Chapter 107: Someone Picked Up My Bones

The palace was shaped like a skull, greatly enlarged, with a vast interior space entering through its eye sockets—nearly an exact proportional replica of a brain cavity—where a purple-gold skeleton, missing its right arm, sat upon a throne.

Who else could it be but Bone-Lock? There was only one Purple-Gold Death-King, the strongest undead beneath a sovereign; if no sovereign existed, Bone-Lock was unquestionably the undisputed Undead Sovereign.

Unfortunately, only one sovereign could exist.

“How did Lock’s bones end up here? Weren’t they said to have perished alongside the Six-Winged Archangel? Piero lied.” In private, Negril still referred to Anton as the Black Knight Emperor.

Upon closer inspection, Lock’s skeleton remained intact, but its condition was dire—its surface was pitted with countless tiny holes, like severe osteoporosis.

For an ordinary skeleton, this state after a thousand years would be normal—but this was a Death-King’s body. Even if submerged daily in swamp mire, it could never rot this badly. It must have endured further damage from some force after Bone-Lock’s death.

Ang tapped the skeleton with his little finger—a spark of holy light flickered like a ember.

Indeed, holy light energy still lingered.

Negril clucked in amazement: “Tsk tsk tsk—no wonder Bone-Lock endured over a thousand years of holy light torment without crumbling. His enemy was formidable too—this holy light residue has persisted for a millennium. I wonder if it came from that Six-Winged Archangel.”

Ang summoned holy light and slowly brushed it across Lock’s bones.

“Uh… my lord, wasn’t this supposed to be holy light damage? Why are you applying holy light to it?” Lu Se didn’t understand the difference between holy lights.

“Ang’s holy light is different from the residue on Lock’s body—their spiritual intent differs, but their elemental properties are identical. They can be diluted and neutralized. Like if someone pissed on you, you wash it off with water and no longer feel disgusted.” Negril explained.

Lu Se’s face twisted: “I think your analogy is disgusting.”

Holy light could neutralize holy light. After Ang brushed it over, the lingering holy light on Lock’s body vanished almost entirely—touching it no longer sparked or hissed.

As Ang touched it, a surge of information flooded into his soul: “Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!”

Ang seemed to hear Lock’s voice—thunderous, booming within his soul—accompanied by a vast, unfamiliar face and an alien aura.

Lock’s message demanded the destruction of that face and the being possessing that aura—intended for his subjects. He never imagined that a thousand years later, the one standing before his palace would be a gardening skeleton.

So Ang ignored the message entirely. Instead, he used his own Hand-of-Lock to grasp Lock’s arm and poured his soul energy into it.

No response. Unmovable.

Fine. Even if it could be moved, Ang had no intention of replacing his body with Lock’s skeleton—its condition was far too degraded. He’d probably break a bone after two steps.

He moved Lock’s skeleton outside, found a large barrel, and curled it inside.

Lu Se was stunned: “Uh, my lord… you’re not planning to soak it in alcohol, are you?”

Rumors said some natives of the Material Plane soaked various plants and animals in alcohol to nourish the body—could Ang Lord do the same?

“Alcohol? What’s that?” Ang asked, puzzled.

He had stored plenty of Soul-Still Liquid, sealed in large wooden barrels. Even when uncovered, once saturated with death energy, the liquid did not dissipate quickly.

Since Lock’s skeleton had no soul left, there was no need to leave it open. He poured in Soul-Still Liquid, sealed the lid, hoping the liquid inside might repair the skeleton.

Bored, Lu Se asked Ang: “My lord, when will we leave? We’ve been hiding here for half a month—surely the pursuers have gone by now.”

“Half a month? We should hide…” Ang was about to say “for decades,” since he’d lived here over a thousand years, had land to till, and wouldn’t be bored.

But before he finished, he sensed something and blurted: “Someone’s touching my bones,” then vanished in a flash.

No high-intensity search operation could last half a month, especially with no leads and the assassin likely having fled a thousand miles away—search teams had long dispersed, leaving only checkpoints at key junctions to inspect travelers.

But once established, these checkpoints served more than just hunting assassins.

Ordinary people soon resumed their lives. Though the death of a Cardinal was a world-shaking event, what did it matter to common folk?

The poor must keep living—if they didn’t work tomorrow, they might starve to death in bed. Uh, sorry—lying again. They didn’t even have a bed.

Old John limped along a forest path cleared by swordsmen days earlier, bamboo basket on his back, gathering wild fruits, greens, and mushrooms, and setting a few small animal traps—if luck held, he might have meat tomorrow.

