61: Chapter 61 Funeral and Rebirth

The third day after the Tingen catastrophe ended, the entire city remained shrouded in a heavy gray mist.

The floodwaters of the Hoi River had long since receded, returning to their usual course. Old boatmen in the Dock District stepped on the wet and cold silt, clearing away the dead fish, broken wood, and shattered debris left behind by the flood, bit by bit.

The crooked and tilted gas street lamps on Iron Cross Street were straightened one by one. The broken lamp shades had not yet been replaced, and the exposed wicks stood in the twilight. Their dim, weak light flickered, like rows of silent white candles, mourning the turmoil and souls that had just departed.

On the second floor of Blackthorn Security Company, the office that once belonged to Dunn Smith remained exactly as it was when its master was alive.

Old Neil sat alone at the desk, spreading out the newly finalized list of the fallen.

The yellowed paper neatly listed the names of the Nighthawks who had died in the line of duty during the catastrophe. At the top was Dunn Smith, followed closely by Klein Moretti.

The tip of his aged, withered pen hovered beside that line of names, remaining there for a long time without falling.

Old Neil's mind replayed the scene from the day after the catastrophe—the lifeless body Daly Simone had found in the ruined corridor, the thin layer of pale gray mist covering the congealed blood scabs, and the wooden bed in the spare storage room that was empty for no reason. Countless fragmented doubts swirled in his heart, eventually falling into silence.

He finally let the pen tip fall, writing the four characters "Confirmed Killed in Action" stroke by stroke, closed the report, and handed it to Rozanne for archiving.

Everything was settled, as if that young Nighthawk, who had just been promoted to Clown and was still green, had truly fallen into eternal slumber in this catastrophe.

...

The funeral for Dunn Smith was scheduled to be held at Saint Selena Cathedral.

The lead-gray sky hung low and oppressive, with fine, cold rain falling continuously, beating against the colorful stained glass, blurring the gentle face of the Madonna on the mural.

The solemn cathedral was crowded. Clergy of the Church of the Evernight Goddess, the remaining Nighthawks team, special representatives from the Church, and countless Tingen civilians who had come to bid farewell spontaneously stood quietly, no one speaking.

The residents of the East Borough slums had almost all arrived. They crowded in the back rows of the cathedral, their clothes old and tattered, but their backs were straight, their expressions solemn and pious.

The old woman who had been persuaded to leave the danger zone by Lu Li in advance, avoiding the mold catastrophe, was also among the crowd. Her withered palms tightly clutched a white flower sewn from old cloth strips, her chapped lips moving silently, reciting self-composed prayers to bid farewell to the old captain who had guarded Tingen for over a decade.

In front of the altar, a black coffin rested quietly, with the black holy emblem flag of the Church of the Evernight Goddess spread flat on its surface.

Within this coffin, there were no remains of Dunn.

At the end of the catastrophe, the captain's heart merged with the millennium ashes of Saint Selena, and at the moment his body bloomed with the full power of a saint, it turned into warm golden embers filling the sky, thoroughly merging into the sealing barrier outside Chanis Gate, using himself as a lock to guard against the strangeness and madness of Tingen forever.

Inside the coffin were only three old items—the dark gray trench coat he wore all year round, stained with countless filth and blood; the old-fashioned revolver that had fired its last round of bullets and would never have the chance to be drawn again; and the enamel cup placed in the pantry, with fine cracks on the cup wall, carefully taped up by Rozanne.

They were all ordinary old objects, yet they carried over a decade of guarding and gentleness through dawn and dusk.

Before the altar, Old Neil, dressed in clean gray robes, held a brand-new staff with crystals flowing with soft, pale blue light, floating quietly amidst the flickering candlelight.

His aged palms gently covered the cold coffin lid, and his hoarse, deep voice slowly sounded, repeating word by word the code of conduct engraved in the blood and bones of every Nighthawk:

"The price of a Sealed Artifact shall be borne by the captain first."

