Chapter 10

With a thought, clang! Ang collided with something, and his consciousness was bounced back.

Regaining his senses, he saw he was blocked outside the core zone of Zhigong, where the King slumbered.

Clearly, some barrier prevented Ang’s consciousness from entering this area, but Ang felt nothing—no surprise, no disappointment—and turned toward the tallest tower to the east.

Zhigong was enormous, with five major complexes; the central one was naturally its core zone, while the other four were symmetrically arranged at the four corners, and the tower to the east was the tallest.

Ang’s consciousness shot into it instantly, without encountering any barrier.

From outside it looked like a tall tower, but inside it resembled a chimney—its interior had no levels or partitions, just a straight cylindrical space extending all the way to the summit.

Inside was empty, nothing at all, except for a small lectern in the center, upon which rested a single book.

Yes, a small lectern with a book—that was the only two things in the entire tower.

Ang’s consciousness drifted over and touched the book, only to discover it was made of Huang Tong—hard, heavy.

As Ang touched it, the Huang Tong book flipped open with a whoosh, and a massive phantom surged upward, instantly filling the entire interior of the tower—it was the book’s phantom.

Ang began to understand why this tower had to be so tall; if it weren’t, it could never contain the book’s phantom.

The phantom of the book stood open, revealing its pages; originally blank, the pages now slowly revealed golden characters as they turned.

Ang tilted his head, staring blankly for a long time without moving.

From the pages emerged a phantom of a Huang Tong dragon, puzzled: “Why is it a little skeleton? Cough cough, hmm… do you not know how to read?”

Ang nodded.

“If you can’t read, why come to the library? Nonsense,” the Huang Tong dragon grumbled. “Fine, though I could recite it aloud, that’d be undignified—I’ll spare you.”

A stream of information flooded into Ang’s soul, imprinted directly upon it.

“Huh? Your soul is quite solid—why are you only at Gray Bone level?” the Huang Tong dragon murmured, puzzled.

Ang was confused—he didn’t understand what that meant—but he understood the characters on the page; the information the Huang Tong dragon had imprinted into his soul was knowledge of writing.

The characters on the page read: Huang Tong Book, Omniscient, One Question Only Per Use.

Ask questions? Omniscient? Ang tilted his head and asked with his soul: “Who are you?”

“HAHAHA! Finally someone asks this question! Finally someone asks this question! Oh my god, oh my god, you’re brilliant—you actually thought to ask this!” The Huang Tong dragon nearly leapt out of the page in excitement.

Anyone permitted into the library knew of the Huang Tong Dragon; moreover, the rule here allowed only one question, so no one would waste their precious chance asking who the Huang Tong Dragon was—he was the Huang Tong Dragon, who else could he be?

“Good lad, you asked the right question. Listen well: I am the Huang Tong Book, the God of Knowledge, the Omniscient Negrilis!” Negrilis’s voice boomed like a great bell, resonating within Ang’s soul.

Ang tilted his head, staring at it; Negrilis tilted his neck, staring back at Ang. After a long silence, Negrilis could no longer hold back: “You’ve never heard my name, have you?”

Ang nodded.

Negrilis slumped: “I knew it. What could a little skeleton possibly know? Don’t you have any other questions?”

Ang tilted his head, his soul sending a puzzled inquiry: “One question.”

“No, no—that doesn’t count! That was a bonus! Anyone who learns my divine name may invoke it daily to ask me one question.” Negrilis hurried to explain.

Originally, that was Negrilis’s cruel little trap: if someone asked who he was, he’d answer, then declare it counted as their one question—then, just as the visitor collapsed in despair, he’d reveal they could invoke his name daily for a new question.

To go from one question to daily questions was a reward—and then he could watch their emotions swing from utter despair to ecstatic joy, riding that extreme emotional rollercoaster to satisfy his own twisted amusement.

But since he was sealed here, for thousands of years, no one ever stepped into this trap; who, upon gaining entry, wouldn’t have researched Negrilis’s background beforehand?

As for his divine name? No one cared. Even the mightiest god was still sealed here—could he be stronger than the Undying King?

Thousands of years passed, and finally someone stumbled into the trap—only for it to be Ang, this unpredictable fool, who asked who he was and then refused to ask anything else, nearly suffocating Negrilis.

“Ask! Ask another! I am the Omniscient God of Knowledge—there is nothing I don’t know!” Ang’s indifference irritated Negrilis, who couldn’t help urging him on, eager to answer perfectly and demonstrate the God of Knowledge’s power.

“Oh.” Ang thought a moment, then asked: “Where did the King go?”

The massive phantom of the Huang Tong Book snapped shut, trapping the Huang Tong dragon within, then shrank rapidly, returning to the small lectern’s physical Huang Tong book, and with a snap, the physical book closed as well.

The space echoed with Negrilis’s furious voice: “I don’t know.”

So many questions to ask, yet he chose this one? Negrilis himself wanted to know where the Undying King had gone. Such a strange little skeleton, with such a peculiar personality and such a tricky question—uncooperative, no fun—I quit!

Watching the space return to normal, Ang tilted his head and withdrew his consciousness. Negrilis’s tantrum affected him not at all—Ang was merely a little skeleton, with no need for so many answers.

As his consciousness shifted, ready to drift toward another complex, Ang felt a push—his body had been shoved.

Ang’s consciousness returned to his body, immediately sensing someone frantically shaking him; he turned his head and saw it was Xiao Jiangshi.

Seeing Ang respond, Xiao Jiangshi shrieked wildly, pointing urgently in one direction; Ang followed the direction and saw a Tough-Skin Jiangshi shambling toward him, eyes rolled back, arms stretched out, aggressively reaching for Ang.

Does this count as “active aggression”? A question rose in Ang’s soul—he reached to his waist, drew his scythe, and slashed with agile precision.