The sight before me caught me off guard. The dense green Specter Webs had completely covered Nameless Lake. Isabelle Frost sat with her eyes closed, probing for something.
I slowly sat down as well, releasing my own black Specter Webs to keep probing, relying on my instincts.
After quite a while, both Isabelle Frost and I retracted our Specter Webs. We had already investigated everything in Nameless Lake. Aside from a few fish and shrimp, there was basically nothing else—there weren't even any ghosts nearby.
"Let's go out and take a look. If we can find a ghost that's lived here for a long time, that would be best."
I responded and followed Isabelle Frost downstairs, stepping onto the busy street. I decided to head straight for the lakeside. Behind our inn was a pedestrian path; I walked onto it, followed the steps down to the edge of Nameless Lake, where a large patch of grass had been recently trimmed.
In several places, I could see workers pushing lawnmowers, tending to the grass. A faint mist hovered over the lake, the water clean and clear. Many people stood at the lakeside, watching and taking photos. I planned to walk around the lake to see what I could find.
But then I suddenly stopped. This place really did feel different. Normally, a lake like this should be bathed in sunlight every day, and there shouldn't be so much mist. Yet I couldn't sense anything unusual at all.
After walking for a while, I reached the left side of Nameless Lake, at an entrance marked 'Cemetery.' A heavy iron gate was locked, but quite a few curious people stood outside, cameras in hand, snapping photos of the neat, arched graves inside.
I sighed, planning to drive away these disrespectful people taking photos of the dead. But suddenly, I stopped, and immediately understood what Isabelle Frost had meant about finding ghosts.
I began releasing my Specter Webs to investigate. No matter how many times I tried, the cemetery only had a faint trace of yin energy. This amount was normal, and would quickly dissipate with the next day's sunlight.
There wasn't a single ghost in that cemetery.
"What on earth is going on?"
I thought about it as I walked toward the cemetery. This place was far too strange. Normally, there would be at least a few ghosts in a cemetery, but today, there wasn't a single one.
I decided to go in and investigate directly. After making sure no one was around, I turned into a stream of black mist and slipped inside, checking each of the hundreds of graves one by one.
After half an hour of searching, I found nothing and returned to the lakeside. At that moment, I overheard some couples discussing the man-eating ghost village incident.
Just then, my phone rang.
I hurriedly pulled it out—it was Hugh Thompson calling. I answered right away.
"It's been a long time, Hugh."
"Don't worry, Ethan. Aside from Yinchoujian and his group, only I know you're still alive."
Then Hugh Thompson told me something truly shocking: thirteen years ago, the Ghost Burial Squad had already begun to develop steadily, even rivaling some sects. At that time, new recruits were just starting their training.
Old Eccentric decided to make the Ghost Burial Squad into an even stronger organization, capable of handling all ghost-related incidents in society. But thirteen years ago, at the end of December 1999, right before the turn of the millennium, the squad received a direct order from above.
The Outcast Village Incident—the Ghost Burial Squad was ordered to resolve it. The case file described how, over two hundred years ago, Harmony Village began experiencing disappearances. Witnesses claimed to have seen a village on Nameless Lake, and anyone who entered it never returned.
This phenomenon recurred every thirteen years: villagers would vanish, and a weathered, partially damaged Missing Persons Register—kept by each village chief for two centuries—was included in the file.
In a few days, it would be New Year's Day, January 1st, 2013—exactly thirteen years since the last incident. Because of the climate, spring comes early here, and many people visit during the holiday.
At the time, Hugh Thompson was in the city conducting recruitment tests and didn't return. After more than ten days of rushed preparations, thirty-one members of the Ghost Burial Squad arrived at Harmony Village—and none of them ever came back.
There was also a Nether Syndicate operative who came along. Old Eccentric and the Nether Syndicate had some dealings at the time, so they sent someone over.