"We are Guardians, and also a group of poor wretches who are constantly fighting against danger and madness."

As the words faded, there was a long silence.

A moment later, the staff struck the bluestone floor heavily, the dull thud piercing the dome, echoing repeatedly in the empty cathedral, lingering for a long time.

Among the crowd in the front row, Daly Simone took off her habitual spirit medium gloves, her slender fingertips exposed, several silver-patterned rings gleaming with a cold luster.

Her eyes were red, with undissipated moisture in them, but she did not shed a single tear from beginning to end. Her gaze was locked firmly on the coffin in front, her lips opening and closing silently, reciting the core principles of spirit mediumship over and over again.

She used this almost paranoid way to bid farewell to the captain who had accepted her, guided her, and guarded the entire team.

Leonard stood silently beside her as well.

The cuffs of his trench coat still had fine powder from the catastrophe's mold, which had not been cleaned off. The poetry collection was tucked securely inside his jacket, the charred corners of the cover slightly exposed, bearing the tragic traces of this disaster.

As the eulogy ended and the voices fell silent, he turned his head and lowered his voice, whispering a few words to Daly Simone beside him.

Daly Simone looked at the coffin and nodded slightly, silently agreeing to this unspoken promise.

In the shadows of the cathedral's side corridor, Lu Li stood quietly against the wall, not stepping into the solemn main hall.

The cracks in the door let in flickering candlelight and the sound of a low pipe organ, mixed with the suppressed, fragmented sobbing of civilians, weaving into a sorrowful requiem. He rubbed the cold silver snake emblem pendant in his pocket with his fingertips, the patterns piercingly cold, the chill seeping into his heart.

The catastrophe ended, and Tingen was safe.

Countless souls departed, and countless new lives were quietly brewing.

He whispered a farewell in his heart.

"Captain Dunn, Tingen has been guarded."

As he spoke, he turned away from the gentle candlelight of the cathedral and walked into the fine, cold rain outside.

...

Compared to the grand farewell for Dunn, the funeral for Klein Moretti was simple and bleak.

The Church officially judged him as a Nighthawk who died in the line of duty. Inside the coffin, besides Klein's cold corpse, there was only a neatly folded, brand-new, clean Nighthawk uniform, freezing this short but brave career for this young life.

The hearse drove slowly into the public cemetery on the outskirts of Tingen, where rows of new graves were neatly arranged, burying all the nameless Guardians who had sacrificed themselves in the catastrophe.

The sky remained overcast, with cold rain falling intermittently. The rainwater washed the surrounding pine trees into a dark, ink-green color. A few crows perched on the branches, quietly overlooking the solemn crowd below, silent and dead still.

Before the new grave, Benson Moretti and Melissa Moretti stood side by side.

Benson Moretti wore that old suit he had worn for many years, its corners polished until they shone. One hand tightly gripped his sister's cool palm, while the other hung by his side, his knuckles tense and white.

Upon hearing the news of his brother's death from the Nighthawks, he did not break down or lose his composure. He simply signed the papers calmly, took Melissa Moretti onto the inter-district public carriage, and traveled to the cemetery in silence.

In just a few short days, his brother, who had been chatting and drinking tea at home just yesterday, gentle and introverted, had turned into nothing but a coffin and a mound of new soil. A thousand kinds of bitterness clogged his throat, leaving only a cold, empty numbness in the end.

Melissa Moretti was unusually quiet, not crying or shedding tears.

She stared fixedly at the heavy coffin, her young lips pursed into a tight, thin line. After a long while, she whispered in a voice barely audible, as if talking to herself, and as if recalling: "The new history book you promised to buy for me before you left, you didn't get a chance to buy it..."

Benson Moretti's throat choked, and he tightened his grip, looking down at the small holy emblem exposed on the edge of the coffin, his voice low and hoarse: "He always wanted to be a hero, to protect others... Now, he has done it."

