The wind on the outskirts of Yorikof Town carried a peculiar chill, even on a night at the turn of summer and autumn.
It swept over the wild grass and threaded through the rusted iron railings, letting out a low, wailing moan that made Zeng Lai's goosebumps—still not quite gone—rise all over again.
"What's going on?" he muttered in an extremely quiet voice, watching the old man emerge from the gravedigger's cottage. "Why's there someone here?"
Yu Xing, who was waiting for his food, and Yiqing, who was purely there to watch the show, also looked toward the old man.
The old man was wrapped from head to toe in a loose, stained black robe. His hood wasn't pulled particularly low, so everyone could make out his face from this distance.
He was hunched over, his movements stiff and sluggish. He slowly stepped out of the cottage, each step seeming to take immense effort. His bones made a faint but distinct grinding sound that set one's teeth on edge.
Behind him, a dry, grating scrape cut through the silence. The wooden door he had pushed open seemed to be nudged by an invisible hand, slowly swinging shut.
"Click."
Carlos smiled. "You don't have to whisper. We're outside the cemetery, so he can't sense us. Don't ask so many questions. Just watch—"
The old man's hand emerged from beneath his black robe.
He held an old-fashioned lantern. It lit up silently as he moved, but inside its glass wasn't the flickering glow of a candle or the steady white light of a gas lamp. Instead, there was a murky, viscous yellow glow, like some kind of cheap grease burning slowly. The light was faint, yet stubbornly pierced the dirty glass, staining the small area around him with the color of decay.