Chapter 142: Run, Fast

"Are you friends from the Shadow City? Do you know the Black Knight Emperor Piero?" Negril called out.

The shadow had already sheathed its blade and retreated a distance, hovering in midair: "Are you the God of Knowledge?"

"Yes, yes, that's me—wait, no, how do you know I'm the God of Knowledge?" Negril exclaimed. Lisa and Phyllin had never revealed his identity as the God of Knowledge to the Shadow City.

The shadow spat bitterly: "Piero, that traitor, used coded messages to describe you. When I saw you, I remembered—Twelve Black Knights under the Bone King, Rog, bow before the God of Knowledge."

Upon hearing the name, Negril recalled something: "Rog, one of the Twelve Black Knights? You've been promoted to Black Knight Emperor?"

"Yes, Great God of Knowledge, you… you've grown thinner," Rog said mournfully.

"…"

"…"

"Why call Piero a traitor? What's this code? How did you end up in the Shadow City? And what's with this whole family caravan?" Negril fired off a barrage of questions, never expecting to run into an old acquaintance.

"It's inconvenient up here. Perhaps, Great God of Knowledge, we could sit on the ground to talk," Rog said.

The group landed on the ground; the bone dragon circling above also descended. As they drew closer, many could clearly see the dragon's condition, sparking a wave of uproar: "Bone… bone dragon!? Can bone dragons fly? How is that possible?"

At Rog's command, countless figures burst from the sand, reforming into the long procession seen earlier. Some ran forward, setting up tables, placing chairs, quickly arranging a simple open-air gathering space.

Negril noticed all these people were liches—shriveled and tattered, yet meticulously cleaned. Their decayed parts were deliberately patched or inlaid with different metals or panels, appearing like ornamental adornments.

Host and guest sat down, but Negril noticed only Rog sat across from him, prompting him to ask: "Where are the other Black Knights?"

Rog said: "Dead. Of the Twelve Black Knights, only I remain."

"What? What happened?" Negril asked.

Perhaps Rog had held it in too long; meeting a familiar face unleashed a flood of words.

After the King vanished, Piero led the Twelve Black Knights to the Material Plane, lying low for a time. Eventually, the Twelve Black Knights and Piero diverged in purpose.

The Twelve Black Knights wanted to conquer vast territories and rebuild the Undead Empire on the Material Plane.

But Piero thought they were insane. Undead beings on the Material Plane were like water without roots—they could never grow. Better to reincarnate as humans and blend into human society.

Neither side could convince the other, so they fought. Piero challenged all Twelve Black Knights at once.

At the time, Piero was an Emperor-ranked Black Knight; the Twelve were only Dukes. Though outnumbered, neither side could gain the upper hand. Of course, Piero held back—if he hadn't, two or three of the Twelve would have died.

Eventually, they parted ways. The Twelve Black Knights set out across the Material Plane, but soon drew the combined wrath of the Holy Church, human empires, and elves, forcing them into hiding.

After hiding for two or three decades, the heat died down, and they reappeared, continuing their wanderings—only to trigger another round of Holy Church and human persecution, forcing them to hide again. By then, only ten remained.

Then one day, they found a letter hidden in their refuge. It bore only two words: "Run away." The signature was Piero's emblem. Five seconds after opening it—just enough time to read the two words—the parchment spontaneously ignited and turned to ash.

Better safe than sorry, the Black Knights fled. No sooner had they escaped the perimeter than they saw the Holy Church had already surrounded their hidden castle with a net of traps—dozens of celestial beings hovered in the air alone.

From then on, whenever they faced danger, secret letters or messages would reach them—each time by a different method, always secure, always self-igniting after reading. Once, a Black Knight himself arrived to deliver the message, claiming to be Piero's subordinate.

Clearly, Piero had reincarnated again as a Black Knight. Not surprising—the method of Black Knight reincarnation was invented by Piero himself.

Yet despite Piero's warnings, Rog and the others kept dwindling. Humans were no pushovers; with ample manpower and resources, they could fail a hundred times—yet one success could inflict devastating losses on Rog's group.

They realized conquering territory and rebuilding the Undead Empire was impossible. Driven relentlessly by human pursuit, they were gradually pushed into the desert, to the location of the Shadow City—finally finding a safe haven. Three centuries ago, they founded the Shadow City and truly took root there.

During their exile, they gathered many undead—skeletons, liches—many of them dazed and solitary, unaware how they'd become what they were, or even what undead beings were.

They took these undead to the Shadow City, whose primary mission became scouring the world for undead beings, rescuing them from human lands, teaching them, guiding them.

Over centuries, the Shadow City now housed over three thousand undead and over twenty thousand allied lifeforms. Yet they constantly endured Holy Church sieges—of the Twelve Knights, only Rog remained.

Recently, a coded message using Piero's exclusive symbols appeared in a corner of the Shadow City: "The Palace of Rest has news. The God of Knowledge has incarnated as a brass dragonet and entered the human world."

So when Jelica told him that Young Master Ang's retinue included a brass dragonet, he immediately thought of the God of Knowledge. Once he confirmed Ang could purify the undead plague, he brought everyone here without hesitation.

"These are the core of the Shadow City. I brought them all. God of Knowledge, has the Palace of Rest reopened? Can I… return?"

