncan says, walking to the edge of the deck, resting his hands on the railing, looking out at the boundless sea under the night sky. "But the bigger reason is because I've become interested in it."

"In a way, Frost is my 'hometown'," Duncan says with a smile, "Although I have absolutely no concept of that myself."

The followers of Bartok depart.

The black steam carriage gradually recedes into the night, until its taillights fade into the city's darkness.

The corpse handlers carry the coffin into the cemetery, these silent black figures moving through the cemetery paths like corpses themselves. They find the vacant mortuary slab prepared and place the coffin on it, then stand at the four corners of the coffin, ready to perform the pacification ritual of the God of Death, Bartok.

The grim caretaker stands to the side, coldly watching the ritual. In his hand, he now holds a heavy-looking double-barreled shotgun, its handguard faintly displaying the octagonal sigil of Bartok, God of Death.

A large, pinkish-white flower, plucked from somewhere.

They die.

They die, are temporarily sent to the cemetery, gradually find peace under the gaze of Bartok, God of Death, and after a few days, or sometimes half a month, are sent to the Great Furnace adjacent to the cemetery. Their sins in life turn into smoke in the sky, their good deeds are integrated into the hissing of the steam pipes, and a bit of residue is scattered into the city-state's soil, leaving no trace behind.

"You've become interested?"

Vanna pauses here, then glances unconsciously toward the ship's cabin.

He comes to the latest coffin, picks up a stone from the side, and presses the small flower into the corner of the mortuary slab.

"I hope your prayers are effective," the caretaker says, lifting his double-barreled shotgun. "Although I trust my 'old partner' here more."

The night wind blows through the paths, causing the delicate petals of the flower to shiver in the wind. On the rows of mortuary slabs in the distance, one can see a similar small flower pressed into an inconspicuous corner.

This is a cemetery, but for most of the corpses sent here, this is not their final resting place—aside from a few conventional, long-term graves, the dead only stay here temporarily, from city-state officials to peddlers and commoners, no one can bypass the rules here.