The Nighthawks stepped forward one by one, tossing soil to bury the coffin.

Leonard's action of tossing soil was extremely light, as gentle as if he were treasuring a fragile fallen leaf or a dried bookmark.

Daly Simone squatted before the grave, a faint light flowing from her fingertips, leaving a very faint spiritual imprint on the surface of the coffin using spirit mediumship. This imprint was silent, unnoticed by anyone, yet it could perceive every subtle movement inside the coffin at all times, down to the slightest detail.

Old Neil stood at the edge of the cemetery, leaning on his staff, looking at the raised new grave, his eyes full of melancholy, remaining silent for a long time.

At the end of the line, Lu Li stepped forward slowly, took the iron shovel, and added the final shovelful of yellow soil.

His fingertips, wearing black leather gloves, gently brushed over the cold copper nameplate on the side of the coffin, quietly leaving a wisp of faint ember warmth unique to a Prometheus.

This was not a sealing rune, nor was it tracking spirituality, just a trace of extremely faint residual flame.

Once any abnormality occurred in the temperature or vitality inside the coffin, this wisp of embers would be activated immediately, bursting out a fleeting one-way pulse, silently sending a signal.

After doing all this, he stuck the iron shovel firmly into the soil pile, turned and left, blending into the heavy twilight of the cemetery.

...

Several days later, Blackthorn Security Company held its first official team meeting after the catastrophe.

Old Neil temporarily took over the duties of the captain, holding the pen left behind by Dunn, checking and crossing off the post-war repair items one by one.

The temporary sealing reinforcement of Chanis Gate was completed, the mold contamination was thoroughly purified, the spirituality index of the Hoi River water system returned to the safety threshold, and all missing civilians were found.

The pen tip crossed along, all crises were resolved, until the last line of the agenda, a line of light and youthful pencil handwriting, was a note Dunn had written casually the day before the catastrophe:

"December team dinner, location lounge, Rozanne to prepare Marquis Black Tea."

Old Neil's pen tip stopped abruptly, remaining motionless for a long time.

The empty meeting room was silent, the warmth of the past and the desolation of today intertwined and surged. In the end, he gently closed the file, suppressed the bitterness in his heart, and opened the next agenda in a deep voice.

During the meeting, Leonard submitted an application in public—to transfer to the Red Gloves.

The Red Gloves were the top elite in the Nighthawks system of the Church of the Evernight Goddess, specializing in hunting down runaway Beyonders, handling special-grade strange events, and investigating secret conspiracies. They had extremely high authority, dangerous missions, and strict entry thresholds, with almost all members in the team above Sequence 7.

With Leonard's current Sequence and qualifications, this application would most likely not be approved. But he stood tall, his tone firm, and his eyes hid a calmness and determination inconsistent with his age, looking exactly like Dunn when he first joined the job and signed the sealing log.

"You want to investigate Ince Zangwill?" Old Neil raised his eyes and asked.

Leonard nodded frankly, his voice clear and firm: "Not just Ince."

"The Tingen catastrophe exposed too many loopholes. The defects in the setting of abnormal runes, the secret collusion between the Aurora Order and the remnants of Antigonus, the unknown existence manipulating the commission behind the scenes and stirring up conspiracies... These hidden dangers lurking in the dark are definitely not something the regular Tingen team can touch."

"The Red Gloves have higher intelligence, broader authority, and longer steps. I want to join the Red Gloves to replace the captain and root out all the sinners hiding in the shadows."

Every word was sonorous and powerful.

Daly Simone spoke immediately, clarifying her own choice: to stay in Tingen and guard Chanis Gate for life.

Her spirit medium perception was clear at all times; deep within the sealing barrier, the golden rune that Dunn had turned into was still slowly alternating between light and dark, endless, guarding this land day after day.

