Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 505 - 504: Mass Grave Pit

Plains of the Holy Spirits, eastern region.

A light drizzle fell all night, leaving the fields covered with puddles large and small, and wet, muddy ground. The stubborn white-stem grass had been washed down by the rain, lying flat against the ground, requiring one to tread over it with extra care.

The Corpse Puller cautiously drove his cart across the plains, carefully choosing firmer ground without standing water to avoid getting the cart wheels stuck in the mire. Such an issue would be troublesome this far from camp.

A cold breeze blew, causing the bearded, burly man to shiver. He raised his yellowed and cloudy eyes to the low sky in the distance and couldn’t help but mutter, ”Blood God above — what a damned weather.”

Rain on the night of the Spirit Festival is not a good omen, especially for superstitious Corpse Pullers.

From a mystic’s point of view, rain on the night of Soul Gathering can severely affect the effect of campfires, even preventing smaller ones from burning properly. Lost ancestral spirits may wander in the veil of mist and flame, and many fearsome tales of evil spirits among the plains and hill folk stem from this.

Practically speaking, rain during the Spirit Festival often means the weather will quickly turn cold, with winter arriving sooner and more fiercely.

Neither bodes well for ordinary people.

The wagon seemed to run over a stone, shaking violently. Taka hurriedly controlled the reins to maintain balance. Amid the neighing of the horses, the wagon stabilized. The strong Corpse Puller quickly looked back—behind him, the dozen or so human-shaped ”cargo” wrapped in burlap were still securely fastened, with no sign of loosening ropes.

”Stay put,” Taka muttered, ”Next year’s Spirit Festival, someone will light a fire for you.”

The corpses, of course, wouldn’t respond, but like every quirky and avoided Corpse Puller, Taka had his own peculiar habit. He often talked to his ”cargo,” pretending they were ”passengers” who could understand him. He believed it necessary to build a good relationship with the ”passengers” to avoid them troubling him later.

Especially since these ”passengers” had died on the battlefield, rumored to be the most likely soldiers to turn into evil spirits, he had to be even more careful.

The road ahead was slippery, and the puddles were hard to avoid. The Corpse Puller carefully controlled the cart while muttering, ”This damned civil war... who knows when it will end. Don’t you think so?”

Despite his curses, Taka knew that without this civil war, his ”business” wouldn’t be so good.

War produces many corpses, of soldiers, civilians, and occasionally even knights and mages—of course, the latter are noble dead, beyond the reach of lowly Corpse Pullers like Taka. But the former are different; those who died on battlefields or at their edges became the main income source for Corpse Pullers. Commanders from both sides and villagers would hire professional Corpse Pullers to handle the bodies that couldn’t be buried in time or identified. The Corpse Pullers didn’t need to seriously bury them; they just needed to transport them to a designated pit to avoid polluting water sources or creating evil spirits.

This was a menial yet lucrative job. Corpse Pullers usually inherited this work from previous generations. Handling dead bodies regularly, they naturally developed their own set of rules and taboos, like never insulting the dead, never invoking the Reaper’s name while collecting bodies (to prevent the dead meant for other gods from being claimed by the Reaper), and ensuring delivery within two days after the Spirit Festival ends.

Because of such rules, Taka had no choice but to travel across the wet and slippery plains, preventing his ”passengers” from missing the post-Festival ”return day” and causing havoc.

As the giant sun gradually rose, Taka finally arrived.

This was a place far from the battlefront and any Anzu Kingdom or Eastern Region’s People camp, a natural pit that had now turned foul.

The Corpse Puller donned a heavy scarf and hood, wrapped fabric around his hands, and nimbly jumped off the wagon, surveying the desolate area.

Frankly, this wasn’t a proper burial ground; it didn’t align with the tenets of the gods of death nor meet the Blood God’s standards, but it was the designated spot by his client, so as a Corpse Puller, Taka wouldn’t question why the bodies had to be thrown into this pit.

Around the pit were scattered wooden carvings and metal frames, rudimentary altars set up by Priests to appease souls. Though crude, they sufficed for warding off low-level evil spirits. Taka approached a wooden carving at the edge of the pit and, according to Corpse Puller tradition, took a crumpled Death Chrysanthemum from his pocket, placing it at the base of the carving.

The small white flower lay quietly in the mud, its petals trembling slightly in the cold wind. This small flower, common in damp, dark environments, possessed a surprising resilience. It could grow and bloom in all seasons, surviving days even when plucked. The Anzu believed this incredible vitality was evidence of its ability to communicate between the realms of the living and the dead. They also held another belief: each Death Chrysanthemum simultaneously grew in the realms of the living and the dead. Its withering in the human world marked its blooming in the underworld, with souls journeying to the ”beyond” in the instant of its simultaneous wilting and blossoming, starting their path to various god realms...

