Chapter 140

John dragged a corpse wrapped in a straw mat to Dragonfall Canyon, where legend said a giant dragon had fallen from the sky tens of thousands of years ago, smashing into the earth and cracking open this canyon, hence its name.

In his youth, John had once entertained the idea of exploring the canyon to find the fallen dragon, but after entering it, all interest vanished.

"It's better called Shit Gully than Dragonfall Canyon," John had boasted to his companions back then, disappointed.

Whether Dragonfall Canyon or Shit Gully, it had now become a dumping ground for villagers' corpses, a mass grave—this was his sixteenth corpse this month.

The straw mat was loosely tied; as he dragged it, one hand slipped out, scraping the ground. The hand was gaunt and bony, skin stretched tight over bone—likely starved to death.

John kicked at it with his foot, shoving the hand back under the mat. If he could, he'd have given the corpse a proper coffin, but he couldn't—straw mats were the only thing the village could spare, since reeds grew abundantly by the village entrance.

But lately, few had the strength to weave mats anymore; everyone was starving. Since last year, famine had gripped the village, edible things dwindling. After gnawing on reed roots for a while, more and more people died of hunger.

He didn't know if their village would even survive next year—it might die out entirely, slowly buried by wind and sand. That wasn't unusual.

Along the shores of Dragonfall Lake, traces of earthen walls occasionally appeared—abandoned villages from centuries past, most likely due to famine.

Burying the dead was John's own initiative, because leaving corpses in the village would likely bring worse things. But he didn't know how long he could keep going—he was starving too.

For the past two days, he'd eaten only reed roots and white clay. The roots were tolerable, but the clay clogged the intestines; many villagers who ate it died swollen and agonizingly. Still, compared to hunger, it was nothing.

Sigh. It was all just waiting—survive one more day, that's all.

Yet John still clung to a sliver of hope: finding the dragon. He'd heard dragon roars in Dragonfall Canyon, and seen golden dragons fly across the sky several times.

If he could find the dragon and gain its protection, his village might survive.

Rumor said the Oasis of Hope, two hundred kilometers away, had never suffered raids by desert bandits or famine or plague, thanks to the dragon's protection.

A few years ago, merchants from the Oasis of Hope came to Dragonfall Lake and, when speaking of the dragon legend, complained about their monotonous diet—nothing but green dates and little fat lambs, making them sick to their stomachs.

At the time, John had wanted to smash their heads on the spot and take their place.

Complaining about having food? What did places like theirs, where there was nothing to eat, count as? Hell?

Perhaps the dragon was the same one protecting the Oasis of Hope. If it would spare a thought for Dragonfall Lake, he'd offer everything to worship it.

Ahead was where John dumped corpses—a pit over ten meters wide. He dared not throw bodies directly into Dragonfall Canyon, fearing the dragon's wrath, but he lacked strength to dig individual graves for each corpse. So he dumped them all together, and when he had strength, sprinkled a thin layer of soil over them—that was burial enough.

The corpse's hand slipped out again. John kicked at it, trying to shove it back under the mat—but as his toe touched the hand, his ankle tightened. The corpse's hand had grabbed him.

"Ahh!" John screamed with all his might, yanking free, kicking backward, stumbling—his foot slipped over the pit's edge, and he tumbled in.

Before he hit the bottom, he felt a hand support him. He looked up—and vomited white foam, fainting dead away.

The hand that held him belonged to Old Lady Bar and Uncle Bo, who had died days ago. Now they crawled out of their straw mats, eyes rolled back, half-rotted faces staring at John.

John didn't know how long he'd been unconscious when he slowly woke. Two young dragon heads leaned over him. One smiled and said: "You're awake? Didn't scare you too much? Sorry—we stomped a little too hard."

"D-D-Dragon…" John stammered.

"Oh, right, right—I'm a dragon, a Brass Dragon. Call me Nagris. You're a villager from around here?" Nagris asked.

"Y-yes, yes, D-Dragon, D-Dragon, L-Lord, I—I—ah!" John had never left his village. His knowledge of the outside world came only from traveling merchants.

Though he'd just dreamed of seeking dragon protection, seeing a real dragon—even a young one—left him tongue-tied. But then he saw something even more impossible.

