Chapter 101: Angels Cannot Be Planted

This time, Silver Coin came back with Anthony, planning to humiliate him thoroughly and smash the coin in his face when Anthony came begging for money.

Because Anthony had been reborn into a new body, not a single hair on him belonged to his former self; the only thing he carried was the bishop’s insignia—but that insignia wasn’t a spatial artifact, so he had not a single coin on him.

He returned completely empty-handed; wouldn’t he need money to buy food? Wouldn’t he have to borrow some first?

Just do it—let you choke me and threaten me.

But Silver Coin’s hopes were dashed: Anthony went out for a walk and turned from a penniless beggar into a lavishly dressed archbishop, with more than three magic rings on each hand, each gemstone as large as a dragon’s eye.

If anyone else wore them like that, they’d look like a nouveau riche—but Anthony wore them, paired with his high-collared robe and the crimson cloak behind him, instantly radiating dignity and holiness.

Too bad his archbishop’s staff was left in the cathedral; if he’d brought the shoulder-height staff, he’d not only look majestic and holy, but could also crack skulls with a single blow.

Fully dressed, Anthony tidied his hair, then spread his hands and asked Silver Coin: “How’s this? Any problems?”

“No problems. Majestic, holy, handsome.” Silver Coin lied, then paused and asked:

“Why didn’t you go straight back to the cathedral? Why take this long detour here? Didn’t you say you’d return to the cathedral as a Chosen of the Gods, under the protection of the Twelve Holy Angels, seize the papacy, strip Nicholas of what he cherished most, then smash his head to pulp so he couldn’t even die in peace?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Anthony spread his hands.

“Ah! This….” Right—the Pope wasn’t dead. Silver Coin had eagerly followed Anthony back, thinking he’d latch onto the Pope’s leg; now he was told the Pope was still alive? Then why had he been boasting so loudly before?

If the Pope wasn’t dead, the position was lifelong—so what was the point of climbing to the papacy? Were they supposed to wait for him to die?

“Impossible. Revenge is never too late—every day delayed is too long. Right now, I’m just preparing. Before, I worried about the reactions of the Light Gods; now I don’t care. Do you know what the Black Knight Emperor excels at most?” Anthony smiled.

Silver Coin thought for a moment, hesitating: “Debt? You already owe a million magic crystals—I’ve never seen anyone accumulate so much personal debt.”

Anthony’s smile froze; he grimaced: “Alright, alright, I won’t owe anyone but Lord Ang’s money—don’t worry. What I’m truly best at isn’t sneaky tricks, but integrating, organizing, and coordinating all forces to serve me.”

He paused, then suddenly grew somber: “Do you know what’s most terrifying when there are no gods?”

“??” What? Did the topic jump that far?

“When there are no gods, what’s most terrifying is human nature,” Anthony sighed softly. “So many people will die.”

“What do you mean?” Silver Coin looked utterly confused. “Why would people die? Isn’t it better without gods?”

“Honestly, some folks in your Light Church are real bastards—they constantly extort us law-abiding merchants, take things for free, force donations and purchases, monopolize markets. If you don’t donate, they claim your shop is unclean and must be purified through prayer—purification takes days, sometimes weeks. Be smart, bribe them, and it’s done in a day. It’s infuriating,” Silver Coin fumed.

Anthony sighed helplessly: “That’s human nature. Without divine restraint, it won’t be this simple. If we calculate from the time the Sovereign vanished, the past thousand years have been the most peaceful in the Prime Material Plane.”

Silver Coin blinked, as if understanding, yet still confused. Extortion, forced donations, market monopolies—those were already the good part? What would the bad part look like?

“Actually, true power is more terrifying than gods—Truth Wizards, Truth Swords, Godslayers, and the Church…”

At that moment, Anthony suddenly tensed: “They’re here. Ready. Wake them all.”

These “them” referred, of course, to the Twelve Holy Angels.

“Huh? Me? Go wake them? Don’t I need to stay away? I’m a lich!” Silver Coin froze—was he really supposed to awaken those angels?