In total, thirty-two people went, but only one barely alive Nether Syndicate operative returned. When he came back, his body was covered in wounds and he was already dead—brought back only by a certain ritual. The Nether Syndicate notified Old Eccentric.
Thus, the foundation that the Ghost Burial Squad had built over more than a decade was destroyed overnight, and the squad once again faced a high mortality rate.
Afterward, Hugh Thompson came here multiple times to investigate, but always found nothing.
"Ethan, go talk to the village chief here. He's fifty-three now, and thirteen years ago, he should have met the Ghost Burial Squad. I asked before and found nothing suspicious, but now you're a ghost."
I nodded. Harmony Village was a strange place, and there was something else—the villagers' surname, Darong. The chief's name was Miles Darong. It was an unusual surname, and I'd never heard of it before.
After asking around for a bit, I learned that the chief's house was at the far right, running a guesthouse and selling farm produce. He was known to be very kind.
Twenty minutes later, I arrived at the chief's house. The door was open, and a few children were inside watching something on the computer. There were no adults in sight.
"Kids, do you know where the village chief is?"
One of the children told me the chief was upstairs sleeping. With no other choice, I said I was a police officer and needed to speak with him. The children ran upstairs, and soon a groggy but sturdy-looking man in his fifties came down, smiling kindly as he approached.
"Officer, what can I do for you?"
I quickly used my death aura to conjure a police badge and showed it to the chief.
"Ah, Officer Ethan Zhang from the Special Criminal Division."
I nodded. The chief invited me into the guesthouse's courtyard, where I saw a trellis covered in grapevines and a stone table beneath it. He brought over a kettle and made tea for me.
I started talking about the events from thirteen years ago. When I finished, the chief nodded.
"Ah, yes, thirteen years ago, quite a few young police officers came here. They were lively and loved playing mahjong. But then they all left—on New Year's Day."
"Oh? Why was that? Did you see them leave?"
"No, I didn't see it happen. But the next morning, their rooms were tidy and their luggage was gone. They must have left during the night. Back then, our village wasn't as developed. Everyone worked hard during the day and went to bed early."
I nodded.
"Chief, is the legend of the man-eating village real?"
I asked, but the chief just sipped his tea and smiled.
"Officer, you really like to joke. The man-eating village? That was something the older generation made up to scare us. Kids used to play by the water and sometimes drowned, so the adults invented stories to keep us away."
I responded, and my black Specter Webs extended, piercing into the chief's body. Instantly, I read many memories. He wasn't lying—what he said was true. For decades, nothing strange had happened in the village.
But there was one thing: the chief's father vanished when Miles Darong was thirty, right after passing the position to him.
I asked about it, and the chief smiled as he replied.
"My father probably just left. Life was hard here—when we were kids, we didn't have enough to eat. Things have gotten better in recent years. I've looked for my father, but never found him."
I left the chief's house, having found nothing useful. I could only head back. Night was falling, and Isabelle Frost was nowhere to be seen. The village's only hope—the chief—knew nothing.
The only clues were the chief's missing father and the Missing Persons Register Hugh Thompson mentioned. But in the chief's memory, there was no such booklet.
I felt disappointed. It seemed the case had reached a dead end.
Walking along the unusually busy street, I looked around. Suddenly, a voice rang out.
"The man-eating village is coming! It's coming! Everybody, run! Run! ..."
I looked over in surprise. Several burly villagers had grabbed a disheveled man and kept explaining that he was the village madman, telling everyone not to mind him. But I followed them as they dragged the madman to a house by the rapeseed fields, gave him some water, and locked him inside.
With a whoosh, I slipped into the room. The madman was on the floor, frantically drawing something. I moved closer and stared in shock—he was sketching a lake, covered with houses and eerie little faces.
"Tell me, where is the man-eating village?"
As soon as I finished speaking, the madman chuckled, turned his head, and looked at me.
"Over there—on the lake. My sister was taken by that village and never came back."