The villagers' corpses and skeletons he'd dumped into the pit had all come alive, lining up and hauling things in orderly procession.

"D-Dead people… c-can move?!" John pointed at the moving corpses, trembling as he stared at Nagris and Naeli.

Nagris blinked, then suddenly remembered something. He dashed to Ange, asked for something, and returned to John.

He opened a sack, revealing golden grains inside, then held out a fresh, juicy beetroot to John: "Do you believe in undeath?"

John, who'd eaten only reed roots and clay for two days, was instantly fixated on the sweet beetroot and grain. He forgot the moving corpses. He swallowed hard, reaching out—then hesitated.

"Do you believe in undeath? These are gifts from the God of Undeath. Believe in the God of Undeath, and they are yours." Nagris spoke with sincere earnestness.

John snatched the beetroot and bit down with all his strength: "I believe."

Ange looked up slightly surprised—he sensed a powerful conviction, a thick soul-flame drifting toward him.

"S-Sweet?!" John's eyes sparkled.

"Sweet. Eat slowly. They're yours now." Nagris patted his shoulder, then flew up triumphantly: See? I can gather followers too.

Clearly, he still resented the incident with the Minotaur aunt. Luckily, Lisa hadn't come along—she'd have laughed herself to death.

Under Ange's Royal Presence, countless corpses stirred to life, breaking off large chunks of phosphate and dragon (excrement) soil, hauling them to Ange, who transferred them to the Palace of Rest's farmland.

Ange would experiment with the right ratios, mixing these with volcanic ash, wood ash, bone meal, and burying them in the soil to enrich its fertility.

He didn't hesitate—he scraped off all the Soul Moss and buried it in the Spirit Soil. Other magical crops might not thrive, but Soul Moss was perfect for Spirit Soil.

Once enough phosphate was dug for the Palace of Rest's farmland, Ange didn't stop the corpses. He kept them digging and hauling—these were excellent fertilizer. He'd need large quantities later; better to dig now and figure out transport later.

Transport was a major problem. In the desert, merchants held the most authority. Take Jimmy—he'd never waste his precious cargo space hauling fertilizer. Even if he did, no one could afford it.

But did Ange care? If it worked, he'd happily use the Palace of Rest itself to haul it.

Nagris flew over, glancing at the still-moving corpses: "These corpses have been active a long time. Can your Royal Presence sustain this long?"

Ange said: "Not mine. Rock's. They're permanent."

Nagris stiffened: "You mean they've been reborn as undead? They won't disintegrate when your Royal Presence fades?"

Ange nodded.

Royal Presence could summon corpses, but they had a time limit. Within the skill's range, Ange could control them indefinitely—but once outside the range, they quickly crumbled.

Yet now Ange told him these corpses had been reborn as undead—meaning, without external force, they'd keep moving forever.

Such widespread rebirth clearly wasn't possible through Royal Presence alone. Only Rock the Unyielding Bone could achieve this. Had Ange, through Ultimate Transformation, truly manifested Rock's power?

Theoretically, yes—that was the essence of Ultimate Transformation. Legend said it could transform one into a god, then use that god's power to kill the god.

But legends were legends. That Ange could mimic Rock's form, aura, and partial power had already stunned Nagris. Yet given this, it seemed that at the moment of transformation, Ange truly possessed Rock's full power.

Could this vegetable-growing skeleton really have such terrifying mental strength?

Forget it. Ange's weirdness wasn't new. You just got used to it.

"I talked to that human. I know roughly where we are. Humans call this Dragonfall Canyon. Directly opposite is a large lake they call Dragonfall Lake. Two great rivers flow into it from the west and north."

"Along the rivers' banks are many oases and villages. But the lake is a saltwater lake, surrounded by vast salt-alkali lands unsuitable for farming, so no villages line its shores. In recent years, reduced water flow from the East River and North River caused the lake to surge back into the rivers during high tide, flooding farmland with saltwater, salinizing the soil, and causing crop failure—hence the famine."

"This human is John. He came to bury the dead. Many of these corpses are from his village. According to Spring Wind's Druidic Notes, he was here seeking salt-tolerant grasses to hybridize with demonic rice, hoping to breed a salt-tolerant rice strain."

