Ashes Of Deep Sea Chapter 285

Chapter 285: Chapter 289: Coffin and Guardian

A cluster of dim, unusually flickering starlight caught Duncan's attention.

The cluster twinkled differently from the surrounding stars, its faint, ghostly light resembling a transparent phantom, and its uncertain flickering gave a sense of impending dissolution–Duncan had seen weak flashes in this chaotic space before, but none had ever looked so ghostly or ephemeral.

He furrowed his brow slightly.

Faint light often meant a recently deceased shell, but what did a faint yet almost transparent ghostly feel signify?

He reached out a finger and gently touched the point of light.

The next second, he felt his consciousness suddenly leap across vast, unending boundaries, projecting from the “Homeloss” into a brand-new shell. A cold, numb sensation spread from his limbs to his entire body, and as the numbness faded, he began to feel the touch of his skin and the slow beat of his heart.

However, for some reason, this new body felt unusually heavy, as if controlled through a thick curtain–he exerted great effort just to barely move his fingers, and likewise, it took just as much effort to pry his eyelids open a crack.

Darkness lay before him.

Was he blind? Or was his vision obstructed?

Duncan instinctively raised a hand to check his eyes, but as soon as he lifted it, he felt his arm hit something hard and chilly. Lifting his other arm, he encountered the same obstacle.

After feeling around, he realized he was trapped in a… container.

It was a coffin.

Duncan lay quietly in the dark, and after a long silence, he sighed, “Well, this makes sense…”

Being trapped in a coffin while possessing a corpse was indeed a logical scenario–his previous two unrestricted possessions were rare occurrences.

But why did it have to make sense now?

A mix of amusement and irritation surged within him. Duncan vaguely understood the astonished and speechless feelings of Eli and Fenna when faced with “logical developments” on the “Homeloss,” but now was clearly not the time to dwell on those feelings–he needed to figure out how to get out of this coffin.

Otherwise, he would have to abandon this carefully chosen, promising shell and select another host in that dark, chaotic space, possibly ending up in another coffin.

Duncan started moving his limbs, familiarizing himself with the sensations of this not-so-convenient new shell while trying to push open the lid above him. He had already confirmed by knocking around the coffin earlier that it was not buried underground; it was probably just temporarily placed somewhere. This meant he only needed to push open the lid to get out.

However, the coffin lid proved more difficult to handle than he anticipated–the lid was nailed shut, possibly even with additional locks, and the shell he currently occupied was “inferior.” The sensations coming from his limbs were even weaker than the first corpse he had possessed at the sacrificial site in the sewer, making it extremely challenging to push open a nailed-shut coffin lid, let alone move around.

How weak was this deceased person?

“Hey! Is anyone out there? I think I can still be saved! Someone get a doctor–or even a coroner will do…”

Duncan pushed against the coffin lid while helplessly shouting out. He didn't mind startling anyone or attracting trouble–after a brief adaptation and assessment, he had already determined the dire state of this body, utterly unsuitable for prolonged use. Like the “sacrificial victim” he first possessed, this was just a disposable shell, so he had nothing to worry about.

No matter who he attracted, as long as he could get up and survey his surroundings, he might even gather some information. At worst, he would simply die trapped in this coffin; it couldn't get any worse.

At that moment, he even had the leisure to daydream, wondering if he should inquire about Alice's experiences–how did the puppet manage to escape from inside a coffin that was nailed shut and wrapped with several rounds of iron chains? Was it purely supernatural strength?

In the chillingly silent morgue of the graveyard, the thudding sounds and hoarse, deep calls seemed especially jarring.

The caretaker, of course, would not overlook this sudden eerie disturbance.

The door to the caretaker's cabin was flung open, and the light from a lantern illuminated the path leading to the morgue. A grim old man with a sinister gaze and a hunched back walked out from the cabin. He carried the lantern in one hand and tightly grasped a powerful double-barreled shotgun in the other, his yellowed and cloudy eyes fixating on the direction of the sounds.

