Chapter 1

A cluster of dim and unusually flickering starlight caught Duncan's attention.

That faint light was subtly different from the surrounding starlight, its illusory and weak glow resembling a transparent phantom, and its flickering appearance gave the impression that it could dissipate at any moment. Duncan had seen faint lights in this chaotic space, but even those faint lights didn't have this illusory, dissipating quality.

He frowned slightly.

Faint flickering light often meant a recently deceased body, but combined with an almost transparent, illusory feeling... what did it mean?

He reached out a finger and gently touched the light.

In the next second, he felt his consciousness suddenly cross vast and endless boundaries, projecting from the Vanishing Sail into a completely new body. A cold and numb sensation spread from his limbs, and then the numbness gradually faded, and he began to feel the touch of his skin and the slow beating of his heart.

But for some reason, he felt that this new body was particularly heavy, and controlling it felt like it was through a thick curtain. It took him a lot of effort to barely move a finger, and it took the same amount of effort to open his eyelids a crack.

All he could see was darkness.

Was he blind? Or were his eyes covered?

Duncan subconsciously groped, raising his hand to check the condition of his eyes, but as soon as he raised his hand, he felt his arm hit some hard, cold obstacle. Then he raised his other arm, and it hit something as well.

Duncan lay quietly in the darkness, silent for a long time before sighing, "Okay, that's reasonable..."

"...The cemetery is too quiet tonight."

"Hello, I'd like to know what's going on," Duncan cleared his throat, thinking about how to maximize the value of this body in order to get more information from the person outside the coffin, "I'm trapped in this...

coffin, but there's been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm still alive. Listen, my voice is actually quite strong."

"Forgive me for being blunt, but you fell from the well fence, plunging into a hundred-meter-deep mine shaft. Your skull was shattered, and it took the undertaker a lot of effort to piece it back together—sir, in my opinion, your misdiagnosis is... extremely unlikely."

The old watchman with the shotgun frowned. For some reason, he felt that this "restless one" was different from any he had encountered in his career. The voice in the coffin sounded a little too rational, and even knew how to bargain, but he quickly shook his head, dismissing the jumbled thoughts. The old watchman shook his head, constantly talking while keeping an eye on the flame of the lantern on the nearby wooden post. You know, the dead don't have true reason. It's just the afterglow of the soul's obsession. In conversation, this "afterglow" dissipates particularly quickly, and when the reason of the one in the coffin runs out, his "extra overtime" for the day will begin.

"Quiet down!" The watchman, holding his double-barreled shotgun, made a crisp clicking sound as he disengaged the safety in the night. The hunched old man stared at the coffin, shouting, "You should sleep. You now belong to another world. There's no place for you in the world of the living."

"Every year there are always a few corpses that don't want to stay in their coffins. Most of them will try to escape with violence, but only a few exceptions will try to negotiate," the old watchman muttered, "But even those who know how to negotiate are just talking nonsense. The dead always think they can be resurrected, but in reality... Bartok's door isn't that easy to cross."

However, the coffin lid was more difficult to deal with than he imagined. The lid was nailed shut, and may even have extra latches, and the body he now occupied was too "inferior." The feeling from his limbs was even weaker than the body he first occupied at the sacrificial site in the sewers. Let alone push open a nailed coffin lid, even moving around was particularly difficult.

The old man grumbled unkindly, casually hanging the lantern on the iron buckle on his waist, then making an octagonal sign on his chest, and slowly walked towards the coffins with his double-barreled shotgun.

"Is anyone there? Help, I think this is a misdiagnosis!"

"Oh? You often encounter things like that?" Otherwise, he would have to give up this carefully selected predestined body and choose another body in this dark, chaotic space, and he might be trapped in another coffin.

The coffin was still thumping, and the dead man in the coffin was stubbornly knocking on the barrier between him and the world of the living, and while knocking, he asked the people outside to help him escape.

