A fog as thick as jelly covered the cemetery. A man with purple hair stood over a cracked grave, holding a lantern in his hand, illuminating the worn inscriptions. The inscription on the stone reads: To the blessed memory of Chudomir Aarnivalkey. The man heard footsteps behind him and turned around sharply. "Who are you? And what are you doing here?" His icy voice was chilling, and his gaze was so penetrating that you felt like a bug under a microscope.