Nagris's tone grew heavy with sorrow and admiration: "No wonder he's close to truth. This is a true Druid—devoting his life to new rice strains. Too bad he didn't finish. A rice strain that grows in salt-alkali soil? That would be a divine artifact capable of changing the world."

Ange tilted his head: "New rice?" That was the only thing he'd caught from Nagris's long speech.

"Uh, yes. Not finished yet. Spring Wind called it Saltwater Demon Rice." Nagris flipped through the planting notes again.

Ange pointed toward the canyon's end: "The lake is there?"

Nagris nodded. Dragonfall Canyon was like a gash across the earth, its end marking Dragonfall Lake—not far, like an exclamation point.

From its shape, it truly looked as if something had slammed into the earth at high speed, carving the canyon, then bounced to smash the lake.

"Go see." Ange suddenly said. "There's something there."

"Something? How do you know?" Nagris asked, surprised. "You've never been here."

"When I pulled them, one was too heavy. Couldn't lift." Ange pointed at the moving corpses.

Nagris stiffened. Pulled them? Royal Presence?

If this had been earlier, Nagris wouldn't have thought it odd—couldn't lift? You, Ange, couldn't lift plenty of things.

But now that he realized Ange had manifested Rock's power, what could Rock the Unyielding Bone not lift?

He called John over. John, having finished the beetroot, clutched the sack of grain, scooped a handful, shells and all, shoved it in his mouth, chewing and spitting out the husks.

"John, is there something in the lake?" Nagris asked.

"Yes… fish-men monsters."

"More monsters? Besides monsters?"

"Salt…"

John couldn't provide more. They discussed briefly, then turned toward the lake. After walking less than three kilometers, an endless "sea" stretched before them.

If no one told them it was a lake, they'd have taken it for an ocean—it was too vast, no opposite shore in sight.

"No wonder there are tides. This lake is enormous," Brucek couldn't help exclaiming.

Hearing someone admire his homeland, John felt proud: "Merchants who sailed around it say it's at least five hundred kilometers east-west, four hundred north-south."

Wetlands along the shore grew many plants. Though a saltwater lake, some salt-tolerant plants still thrived stubbornly. Between them, fish swam freely.

"But it's a saltwater lake—why are there fish?" Naeli asked curiously.

Nagris covered his face, chuckling: "Seawater is salty too. Of course there are fish."

Naeli shrank her head, realizing she'd asked a foolish question—saltwater fish vastly outnumbered freshwater ones.

"And those? What fish are those? They look huge." Naeli, after a moment, pointed to the lake's surface—hundreds of trails cut through the water, as if giant fish swam beneath.

John turned, face turning pale: "No! Those aren't fish—they're fish-men monsters!"

When over a hundred fierce, grotesque "monsters" surged from the water, claws waving and jaws gaping, Brucek sighed: "Of course. A dragon died here. These are jiao e—crocodiles mutated by dragon blood into dragon-possessed creatures."

"Ugly," Nagris sneered.

John, already preparing to flee, saw their calmness and blurted: "D-Don't we… run?"

"Run? Why?" Brucek smiled, crouched, and roared at the jiao e. A dragon-headed phantom emerged, mouth wide open, silent yet thunderous.

The charging jiao e collapsed mid-stride, blood pouring from every orifice, scales peeling off, dying in silence.

John's eyes nearly popped out. Hundreds of jiao e—enough to wipe out a village—slain by this arrogant man's single roar.

He realized he'd stumbled upon something extraordinary.

Ange teleported several tons of grain, boiled it into porridge, then told John to take a sack of beetroot back and summon everyone nearby—those too weak to walk, cut them a piece of beetroot to hold them over.

Hundreds from nearby villages, hearing they could eat their fill, dragged their families over. Seeing the fragrant porridge, they prostrated themselves, pounding the dirt with their foreheads.

Waves of soul-flames surged toward Ange—he was torn. He'd brought people here to dig, not to worship.

After eating their fill, the villagers dug at the spot Ange indicated—and unearthed the skeleton of a medium-sized dragon.