“…Tonight's graveyard is too lively.”

The old man muttered discontentedly, casually hanging the lantern on a metal hook at his waist. He then traced the sign of a triangle over his chest, lifted the double-barreled shotgun, and slowly approached the coffins.

The particular coffin was still resonating with thuds, the deceased inside stubbornly knocking against the barrier separating him from the world of the living and simultaneously pleading for someone outside to help him escape.

“Is anyone there? Come help, I believe this is a misdiagnosis!”

“Quiet down!” The caretaker aimed the shotgun, the crisp sound of the safety being released cutting through the night as the stooped old man stared intently at the coffin. He shouted, “You should be asleep–you now belong to another world; there's no place for you in the world of the living.”

Suddenly, the knocking from the coffin stopped.

Duncan gauged the sounds from outside; it must be an old man, very close to himself, and there was also the faint noise of a metal mechanism, perhaps the sound of a weapon.

With someone around, regardless of whether he could escape, he had found another way to gather information from outside.

“Hello, I'd like to understand what exactly is going on,” Duncan cleared his throat, considering how to maximize the worth of his current physical vessel to extract more information from the person outside the coffin, “I'm trapped in this… coffin, but there must be some misunderstanding; I'm still alive. Listen, my voice is quite robust.”

“Breathing is a common illusion among the deceased, and attachment to the world of the living is a fixated subconscious that lingers in the cerebral cortex–it's indeed hard to accept, but Bartok has already prepared a better abode for your soul,” the old caretaker kept his gaze fixed on the coffin, one hand still holding the shotgun, while the other unobtrusively traced the emblem of The Master of Death in the air. Then, he drew a small bag of dry powder from his coat, applying some of it onto the barrel of the shotgun and sprinkling the rest on the ground, “Lay down quietly, you should already feel drowsy. That is the calling of The Master of Death, yield to it, it's better for us both.”

Duncan silently noted that part about the teachings of The Master of Death Bartok, then cleared his throat to continue the dialogue: “…But I still think I might be saved, what if it's a misdiagnosis?”

The shotgun-holding caretaker frowned, somehow feeling that this “Restless One” was not quite like those he had encountered in his career. The voice from the coffin sounded too rational, even knowing how to bargain, but he soon shook his head, dismissing these messy thoughts:

“Forgive my frankness, but you fell from beside a pithead barrier, plummeting a hundred meters down into a mine shaft, shattering your occipital bone. The mortician had much difficulty reassembling your skull–sir, in my view, the likelihood of your misdiagnosis is… exceptionally high.”

Duncan listened to the voice coming from outside the coffin, silently reaching to touch the back of his head.

“…Well, I admit my injuries seem rather severe; this physical state indeed doesn't suit leaving the coffin,” he sighed, “My apologies for the disturbance.”

The old caretaker was silent for a few seconds, then silently lit another lantern strapped at his waist and hung it on a wooden stake closest to the morgue table, speaking nonchalantly: “No need to be courteous–compared to most Restless Ones, you are rather polite.”

“Oh? Do you often encounter this?”

“There are always a few corpses each year that are quite reluctant to stay in their coffins; most of them attempt to escape using rather violent means, only a rare few try to negotiate their release,” the old caretaker murmured, “But even those capable of negotiation are merely uttering incoherent nonsense. The deceased always believe they can return from the dead, but in reality… the gate of the great Bartok is not so easily crossed.”

The old caretaker shook his head, continually speaking while keeping an eye on the flame of the lantern on the nearby wooden stake–he knew that the deceased possessed no true rationality, which was merely the remnants of a persistent attachment. In conversation, this “remnant” would deplete especially quickly, and once the rationality inside the coffin was exhausted, his “extended shift” tonight would also end.

“Restless Ones, undead, resurrection–these are three entirely distinct concepts,” the old man rambled on, “Crossing these boundaries requires tremendous strength, enduring immense pain, and a very rare opportunity; sir, don't be too hard on yourself. You can't cross it.”

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