I found it strange that the elites of the Ghost Burial Squad could use so many different techniques, and such a wide variety too. Over at Leo Liu's side, I've even seen Buddhist spells—released without any incantation at all.
Even if an incantation was needed, it was always extremely brief.
"Alright, Miss Yi, how can we find that fragment? Sigh, it doesn't look like it'll be easy."
Thinking carefully, last time I got involved in Leo Liu's memories right from the start, which led to all kinds of changes. This time, I don't plan to interfere with anything here.
The five members of the Ghost Burial Squad reluctantly returned to the village and began their investigation. For them, the only thing they knew for sure was that it was the 19th year of Emperor Guangxu—by historical calculation, it should be January 1st, 1895.
"Maybe someone left a clue on purpose. Are these fragments of memory truly born in this world's timeline?"
Isabelle Frost muttered in confusion. I wore a troubled expression, feeling lost. Everything here was so tangled, it was truly hard to sort out. I decided to keep observing for another day.
With some free time, I sent my Ghost Souls out again, letting each act independently. This was necessary so they could operate as separate entities for longer periods.
Although it's only been a few days, the effects were already showing. The Ghost Souls inside me were growing stronger, and there was another clear change—those places full of cracks, it was as if new flesh was growing beneath the wounds.
Isabelle Frost drifted toward the village while I sat quietly in the woods, waiting.
Morning. The sun had only just risen when the village erupted into chaos.
The bandits, along with their weapons and horses, had already been seized and locked up together—crammed into three wooden huts. Villagers stood guard, watchful and tense. Any sign of trouble, and they’d set the huts ablaze, burning the intruders alive. Kindling was already stacked around the buildings; the bandits dared not make a move. The villagers agreed: tomorrow, they’d go to the county office to report the crime.
I couldn’t help but recall the Darong Family’s tricolor totem: black for earth, red for sun, yellow for dreams. It’s this symbol that fuels Yvonne May’s primal essence, empowering her instincts to survive.
Now, at this exact moment—January 1st, 1895—the events unfolding here were obvious. The bandits were ruthless, but the villagers fought back fiercely. That was hope. Even without the Ghost Burial Squad’s help, the villagers might pay a price, but they would likely prevail.
The villagers had dug pits early that morning, just inside the village gates. If the bandits rushed in and the villagers retreated, the bandits would suffer heavy losses.
But something felt wrong to me. Deeply wrong.
As the sun sank westward, the village was still in uproar. I noticed the number of villagers was different from what I’d seen at the last time point—dozens fewer.
"Fifty-three are missing. That’s exactly the number of bandits. Datong Village had 269 people; now there are only 216."
Isabelle Frost, beside me, suddenly spoke. I realized this place was created by Yvonne May’s primal essence, to sustain herself. The bandits were likely conjured from the missing villagers.
Midnight approached. Sure enough, at exactly twelve, white vapors began to rise from the ground. In a blink, Isabelle Frost and I were back in the southern woods of the village.
All around us, darkness pressed in. Events unfolded exactly as we’d seen the day before—identical, repeating. I was more convinced than ever: this was someone’s memory. But whose? We had no way of knowing.
Isabelle Frost had tried using Specter Web to investigate each of the five Ghost Burial Squad members in turn. They were just memory constructs, nothing special—like Leo Liu’s memories, we found nothing.
Days passed. No matter how many times we watched, nothing changed. Why did David Wu die? Why did his corpse appear in the well at Datong Village on January 1st, 2000, his organs hollowed out?
These days, Isabelle Frost barely bothered to move. She spent every day alone, reading in the small building she’d conjured in the Forest of Desire.
"Isabelle Frost, let’s search together. Maybe we’ll find something."
I watched Isabelle Frost reading—still the works of the Ghost Painter, but this time the book was called 'The Crying House.'
"This sort of thing is better left to you. I’m not in a hurry; it’s John Chou who’s anxious. I don’t like wasting my energy chasing after illusions. I’m not John Chou. I prefer reality over fantasy. Go ahead."
I made a sound of acknowledgment and sighed. Clearly, Isabelle Frost had no intention of doing this tedious work. I could only keep searching, bit by bit.
There was so little information to go on—almost nothing useful. I began to observe the five members of the Ghost Burial Squad.
Among the five, only Cynthia Mu rarely spoke; the other four were quite talkative. Whenever things got lively, they’d burst out laughing. Cynthia Mu, though quiet, always spoke with a hint of something startling.