"I will check the sealing spirituality every day, record the data, and continue writing the sealing log left by the captain." She looked calm, her tone resolute, "He guarded this place for more than ten years; I will guard the remaining path for him."

The meeting ended, and everyone dispersed.

In the Potion Room, Lu Li silently packed his simple luggage.

Time was pressing; he had to arrive in Backlund before the next full moon.

The guidance of jiaowei had never been interrupted, the other half of the snake emblem token was still in the hands of the mysterious client, the potion materials in the Backlund locker were waiting to be picked up, and his Sequence 7: Swindler promotion formula was still missing the last key auxiliary ingredient.

Klein's "resurrection" had long been within his expectations.

On the day of the catastrophe, in the spare storage room, he had used a spiritual probe to test Klein's glabella; that weak but rhythmically undulating silver spiritual light was the truest proof of vitality.

He knew that the martyrdom, funeral, and burial before him were all a meticulously planned finale.

It was the finale of Klein Moretti, and also the prologue of the future Fool.

He had never pointed out the truth to anyone, only by the riverbank where no one knew, using the space ability of the Apprentice Pathway, he quietly erased all the residual spiritual traces of Klein, cutting off all possibilities of tracing, and completely isolating the danger for him.

That same evening, a steam train ticket to Backlund was quietly prepared.

...

The night was deep, and the moonlight pierced through the thin clouds, falling on the public cemetery on the outskirts of Tingen.

The hustle and bustle of the day had dissipated, and everything was silent. The crows had long since left, and the newly turned soil shone with a dark brown luster under the cold moonlight.

In the depths of the quiet cemetery, a piece of new soil suddenly vibrated slightly.

Once, and then again, gentle yet firm, breaking the dead silence of the deep night.

A pale, slender palm broke through the soil, its fingertips hooking onto the heavy coffin lid, pushing upward with effort.

With a low rumble, the coffin lid slid, and the dust and soil fell down with a rustle.

Klein Moretti slowly sat up, his head and body covered in damp soil. The moonlight fell into his eyes, clear and dazed.

He looked down at his warm, intact hands, feeling the steady and powerful heartbeat in his chest. The fatal scar that had pierced his body was now as faint as if it had never existed, almost completely dissipated.

Experiencing the brief spiritual disorder from the resurrection in the gray mist, a moment later, the meridians all over his body returned to order, and his state was fully restored.

Turning his head, he saw the extremely fine and shallow strange carving beside the copper nameplate on the side of the coffin through the fragmented moonlight.

No rune, no spirituality, just a wisp of faint ember warmth that had long since cooled.

He understood instantly; this was Lu Li's handiwork.

A warmth rippled in his heart, and he reached out to tear open the oil paper envelope that had been glued to the inside of the coffin lid in advance.

A brand-new steam train ticket lay quietly inside, the destination—Backlund, the date only a few days away.

On the back of the ticket, the pencil handwriting was faint, clean, and neat:

"jiaowei is in my hands, see you in Backlund. Your new identity documents are in the station locker, the key is the same."

At the signature, a minimalist snake-shaped ring silently confirmed everything.

Klein rubbed the cool paper with his fingertips, stunned for a moment, "How did Lu Li know I didn't die? What secret is he hiding?"

Klein tucked the ticket away securely, braced himself against the edge of the coffin, flipped out, and landed, brushing off the soil from his body.

He walked slowly to the tombstone engraved with his own name—

[Klein Moretti, Tingen Nighthawk, died in the line of duty in December 1349].

His fingertips lightly touched the cold inscription, bidding farewell to the ordinary young Nighthawk whose story had completely ended.

From this moment on, there was no more timid and gentle clerk Klein Moretti in the world.

There was only a newborn Traveler about to rush to Backlund and step onto the vast and extraordinary road ahead.

The moonlight was long and lingering, and the road ahead was far.

He turned around, away from the silent cemetery, and walked steadily toward the steam train and a brand-new future.