The Second Coffin

In the photo, he stood by the training ground, carrying a coffin on his back and holding a scythe in his hand. The angle was pretty good, even better than his ID photo.

The only problem was, the photo was in black and white.

A student council member held the framed photo, his face cycling through shades of pale and red.

“C-Chen Guan, this...”

Chen Guan walked over and took the frame.

He looked at it for two seconds.

“Not a bad shot.”

The student council member looked like he was about to cry.

“We were going to take it down, but then someone said—since you came back in person, we could have you sign it and turn it into an exhibit for the academy crisis education display.”

“That suggestion got a lot of traction. Tons of students upvoted it.”

“We had no choice. The student council just does what it's told—public opinion is a hard force to fight. We had to follow procedure.”

The member quickly added a disclaimer: “Of course, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. We just came by to take a photo for the records.”

Chen Guan: “???”

An Changqing’s hand rested on his sword hilt, and he suddenly felt the urge to hit someone. “Who said that?”

The student council member’s voice grew quieter and quieter.

“An anonymous user on the forum started a vote.”

Long Ao frowned. “Anonymous users can still be traced.”

Sima Ming’s temple twitched.

“So the student council’s current focus is collecting signatures for the memorial portraits of the living?”

The student council member clutched his clipboard, not daring to speak. An Changqing’s face had long since turned as dark as the bottom of a pot.

Chen Guan, however, turned the frame around and looked at the blank back.

“Got a pen?”

The hallway fell silent.

An Changqing turned to look at him.

“You’re actually going to sign it?”

Chen Guan said, “Since I’m already here.”

Sima Ming felt his vision go dark.

“Chen Guan!”

But Chen Guan had already taken the pen from the student council member's hand and written a line on the back of the frame.

He didn’t write fast.

Everyone crowded around to look.

There, on the back of the frame, was a neat line of handwriting:

[Have reviewed in person. Not to be activated for now.]

Hong Yuan burst out laughing.

The student council member held the frame, not knowing whether to put it down or keep holding it. Awkward was an understatement.

Who the hell started that vote?! he roared inwardly.

And why is the Council President here too?!

An Changqing looked at the line of text and finally reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Sima Ming pointed at Chen Guan, too furious to speak.

“You’ll be the death of me—mark my words.”

Chen Guan handed the pen back. “Teacher, we’re already at the medical building.”

Sima Ming: “...”

The hallway’s barely-recovered atmosphere completely fell apart at that line.

But before the laughter could fully fade, the phone in Chen Guan’s pocket buzzed.

He looked down.

It was a video call from Su Yuehe.

Chen Guan pressed accept, and the screen was immediately filled with the snowstorms of the northern border.

Su Yuehe’s face appeared on screen.

Her hair was slightly messy, snow dusted her cheeks, and behind her, the rune lights of a temporary war zone flickered in the distance. Yin Chen stood further away in a coat, head bowed, talking to someone.

When Su Yuehe saw Chen Guan, she didn’t say anything at first.

She stared at the screen for a long, long time.

So long that An Changqing noticed and took half a step forward.

Chen Guan spoke first. “I’m at the medical building. Got checked out.”

Su Yuehe’s lips moved. “What does the report say?”

Chen Guan looked at An Changqing.

An Changqing took out the report and held it up to the camera, giving it a quick shake.

After Su Yuehe saw the words “long-term observation recommended,” she finally spoke.

“Chen Guan, stop scaring people like that.”

Chen Guan held the phone. The hallway lights hit the screen, splitting his face into a sharp patchwork of light and shadow.

He was about to brush it off the way he always did.

Something like, the sea was too deep.

Or, my phone was broken.

Or, I made it back after all.

But Su Yuehe’s eyes looked at him through the screen, the corners tinged with red. She wasn’t crying.

And that was worse than crying.

Chen Guan was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’ll try.”

Su Yuehe kept looking at him.

“Not ‘try.’”

Chen Guan corrected himself. “Okay.”

Baal went quiet for a moment.

Then the voice in his mind let out an unreadable laughter.

“Oh ho—so the kid knows how to bend, does he?”

Chen Guan didn’t answer.

Ever since he’d come back, everything he did was really about one thing: he didn’t want people to treat him like something that would shatter at a touch.

On Su Yuehe’s end, it seemed like she had finally relaxed. She angled the phone slightly.

Yin Chen appeared on screen.

He was holding a document in his hands, his expression far more serious than usual.

“Boss Chen, something’s come up up north. You’re going to want to hear this.”

An Changqing’s brow furrowed.

“What is it?”

The wind behind Yin Chen grew louder and more chaotic.

In the distance, someone was shouting to tighten the containment line. Rune lights flashed on one by one.

Hong Yuan, her shoulder wrapped in bandages and her axe leaning against the wall beside her, leaned closer to the screen.

“Another beast tide in the north?”

Yin Chen shook his head. “The beast tide has retreated by half.”

That line made the people in the hallway tense up instead of relaxing.

If it were just another beast tide, Yin Chen wouldn’t have used that tone.

It must be something worse.

Yin Chen turned the camera towards his back.

The image cut through the temporary camp’s defenses, past a row of lit sealing runes, and finally stopped on a valley covered in snow.

In the middle of the valley, there was a coffin.

A black coffin.

Half-buried in the snow, the exposed part carved with old patterns. A ring of scorched black surrounded it in the white snowfield. Several northern border guards stood in the distance, none daring to approach.

The hallway was dead silent.

Chen Guan stared at the screen.

Long Ao looked at Chen Guan’s coffin behind him.

Then he looked back at the one on screen.

“That thing looks a little like yours, doesn’t it?”

Chen Guan was silent for a moment.

“You can drop the ‘a little.’”

Hong Yuan frowned. “You have a twin brother or something?”

Chen Guan glanced at her. “Even if I had one, coffins don’t run in the family.”

That being said, Chen Guan’s expression was still grim.

This coffin of his was given to him by the system. As far as logic went, there shouldn’t be another one like it in the world. And besides, this coffin was made of dark iron. Who had that kind of money and resource to forge a replica—and put it all the way out in the northern border?

Baal laughed in the mental space.

“Interesting. Very interesting. You just got your own obituary pulled, and the northern border sends you a matching coffin. Who’s this thoughtful? Sending a funeral gift right to the frontline?”

Chen Guan didn’t respond.

On screen, Yin Chen raised a hand to block a flurry of snow and continued. “Half an hour ago, the beast tide pulled back. We thought the line was stable. Then this thing surfaced from under the snow. Every beast nearby swerved around it.”

“Material—dark iron, no question about it.”

Chen Guan stared at the coffin on the screen and said nothing.

It was buried in the northern snow, its edges burned into a ring of black. The old patterns on its surface were worn dull by wind and snow. Even through the screen, it radiated a bone-deep cold.

An Changqing was the first to speak. “You don’t recognize it?”

Chen Guan steadied his grip on the phone, brows knit tight. “I don’t.”

Hong Yuan frowned, the axe still resting against her shoulder. “But look at it—it’s like yours, just older and more worn.”