In the dead of night, past twelve o'clock.
The temperature kept falling, and the atmosphere grew colder. The entire city of Landon felt like a gigantic ice cellar, exuding a chilling aura.
On the night of Qingming Festival, there's always something different in the air.
There were half as many people on the streets compared to usual, most of them in a hurry.
Not many would go out at this time.
The shadows of the trees flickered, the night sky hung low, only the streetlights emitting a faint, chilly glow.
Cemetery.
A few eternal lamps were still lit, while Tomer and the servants had already retired.
Neither Sylvan Cheney nor Charles Mcintosh had returned, and both had left in a hurry, as if something urgent demanded their attention.
Tomer couldn't quite fathom what urgent matter there could be. It happened to be the company's holiday these days unless something major had occurred, they wouldn't have left so abruptly.
What could it be?