Anthony sized him up: “Actually, I sense no trace of undeath on you. If you’re uneasy, let Lord Ang protect you—holy light will shield you. Even if someone scans you, they’ll only see holy protection.”

“Really? I’ll try,” Silver Coin closed his eyes and murmured: “I am pursuing the debt owed to me by my lord Ang. Lord Ang, protect me.”

Anthony frowned: “Whose debt is this—Ang owes you, or you owe Ang? Your phrasing is ambiguous.” Worse—the “someone” was him. Even if he had no intention of defaulting, being reminded constantly was annoying.

Silver Coin devoutly said: “My lord will understand my meaning.” As he spoke, his body slowly glowed, bathed in a holy radiance.

The Twelve Angels awoke—and they failed to detect Silver Coin’s true nature. Six in front, six behind, they flanked Anthony as they pushed open the door and walked out.

Outside, the room was packed with nearly all senior officers of the Holy Blade Army, whispering among themselves, bewildered—they’d all received orders signed by Archibishop Anthony.

But wasn’t Archibishop Anthony rumored to be dead? Completely obliterated? Was someone impersonating him?

Most believed this, so each had brought their troops. Outside, the entire compound was surrounded by Holy Blade soldiers—ready to level the place with one command.

But before acting, they wanted to see who was behind this.

Then they saw the two angels… wait, not two—four… six… twelve…

As the Twelve Angels filed out flanking Anthony, every senior officer of the Holy Blade Army froze, eyes wide, utterly speechless.

Anthony’s expression was solemn—utterly unlike his demeanor before Ang and the others—radiating an aura of quiet authority:

“A desecrator allied with a dark god, used the dark god’s power to blind the gods and set a trap for me. I was shattered to dust—but blessed by divine grace, I returned from death.”

“Destroying the desecrator is easy, but more of the dark god’s followers have hidden within the Church itself. The gods said: cleanse them. The holy river must not be tainted by the dark god’s influence. So I returned. The gods said: you are too old—so I am now ten years younger.”

“The gods also said: take the sword of holy light. The dark god’s power must be purified by holy light. So I bring the sword of holy light—the Twelve Holy Angels—and over three thousand Holy Spirits are preparing.”

“I came here first, away from the center of power, away from the dark god’s corruption—those tainted are surely the fewest. Will you follow me to destroy the desecrator and purify the dark god’s power?”

Everyone exchanged glances, utterly at a loss.

In the crowd, Silver Coin spotted Patrice.

She looked uncertain, her expression shifting several times—then she stepped forward, knelt on one knee, and declared: “I pledge allegiance to you, to destroy the dark god and purify the Light!”

“I pledge allegiance to you, to destroy the dark god and purify the Light!” With one leading, twelve Holy Angels before them, and Anthony’s face now ten years younger, the rest hesitated no longer—they all swore fealty.

Effortlessly, Anthony regained command of a highly autonomous, massively structured army.

…

In the Abyss of Rest, unlike Anthony’s smooth success, Negrilis was in utter despair—he’d discovered the remaining three thousand angelic bones were useless.

Even if Ang granted them souls, these holy remains were merely three thousand mindless low-grade skeletons, utterly incapable of releasing Holy Radiance like true angelic skeletons.

Negrilis’s vision of three thousand mobile holy light cannons was impossible.

Better to sell them all to Anthony.

Ang had restored flesh to several angelic corpses—but they wandered randomly like ordinary skeletons, digging holes to hide from the Wind of Rest, or cowering beneath the World Tree.

Sigh. I oversimplified it.

Hearing digging sounds, Negrilis turned—and couldn’t help covering his face: “What are you doing again? Angels can’t be planted.”

PS: Yesterday’s 800+ votes—I wanted to reward you with ten straight updates, but I can’t write that fast. Each chapter takes me six hours. I feel deeply guilty—twice as guilty. I couldn’t even eat properly—only had a small hotpot. Sigh.