Chapter 504: The Mass Grave
Eastern Saint Spirit Plain.
A steady drizzle had fallen through the night, leaving the fields dotted with puddles of all sizes and the earth slick and muddy. The hardy white-stemmed grass, battered by the rain, lay flattened against the ground. Every step required caution.
Taka, the gravedigger, carefully guided his cart across the plain. He had to pick his way over patches of firm ground free of standing water, lest the wheels sink into the mud. Out here, far from any camp, getting stuck would be a serious problem.
A cold wind swept across the plain, making the bearded, burly man shiver. He lifted his yellowed, cloudy eyes to the low-hanging sky and muttered, “By the Blood God’s grace—what a cursed weather.”
Rain on the Night of the Spirit Festival was never a good omen, especially for superstitious gravediggers like him.
From a mystical perspective, rain on the night when souls reunite weakens the bonfires’ power, sometimes snuffing out the smaller ones entirely. Lost ancestral spirits wander trapped between the veil of mist and flame. Many terrifying tales of evil spirits among the plain and mountain folk stem from this.
Practically speaking, rain on the Spirit Festival night meant the cold would come early and harsh, winter arriving with a sudden bite.
Either way, it was bad news for ordinary folk.
Suddenly, the cart jolted violently—one of the wheels had struck a stone. Taka scrambled to steady the reins as the horses neighed in alarm. The cart righted itself, and the strong gravedigger glanced back anxiously. The dozen or so human-shaped “cargo” wrapped in burlap on the cart’s bed were still secured tight; the ropes hadn’t loosened.
“You all better stay put,” Taka muttered. “Next Spirit Festival, someone will light a fire for you.”
Of course, the corpses didn’t answer. But like every gravedigger with a strange streak and a reputation for being avoided, Taka had his quirks. He talked to his “passengers” as if they could understand him. He believed it was necessary to keep on good terms with them—only then could he avoid trouble from restless spirits later.
Especially since these “passengers” were soldiers who died on the battlefield—rumored to be the most likely to become malevolent spirits. He couldn’t afford to be careless.
The path ahead was slick and riddled with puddles that couldn’t be avoided. Taka cursed under his breath, “This damned civil war… who knows when it’ll end. What do you think?”
Though he grumbled, he knew well that without this war, his “business” wouldn’t be so good.
War bred corpses—soldiers, civilians, sometimes even knights and mages. The latter were noble fallen, beyond the reach of lowly gravediggers like him. But the former—the dead on and around the battlefield—were the main source of income for men like Taka. Commanders and villagers hired professional gravediggers to handle bodies that couldn’t be properly buried or identified. They didn’t have to bury them carefully, just haul them to designated pits to avoid polluting water or spawning evil spirits.
It was a lowly but lucrative job, often passed down through generations. Handling the dead so often, gravediggers developed their own rules and taboos: never insult the dead, never utter the name of the Death God when collecting bodies (to prevent souls meant for other gods from being claimed by Death), and always deliver the bodies within two days after the Spirit Festival.
Because of these rules, Taka had to hurry across the muddy plain, lest his “passengers” grow angry for missing the “Return Day” after the festival.
As the sun climbed higher, Taka finally arrived.
This place was far from the front lines, and distant from any Eastern or Kingdom army camps. It was a natural pit, now reeking with stench.
Wrapping a thick scarf and hood around his face, binding his hands with cloth strips, Taka nimbly jumped down from the cart and surveyed the deserted spot.
Frankly, this wasn’t an ideal burial ground. It didn’t align with the Death Gods’ doctrines, nor the Blood God’s demands. But the client had specified this pit, so Taka didn’t question why the bodies had to be dumped here.
Around the pit were scattered wooden carvings and metal frames—rough altars set up by priests to soothe the souls. Crude, but enough to keep the lowest-level evil spirits at bay. Taka approached one wooden carving near the pit’s edge and, following gravedigger custom, pulled a wilted death chrysanthemum from his pocket, placing it at the carving’s base.
The small white flower lay quietly in the mud, its petals trembling in the cold wind. This flower, common in damp, dark places, was surprisingly resilient—blooming year-round, surviving days after being picked. The Ansu people believed this incredible vitality was proof it could bridge the worlds of the living and the dead. They also believed each chrysanthemum grew simultaneously in both realms; when it withered in the living world, it blossomed in the underworld, allowing souls to cross over at that moment and begin their journey to the gods.
“Little flower, may you guide these lost souls to their rest…” Taka whispered, tracing the Blood God’s mark on his chest. “Poor thing… one flower to lead so many.”
He turned to return to the cart and start unloading the bodies.
But just as he stepped forward, something caught his eye.
Not far off lay the smoldering remains of a small bonfire.
Curious, Taka approached. The faint scent of smoke still lingered.
This fire had only just gone out.
“Someone’s been mourning here?” he muttered, circling the ashes. “Could it be a lucky relative came to claim a body from the mass grave…”
His words trailed off.
The rain last night had been heavy—especially near the pit.
A fire this small shouldn’t have burned so thoroughly in such weather, even if made with bark from the rain-resistant black-striped tree.
There was no sign of dampness around the fire—no water stains, not even on the ground within ten meters. It wasn’t dried by heat; it looked as if no rain had fallen there at all.
Besides the smoke, the air carried a strange, sweet fragrance—like a flower, but not the scent of death chrysanthemums.
Taka, a gravedigger for half his life, knew all the incense used during the Spirit Festival. But he’d never smelled anything like this.
He couldn’t explain it, but a deep unease stirred within him. The feeling reminded him faintly of recent rumors spreading among gravediggers…
Ghouls prowled at night… flesh-eating monsters roamed the dark earth… bodies in the mass grave mysteriously disappearing… unburied corpses vanishing without cause…
The chill autumn wind swept the plain and the deserted mass grave. Silence reigned, as if nothing had happened.
Then, suddenly, a fierce gust tore across the plain, stirring up a swirling cloud of fallen leaves from nowhere. Amid the fluttering leaves, a woman in a green high priest’s robe appeared.
Beltira frowned, staring at the spot where the gravedigger had been swallowed by the earth, sighing softly. “Unlucky bastard…”
“The bonfire you lit to mourn the dead drew his attention,” a low, indistinct voice rumbled from beneath the ground, accompanied by rustling sounds. “I’m curious—who could be so important to warrant a high priest lighting a fire on the Spirit Festival? Do you, like the common folk, believe in the return of the dead?”
“High Priest Highton, don’t forget why you were punished and sent here to collect biomass—just do your job.”
“Hah… You might be the most boring woman in this world…”
Muffled murmurs drifted up from beneath the ground, growing fainter as the sounds sank deeper, the rustling footsteps gradually fading away—the source seemed to have retreated back into the earth’s depths.
Bertilla stood silently for a moment, lost in thought. After several minutes of stillness, she finally moved forward. Beneath her priestly robes, countless tendrils and vines writhed like legs, carrying her toward the smoldering remains of the campfire.
A fully bloomed death daisy lay among the ashes.
“I don’t care what’s inside that shell of yours… this plan is unstoppable.
“Humanity will endure, even if it means defying the gods.”
(End of chapter)