He hadn’t eaten meat in ages. In recent years, grain grew scarcer, famines broke out constantly—no surplus grain to raise livestock. Wild game was scarce, and even that never reached men like Old John, a bankrupt farmer.

Luckily, in his youth he’d traveled with a mercenary band for a while and learned many hunting tricks—occasionally catching a bird or small beast, giving him slightly more freedom than others.

Too bad—if he’d been ten years younger, if his leg hadn’t been injured, Old John would’ve burned every possession he owned, joined a mercenary band, and died far away, never returning.

Life for the poor grew harder. Even someone like him, relatively well-traveled, had become destitute. The few acres he’d bought with savings in his youth were now owned by noble lords.

Now he could only gather wild fruits and greens, living day by day. After all, even the most desperate mercenary band wouldn’t take a crippled old man.

He rummaged here and there, and in a thicket, Old John found a dull gray skeleton.

“Ah, a poor soul far from home,” Old John said, unsurprised and unafraid, sighing: “Let me find you a resting place. May your soul find peace.”

In his youth, Old John had heard of a religion called the Temple of the Undead, whose god granted eternal life and eternal peace to believers—“May your soul find peace” was their most common prayer.

Old John couldn’t see it, but as he spoke, a wisp of soul-flame surged from his body and flowed into the pile of bones before him.

Normal believers offered soul-flame in steady streams—Old John’s was a single wisp, revealing his weak, casual faith.

Yet because of that wisp, the flame about to ignite within the skull’s hollow was abruptly extinguished—otherwise, the bones might have leapt up next instant, wielding a scythe to kill.

Old John mumbled “May your soul find peace,” then set down his basket, picked up the bones, placed them inside, and limped out of the forest.

Between the forest and the village lay a crossroads, where a newly erected checkpoint blocked the path—village constables and their men were inspecting travelers.

It wasn’t really inspection: if a nobleman arrived in lavish attire, they didn’t even glance—he was let through. If a commoner came, they harassed him endlessly. If a young woman passed, they groped her.

If you had experience, slip them a few coins, and you’d be checked quickly. If you lacked experience or spoke sharply, they’d violently tear open every bundle, scatter everything on the ground.

Even if they found nothing, your goods were often ruined.

Old John limped up to the checkpoint. The constable clearly recognized him, glanced at his basket, and sneered: “Still picking up that filth? Disgusting.”

“Things that fertilize soil aren’t as disgusting as you,” Old John scoffed.

“Get lost, get lost!” The constable waved him off, opened the checkpoint, and told him to hurry through.

One of the constable’s men, a new recruit from town, didn’t know Old John and asked: “My lord, are you just letting him go?”

“What else can I do? A crippled old man won’t yield anything. Waste of time,” the constable snapped.

“But what’s he doing with that thing?” The basket had no lid and was open-weave—everyone could clearly see the gray-white skeleton inside.

“He says he’s taking it home to fertilize soil—but he doesn’t even have land anymore. Oh, right, he’s got two patches by his house, growing some herbs—called ‘bone-wood.’ Says he’ll heal his limp with it. Ha! Bone-wood? Even alchemists can’t grow it. What’s he thinking?” The constable laughed loudly.

The recruit laughed too, eager to impress his new superior: “But he was rude to you, my lord. Shouldn’t we teach him a lesson?”

The constable grinned: “Easy. He’s always collecting this filth—say he worships undead, venerates skeletons. One of you, go report him to the town priest. Go.”

The men perked up. One volunteered: “I’ll go!” and dashed off instantly.

The group laughed at a crippled old man—no pity, no guilt.

Old John didn’t know he’d drawn trouble. When he got home, he dug a hole, buried the skeleton, muttering as he worked:

“Traveler who died far from home, I’ve found you a resting place. May your soul find peace. May you journey to the Undead Realm, enjoy endless life, free from hunger and pain…”

After burying it, he didn’t erect a tombstone—just stuck a single bone-wood branch into the earth. He claimed to grow bone-wood, but how could a crippled old man grow a herb even alchemists couldn’t cultivate? It was just an excuse. Beneath every patch of soil lay a corpse.

It was his obsession. Why? Because of a tragedy in his youth—too cruel to recall. Since then, whenever he found a corpse lying by the roadside, he did his best to bury it.

He sighed, preparing to stand—when suddenly, a gray-white hand-bone erupted from the ground, startling him into a sitting fall.