Chapter 13: Do You Believe in Undeath?

Should I say ‘yes’ or ‘no’? If I say no, what if the Warden feels angry that such a vast underground city has no followers of Eternal Life at all?

If I say yes, there were once two temples, but one fell into ruin and became a place to store coffins, while the other is barely alive, with only a Silver Skeleton guarding it and no priest at all—what kind of temple is that?

If the Warden sees this, won’t he think I’m careless? That I can’t even preserve the faith in Undeath?

It’s not that I’m careless—the Undeath Temple is special; only the living can worship it. Undead creatures already have their souls branded—why would they need a temple?

With the closure of the World Transit Station, the Undead Empire hasn’t appeared in this world for over a thousand years; even the strongest faith has weakened and vanished as generation after generation died.

But mostly, the old Undeath Temple was too lax—worshippers received no rewards, and those who desecrated it faced no punishment; as long as you didn’t spit or curse at the door, and stood far enough away, even if you shouted ‘Believing in Undeath is stupid—’, no one would care.

Of course, you couldn’t curse the monarch—anyone who dared curse the Undead Monarch, ruler of souls and eternity, would be hunted down even across dimensional planes.

This laissez-faire attitude is nothing like the Demon Valley, where demons love to tempt hearts: believe in them, and you can trade for gold, beauties, status, power.

A thousand years ago, Phelin once heard of a religion called the Church of Light, which was even better at manipulating hearts—but after the World Transit Station closed, they vanished without a trace.

In a flash of insight, Phelin decided to say ‘yes’—after all, there really was one, even if fallen; it wasn’t his fault, and lying to the Warden was a grave sin.

‘Yes, there’s a temple in the southeast corner.’ Phelin sent a mental address.

The advantage of undead creatures is that communication happens directly on the soul level—things hard to describe in words can be conveyed with a single thought.

After receiving the address, Ang took the young zombie and walked toward the northeast corner.

Ang’s current location was also in the northeast, but it was a side cave system, rarely visited; yet the northeast corner where the Undeath Temple stood was the sloping area just inside the underground city, part of the main district.

When Ang arrived, he found the same silence—even no wraiths. Moss covered the ground, slippery and treacherous.

Beyond the path, as he entered the temple grounds, the moss and debris vanished; the floor showed signs of being swept, clean and spotless.

In the distance came the swish-swish-swish of a broom.

Ang followed the sound, turned the corner, and saw a silver-white skeleton sweeping, its hollow eye sockets turning toward him as it sensed his arrival.

The young zombie stiffened and slid behind Ang.

Honestly, this Silver Skeleton was the strongest skeleton Ang had seen in a thousand years—its soul strength was only slightly weaker than Phelin’s, exerting a rank suppression over low-level undead.

Yet Ang felt no pressure at all, not even when facing Phelin; back then, his gray bone frame had been picked up from the Palace of Rest, not properly forged—he didn’t even know his own rank.

But since the Silver Skeleton couldn’t pressure him, that meant its soul wasn’t much stronger than his.

The Silver Skeleton glanced once, then lowered its head and kept sweeping. It had repeated this task for a thousand years, and likely would continue forever.

No broom could endure a thousand years of friction without breaking—unless it repaired itself. And as Ang watched each sweep, black mist drifted from the broom—it was the Silver Skeleton’s Soul Weapon.

Soul Weapons are forged by high-level undead from soul energy, capable of self-growth and automatic repair when damaged.

So, Ang’s scythe and hoe had also been used for over a thousand years.

Seeing the Silver Skeleton ignored them, Ang wandered the temple on his own. Negrilis wanted him to find an Undeath Temple to connect to the Soul Network and assess his condition—but how?

After circling without results, Ang called out to Negrilis again.

As soon as Negrilis manifested in Ang’s soul, he complained: ‘I never imagined someone who learned my divine name would treat me like a demon servant. I’ll never give my divine name as a reward again. Little skeleton, I’m not your demon butler.’

‘Oh. Temple. No. Soul Network.’ Ang ignored Negrilis’s complaint.

Negrilis sighed. When he was the Bronze Dragon, God of Knowledge, those who knew his divine name trembled, bowed deeply, and pondered endlessly before asking a single question.

Their questions were about the laws of plane mechanics or breakthroughs in magical theory—not like Ang’s, who always asked common-sense things, making Negrilis feel like a demon butler.

But what could he do? He’d set his own rules—he had to follow them, even if it meant kneeling.

Negrilis looked around, helplessly saying: ‘Without worshippers, how can there be a Soul Network? Even the Soulfire on the altar is extinguished. First, reignite the Soulfire, then find some devout followers.’

‘Oh.’ Ang replied.

Negrilis had learned Ang’s habits. He sighed: ‘Are you going to ask how to reignite the Soulfire?’

‘Yes. Tomorrow.’ Ang was a very rule-abiding skeleton.

‘No need to wait till tomorrow. I’ll teach you now. You’re going to split such a trivial task across days? You’ve patience—I don’t.’ Negrilis surrendered. A God of Knowledge, forced to answer basic questions over days? It was an insult to his divinity.

Under Negrilis’s instruction, Ang ignited the Soulfire on the altar.

As soon as a sliver of soul energy flowed in, the Soulfire surged upward—and the moment it flared, the swish-swish-swish of sweeping stopped. The Silver Skeleton hurried over and knelt before the altar in the most precise posture possible.

Its metallic skull struck the ground with a clanging sound. Each bow made the tiny flame leap higher.

Ang pointed at the Silver Skeleton and said to Negrilis: ‘Worshipper?’

‘That’s not a worshipper—call it a priest. Your king was an idiot, letting a Silver Skeleton be a priest. Doesn’t he know priests are also called charlatans? Can a dumb skeleton convince anyone?’ Negrilis sneered.

‘Who can be a worshipper?’ Ang asked.

‘Anyone. Worship isn’t about who, but about belief. Without sincere faith, even a million people won’t help. Don’t go looking yourself—you’re a skeleton. People will be wary the moment they see you. You need to disguise yourself, or get someone else to help.’

Negrilis had practically held Ang’s hand. He’d never been this eager when spreading his own faith.

Ang thought, then put on his straw hat—a magic item designed to scare birds, capable of transforming into two or three forms, such as an eagle or a human.

This low-level magic item was ineffective—when mental strength was similar, one could see through it instantly. But it had one advantage: it could make sounds. Ang couldn’t speak—he communicated with Phelin only through soul.

He conjured an ordinary-looking man, stepped out of the temple, and soon spotted a broad-shouldered, thick-waisted female Minotaur. Ang pointed at her: ‘This one?’

‘Heh. Stubborn Minotaur. If she believes you, I’ll learn to crawl like a lizard.’ Negrilis sneered. Minotaurs were famously stubborn, believing only in ancestral totems—getting them to worship undead was harder than climbing to heaven.

Ang took the soul crystal Phelin had paid as usage fee, transmuted it, and absorbed it into the leather ornament on his wrist, then pulled out a sack of grain and held it before the Minotaur woman: ‘You. Do you believe in Undeath?’