The door of the guardhouse was pushed open, and the light of a lantern illuminated the path inside the wooden house leading to the mortuary. An old man with sinister eyes and a hunched back walked in from outside the house. He carried a lantern in one hand and tightly gripped a powerful double-barreled shotgun in the other. His yellowed eyes stared at the direction of the sound.

"Restless ones, the living dead, resurrection, these are three completely different concepts," the old man babbled, "Crossing these boundaries requires amazing power, enduring great pain, and having an extremely rare opportunity. Sir, don't make it difficult for yourself, you can't cross it."

At this time, he even had the leisure to think wildly, wondering if he should ask Alice for experience. How did this doll run out of the coffin when the coffin lid was nailed shut and several circles of iron chains were added? Was it just with innate divine power?

What a peculiar dead person this was?

It would be easy if there was someone—in this way, regardless of whether he could get out or not, he would have another way to contact the outside world and maybe gather some information.

"...Okay, I seem to be injured a bit badly myself, and this physical condition is really not suitable for leaving that coffin," he sighed, "Sorry for the trouble."

The watchman certainly wouldn't ignore this sudden, strange movement.

He groped around and finally realized he was trapped in a... container.

Duncan began to move his hands and feet, familiarizing himself with the sensation of this not-so-easy-to-use body while trying to push open the lid above his head. By tapping the surrounding coffin earlier, he had confirmed from the thumping feedback that the coffin was not buried in the ground. It might just be temporarily placed somewhere, which meant that as long as he pushed open the lid above his head, he could get out of this place.

Duncan listened to the voice coming from outside the coffin and silently raised his hand to touch the back of his head.

But why did it have to be reasonable at this time!

It was a coffin.

In the silent mortuary of the cemetery, the thumping and hoarse, low calls stood out.

The old watchman was silent for a few seconds, silently lit another spare lantern on his waist, and hung it on a wooden post closest to the mortuary table, while saying without expression, "You're welcome—compared to most restless ones, you're considered polite."

"Breathing is a common illusion for the dead, and the attachment to the world of the living is a stubbornness left on the cerebral cortex. It's not easy to accept, but Bartok has prepared a better home for your soul," the old watchman stared at the coffin, still holding the shotgun in one hand, while the other hand subtly drew a symbol representing the god of death in the air. Then he took out a small packet of damp powder from his pocket, smeared some of the powder on the barrel of the shotgun, and scattered the rest on the ground. "Lie down quietly, you should feel sleepy. This is the call of the Lord of Death. Obey it, it's better for both of us."

No matter who he attracted, as long as he could get up and see the surrounding situation, that would be enough. If he was lucky, he could also collect some information. Anyway, the worst thing would be to be trapped and die directly in this coffin. It couldn't be worse than that.

A feeling of frustration, both funny and annoying, couldn't help but surge into his heart. Duncan seemed to understand a little how A Gou and Vanna felt when facing the "reasonable developments on the Vanishing Sail," but now was obviously not the time to continue to lament. He had to find a way to get out of this coffin.

Being trapped in a coffin when possessing a corpse was indeed a very reasonable development—the subsequent two unrestricted possessions were rare occurrences.

The knocking in the coffin suddenly stopped.

The teachings of Bartok, the Lord of Death—Duncan silently noted this, then cleared

his throat and continued to negotiate, "...But I still think I can be saved. What if it's a misdiagnosis?"

Duncan pushed the coffin lid above him while complaining helplessly. He didn't mind scaring someone or attracting some trouble—after a short period of adaptation and feeling, he confirmed that the state of this body was normal and simply unsuitable for long-term use. It seemed like this was a disposable body, just like the "sacrifice" he had occupied the first time. Since it was disposable... there was nothing to worry about.

"Hey! Is there anyone out there? I think I can still be saved! Get a doctor—if not, a forensic doctor will do..."

Duncan judged the voice outside. It should be an old man, very close to him, and there was also a slight sound of metal mechanisms colliding just now, perhaps the sound of a weapon.