”Little flower, may you guide these lost souls to their proper home...” the Corpse Puller whispered, marking a symbol of the Blood God on his chest, ”Ah... it’s tough on you, a single flower guiding so many souls...”

Having said this, Taka turned, preparing to move the bodies from the wagon.

But before taking a step, his gaze suddenly caught sight of something else nearby.

It was a pile of campfire embers, a very small campfire.

Curious, the Corpse Puller approached the embers, catching a faint scent of smoke.

Remarkably, it had only recently been extinguished.

”Is someone mourning the dead here?” Taka muttered, circling the small bonfire, ”Could it be a relative of some lucky soul from the mass grave pit has come to claim a body...”

The Corpse Puller’s words trailed off abruptly.

The rain last night was heavy, and it’s said to have fallen heavily in the pit area.

In the incessant rain, such a small bonfire would have struggled to burn properly, even if black pattern tree bark, which can burn in the rain, was used, it shouldn’t have burned so thoroughly.

There were no traces of dampness around the bonfire, not dried by the fire, but it seemed as if no raindrops had fallen on this several meters of ground.

Besides the smell of smoke, there was also a peculiar sweet fragrance in the air, which seemed to be a floral scent, but it wasn’t the scent of Death Chrysanthemum.

Taka had spent half his life as a Corpse Puller and knew all about the spices that appear during the spirit festival, but he had never smelled anything like this...

Though he couldn’t precisely explain it, this Corpse Puller instinctively sensed something strange. This feeling of strangeness unsettled him and vaguely reminded him of those rumors that had been circulating among the Corpse Pullers recently...

They said ghouls roamed under the night sky... monsters that devour flesh move underneath the dark land... the bodies in the mass grave pit seemed to be inexplicably dwindling... the unburied remains often disappear without reason...

In the chill of the late autumn wind, the Corpse Puller couldn’t help but shiver. He felt something malevolent moving beneath his feet—though he couldn’t see it, it seemed to have already seen him.

He wasn’t a Transcendent, but he was a Corpse Puller who had dealt with the dead for half his life and was a fairly devout follower of the Blood God. He knew he had certain instincts that ordinary people lacked, and these instincts had indeed saved him from several evil spirit attacks in his life.

He began to cautiously back away, moving as gently and naturally as possible, trying not to appear panicked.

Suddenly, a hissing rustle sound reached his ears. Accompanying that sound, he saw patches of grass and soil quivering in the mass grave pit below, and some humanoid figures wrapped in burlap—those he had thrown in three days ago—were writhing bizarrely.

The Corpse Puller widened his eyes, unmistakably seeing vine-like things suddenly growing from the soil, stabbing into those bodies, and then the earth rippling like water, swallowing the corpses into the depths of darkness...

Overcome by immense terror, he finally couldn’t suppress a scream, and after the cry, he broke into a run.

Yet the strange sweet fragrance in the air surged over again, more distinct than before. In the wake of this sudden sweet scent, the Corpse Puller Taka’s consciousness blurred, and he fell into a long and profound dream.

Vine-like things spread from between the soil and grass blades, entwining the Corpse Puller’s limbs. Amid deep grumbling and rustling sounds, the soil undulated like water, gradually dragging him underground.

The cold late autumn wind swept across the plains, across the deserted mass grave pit. Here it was silent, as if nothing had happened.

A moment later, an unexpected gust of wind blew across the plains, sweeping up a large amount of falling leaves from who knows where. Amidst the swirling leaves, a woman clad in a green priestess robe appeared.

Beltira frowned, looking at the spot where the Corpse Puller had been consumed by the earth, and sighed softly, ”Unfortunate fellow...”

”Your bonfire to mourn the dead caught his attention,” a vague, deep voice came from the depths of the earth, interspersed with rustling sounds, ”I’m quite curious, who exactly is worth a Archon to light a bonfire on Anling Festival... Do you, like those ordinary people, also believe in souls returning?”

”Archon Xidon, don’t forget why you were punished to collect biomass here—just do your part.”

”Hah... you are probably the most uninteresting woman in the world...”

A muddled murmur came from underground; then, the voice gradually sank, the rustling of movement weakening—as if the speaker had returned to the deeper layers of the soil.

Beltira stood quietly for a while, seemingly in thought. After several minutes of stillness, she began to move her steps—underneath the priestess robe, countless roots and vines formed ”legs” that wriggled, carrying her to the now extinguished bonfire.

A blooming Death Chrysanthemum fell into the bonfire’s embers.

”I don’t care what resides in that body of yours... this plan is beyond your interference.”

”Humans will assuredly endure, even in defiance of the gods.”