Chapter 337: The Guest

The seasoned caretaker of the aged graveyard held no affection for those relentless snowy days. It was not merely because the icy temperatures aggravated his stiff and aching joints but because such days were harbingers of sad reminders from his past.

These bitter recollections were not pleasant.

They were shadowed by events such as the insurgency that occurred half a century ago, the devastating frost calamity that struck three decades ago, or the monumental catastrophe that befell the southern urban district seventeen years ago. It seemed as though heavy snowfall was inexorably tied with disastrous news.

With chapped hands rubbed together for warmth, the elderly man turned his gaze back to the snow-enshrouded graveyard.

The relentless snowfall rendered the cemetery pathways nearly invisible, leaving only the footprints, cutting a lonely path towards the morgue and the caretaker’s lodge. The gas lamps had been doused, their dark, skeletal frames standing eerily like the remains of deceased trees amidst the blanket of white, portraying a bleak picture of isolation.

A few steam-powered cars sat idle in the cemetery’s open area, thoroughly obscured by the encompassing snow. Their guardians, clad in stark black, battled against the onslaught of snow, fervently trying to clear a passage for the vehicles—a chaotic spectacle.

It was crucial to accomplish this task before the snow hardened and made the clearance work even more arduous.

A harsh wind bellowed, carrying with it a fleeting wisp of grey smoke. From within this whirlwind, the silhouette of Agatha materialized. The youthful gatekeeper approached the old caretaker, “Half of our team will depart today, leaving only two squads behind to assist you in protecting the graveyard.”

“All of them can leave if they choose. It would be rather peaceful,” the elderly caretaker retorted, his eyelids lifting to cast a glance at the gatekeeper. “Having such a crowd here is merely a wasteful extravagance.”

“Extravagance or not, it’s not your concern—don’t worry about any manpower shortage on my end.”

“Believe me, I’m far from idle enough to be bothered about your affairs,” grumbled the caretaker. Nonchalantly, he mentioned, “You dispatched an elite team late last night. Has there been some trouble in the city?”

Agatha examined the old man, “Are you still concerned about occurrences beyond these cemetery walls?” just making conversation. Whether you choose to respond is entirely up to you,” shrugged the old caretaker.

“...There was an incident on Fireplace Street. A potent supernatural entity caused quite a stir. The patrol guards responded but came back empty-handed,” Agatha narrated at a deliberate pace, “For now, all we know is that a cult member was involved—they met a gruesome end, with one exhibiting a peculiar manner of death not aligned with any known supernatural abilities.”

The old caretaker’s eyebrows visibly flinched at this revelation, and he took on a more solemn tone, “Fireplace Street?”

“...Rest assured, no innocent bystanders were harmed,” Agatha intuitively understood the caretaker’s worries and promptly addressed them. “Nevertheless, the squad reported multiple peculiar pieces of evidence from the scene. I might need to personally inspect it.”

The elderly caretaker offered no verbal response, only a gentle nod. But the intensity in his gaze revealed a shift in his demeanor.

Despite her youth, Agatha’s title of ‘gatekeeper’ was not arbitrarily awarded—it was hard-earned through intense training and demanding evaluations. As the highest-ranking representative of the church in the city-state, her actions in themselves served as a clear indication of the urgency of the situation.

What unfolded on Fireplace Street was likely far more complicated than the supernatural altercation she described—certainly not as trivial as her seemingly nonchalant attitude might suggest. If a team of elite guardians was dispatched only for the gatekeeper herself to ultimately step in, it suggested the incident was far from minor.

A bright smile suddenly illuminated Annie’s face. She dove into her small bag and retrieved a parcel, which she enthusiastically handed to the old man.

“Another batch of cookies?” the old caretaker quizzically raised an eyebrow.

“No, it’s ginger tea powder. My mom and I made it together and added some warming herbs to combat the cold!” Annie said, her chest puffed up with pride as she thrust the package into the old man’s hands, “Since you’re here alone guarding the cemetery, it must get terribly cold at night, right?”

The old man studied the package resting in his hands.

He didn’t particularly need it. The potions the church provided to the grave keepers were far superior in efficacy to any homemade remedy. His humble caretaker’s lodge was equipped with protective charms and special materials—it could withstand the cold winds and any external disruption in case the cemetery’s equilibrium was disrupted. His lodge was nothing short of a fortress of steel.

“Thank you,” he finally said, accepting Annie’s gift. A seldom-seen smile crept onto his face, slightly awkward due to lack of use, “This will come in handy.”

His expression resumed its usual sternness.

“I’ve accepted your offering, now you should hurry home. And for the next few days, try to refrain from going outside.”

“Why?”

“...The city is not very safe at the moment,” the old caretaker relayed solemnly. The news Agatha had shared, particularly about the supernatural incident on Fireplace Street the previous night, weighed heavily on his mind. “Return home and advise your mother to stay indoors as much as possible. If you notice anything unusual, seek assistance immediately from the nearest church or security officer. Annie, this is important—do you understand?”

Taken aback by the sudden gravity in the old man’s tone, Annie hastily bobbed her head in understanding, “I... I understand.”

“Good, now head home,” the old man sighed, gently shooing her away, “while the weather is still...”

He abruptly halted mid-sentence, his gaze drawn upward.

A striking figure, unusually tall and muscular, had materialized near the cemetery’s entrance and was looking in their direction. He was garbed in a black trench coat and wide-brimmed hat, with bandages swathed around his face—his attire and bandages leaving no hint of his features exposed.

Alongside this imposing figure stood a dainty woman adorned in a sophisticated, deep purple gown. Her golden hair cascaded down her shoulders, a soft hat perched on her head, and a veil covered her face. Though her features were obscured, she emanated an aura of elegance and enigma.

Despite her intriguing presence, the old caretaker’s attention was almost entirely ensnared by the towering, bandaged figure. His gaze was riveted in that direction, seemingly tethered by an unseen force, making it a challenge to avert his eyes. A faint, incessant hum filled his mind, and his vision began to tremble and distort at the peripheries—a clear indication of his mind undergoing mild contamination and disruption.

The seasoned caretaker immediately discerned what was transpiring— it was that “visitor.”

From their previous encounters and his descent into madness under the effect of incense, a preliminary and essentially harmless connection had been forged with this enigmatic visitor. Consequently, the old caretaker didn’t suffer complete paralysis as he had before.

He still retained control over his movements—so he swiftly positioned Annie behind him.

“Child, do not look in that direction,” he warned.