Meanwhile in a place of the River of Abyss.

Fosfor did not make it , she was too late to prevent all those abnormal deaths. Now there is one thing left to do with her.

“Pierce the earth’s soil skin. Put your once warm friend in. Heal the mother’s wound with skin. Now rest in peace my stranger.”

Fosfor sings quietly while her arm’s move clanky and mechanically. She feels that her joints are breaking apart , dust and foul particles blinds her vision. Nameless was right , right to her spines , Fosfor is working overtime , she hasn’t worked like that for centuries.

She stands up , wipes off the sweat on her forehead and stands her rusty shovel next to the empty stone plank. Her hand reaches to a ‘person’ laying next to her. She knows it isn’t someone’s body who used to be alive. Fosfor knows it is merely a non-pure , Existence scented soul , a one in many of them.

The empty river stretches its back even here , she wonders if it ever ends , just like the waves of unnamed gravestones here.

She remembers the first time she buried someone , it didn’t feel good and either bad. Only tired , especially if she has to do that to tens of thousands strangers. Fosfor can leave this trouble to her copies of course , but she doesn’t want this disaster’s aftermath to be handled effortlessly.

She breaks her own nostalgia and her hands go back on making holes in the manmade soil. Only she knows the being of this relatively massive graveyard. And only she knows the feeling of burying so many strangers.

Hours felt like seconds , days felt like minutes for her , all she did was make dirt hills, burying without a priest or funeral and repeating ever machine-alike

The chamber told her that all the corpses of citizens will be collected and burnt outside the dome…since their bodies are scented with ‘that’. I’ll bury them, for them , and for myself , Fosfor thought when she was informed.

Days and minutes flew away. She couldn’t care less about the dirt on her sleeves and the breaking apart joints of hers , after all Barricades are not made of gold and steel.

“Good night stranger.” Fosfor said , covering up the ‘body’ with soil. She puts the shovel on her shoulder and takes a final glance at the blank gravestone.

The gravestone field is nearly impossible to find an exit. Every stone is the same blank , samely unnamed. Fosfor only feels confused now , she is the wielder of death , almost equivalent to a grim reaper without a scythe. But why does the ever-away fear of someone’s passing , even if it is just a never seen , ordinary person , hurt so much?

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I am used to taking away lives , but not used to someone’s death?” Fosfor sys to herself.

Thinking on purpose makes her head hurt , she is more used to slicing up bodies of abnormalities than sitting in an armchair. Fosfor stops thinking and sinks deeper into that cold , hard-to-explain feeling. She walks by the newly buried souls. Fosfor wonders if she will ever be neutralized or…killed , if she dies , will this graveyard still exist? The Letter-Writer is an example , but the question is that even herself doesn't know if the Letter-Writer counts as a Barricade..

Fosfor can’t tell which direction she has wandered off. Time has become non-existent for her. Then she stops at a blemished gravestone that isn’t as clean as others , with moss crawling out of its crack.

Her eyes reflect the barely visible epigraphs on the stone.

Fosfor bends her knee down , the cold stone chills her chin as her face feels the fading engraving of yelian letters on it. Fosfor knows the grave , she recognizes her first gravestone.

‘Here rests an once shining hope’

‘Good night Barricade. Good morning Fosfor’

…

Days later , the gate of the Grand dome.

The people had a shock when they saw the burning piles of hands and legs crossing with each other , pale and unnatural twisted limbs that tried to have the last touch with the sun , all stacked up onto one another. It is the first time the rest of the citizens tasted blood. But it's still better than seeing their family’s flesh getting torn apart by the unearthly structure.

They burnt for three days , Michael and Josh standing next to the mountain of ashes.

“Captain , why are we burning them?” Michael asks , knowing it is a stupid question.

“...Michael , I have some advice.” Josh says, ignoring Michael’s question.

“Quit messenger , something way worse is about to happen.”

“...If my concerns are right…not even the Starseeker can save us.”

“We won't be remembered , our graves will be unnamed , Michael , it isn’t too late” Josh continues.

“If that’s so…then why are you lying to yourself? Not just you , I am lying to myself as well.”

“Cap, I joined here not just for money , then how about you? Is it because what happened when you were a student?” Michael asks.

“Did Suiming tell you how I almost lost my name?” Josh says , tear’s reflecting visible through the strings of his gray hair.

The ashes blow away like snowflakes , for now they will be recycled…and no one knows the rest. Under the snow of once alive humans , Michael hears the story of a thousand Josh and the tales of the dome’s blade-washing rain.

“Realm-arts implant back then was far more painful…but compared to standing near the edge of death…”

“Class violet abnormality , ‘Sweet morning , good dreams’ , that file is still somewhere in the archive.”

“I might forget other things…but that month,” he shakes his head, “will be carried til the day I die.”