Evening.
The sun gradually sank, and night began to fall.
The distant village had already vanished from sight, and the boundless Icefield returned to the dominant tones of frozen earth.
However.
As they walked, the two suddenly stopped.
"Listen."
"What is that sound?"
In the dim world, waves of crying suddenly drifted over. The sobbing was distant and faint, gloomy and ethereal, as though it had been carried on the wind from the horizon. It did not sound quite real.
Shen Boxia's expression changed.
He raised his head and looked toward the source of the crying.
At some unknown point.
A grave had appeared in the darkness of the Icefield far off to their left.
The grave was not large.
It was covered in weeds.
The tombstone before it remained intact, but it had been battered by wind and rain and badly weathered. The writing on it could no longer be made out.
"More paranormal activity."
Shen Boxia spoke gravely.
This godforsaken place.
The earthen Grave Mound and the weeds growing atop it looked utterly out of place in this world of ice and snow.
If someone said there was nothing wrong with it.
He would not believe it even if beaten to death.
What was even stranger was that, as he looked at the grave, a shadow suddenly appeared before it. The shadow was hazy, little more than an outline at first.
If you looked away and then looked back, there would be nothing in front of the grave again.
But as long as you stared at the grave for a while longer.
It would gradually reappear.
And whenever it appeared, the crying became exceptionally clear. It sounded like this figure—or rather, this Vicious Ghost—was crying at the grave.
"Ghost Crying at Grave."
"I've heard that this kind of