"Huh? Return? Return for what?" Negril asked, confused.

"I'm tired. I want to entrust these people to you. I wish to return to the Palace of Rest and sleep forever," Rog said wearily.

"Sleep forever? You mean eternal slumber? That's suicide! Are you mad?"

Rog shook his head wearily: "Not mad. Just tired. Lived too long. All my brothers are dead. It's pointless. Exhausting."

Negril suddenly realized Rog's desire for death was absolute. No matter how he pleaded, Rog only said he was tired, it was pointless. The only thing he couldn't let go of was his followers—he hoped Negril would accept them and allow him to return to the Palace of Rest for eternal sleep.

Even setting aside whether the Palace of Rest would let him in, Negril utterly rejected the idea of eternal sleep. Why would someone with eternal life want to die?

Forget tiredness or meaninglessness—he'd been sealed inside the Brass Book for millennia. The last thousand years, he hadn't seen a single soul. Finally, a skeleton appeared—only to be a boring vegetable-growing skeleton.

Even then, had he ever considered eternal sleep? Ang had farmed for over a thousand years—wasn't that even more pointless? Had he ever thought of eternal sleep?

After hours of pleading failed to change Rog's mind, Negril subtly signaled Ang to contact Anthony.

Anthony immediately said: "Normal. Totally normal. Rog's a sensitive, artistic type—he overthinks. I'm surprised he lasted this long. Easy fix. Wait, I'm coming. Set up a teleport array for me."

Minutes later, Lisa in the oasis activated the teleport array. Out stepped Anthony, draped head to toe in a white robe and hood, his staff striking the ground: "Come out, old friend."

Where the staff struck, black smoke spiraled upward, swelling like a tearing black hole. A black horse with glowing red eyes stepped through, sucking the swirling smoke into its form.

"Who the hell calls me at this hour?" the horse snorted impatiently upon landing.

Anthony, embarrassed, said: "It's me, old friend. Rog's in bad shape. We need to treat him."

"That Rog again? Where is he?" the horse snapped.

Anthony pointed in the direction given by Ang's coordinates, then pleaded: "Old friend, could you give me a ride?"

The horse snorted, scoffing: "Dream on. Run yourself."

With that, it bolted forward, hooves kicking up a black streak—gone in an instant. Anthony sighed, pulled his robe hem over his knees, and sprinted after the horse.

He started slow, but as he reached full speed, his body glowed brighter with holy light, his pace accelerating until he caught up to the horse.

Every Black Knight's mount was forged from their own essence—like an extension of their body. Black Knights could even use their own hands, feet, and their mount's four hooves to play music together.

But Anthony, the creator of Black Knights, once had a sudden thought: if his mount were an independent undead being, wouldn't that make him two Black Knights? What use was being one with it? Could he be stronger than two-on-one?

So he found a horse's corpse, turned it into a Black Knight.

The chance of a sentient being becoming a skeleton after death was rare; even among a hundred liches, one skeleton might emerge. Horses weren't sentient, so the chance was even smaller—though lich horses were common.

Anthony's old friend was likely the only skeleton horse in all Eight Hundred Abysses.

Anthony turned the skeleton horse into a Black Knight, taught it combat, trained its soul, drilled it in coordination—until he forged it into a Duke-ranked Black Knight horse.

But since Anthony now moved among the Holy Church, he'd long sealed the horse away. This angered it deeply; it refused to speak to Anthony, even forbade him from using its name.

If Rog hadn't relapsed, Anthony wouldn't dare summon it—but without it, his current role as a high priest might not be enough to defeat Rog, now an Emperor.

Twenty minutes later, all six legs sprinted to Ang's location.

Without greeting, the horse charged straight at Rog and swung its massive hoof.

Rog recognized the horse. The joy of reunion had barely risen when the hoof struck him dumbfounded—he instinctively dispersed his form and retreated to reform.

Anthony arrived, panting, and cast Holy Light Revelation, illuminating Rog's position in perfect clarity.

Then he cast Holy Light Cage, enclosing the combat zone. Next, he donned holy light gauntlets and charged into the cage, cooperating with the horse to pummel Rog relentlessly until his form shattered.

After scattering him, the horse held Rog's soul steady while Anthony searched his memories, erasing strange, irrational thoughts.

"Meaning of life? Nonsense. Delete."

"Can't be strong… don't be cowardly? What crap? Delete, delete."

"Life… must walk… carry alone??? Is he insane? Where did he pick up this garbage? Delete."

Anthony sifted through Rog's memories and found many bizarre fragments—clearly, Rog had been corrupted by human decadent ideas on the Material Plane.

Not surprising. Rog had always been a sensitive soul, prone to resonating with such nonsense. Anthony had deleted his memories before—and the horse knew the routine well.

The operation was swift and brutal—but perhaps too harsh. When Rog reformed, he stared at Anthony in shock: "Who are you? What did you do to me? Where am I?"

The horse snorted, nudged Anthony with its neck to steady him, then accelerated and slammed into Anthony's side.

*Whoosh! A swirl of black smoke formed a vortex—the horse vanished like it had plunged into a black hole.

"Done. He's cured," Anthony bowed to Ang, ignored Rog entirely, and turned to run—soon disappearing into the distance.

His sudden arrival and departure left Negril stunned. He turned to Rog: "Still want to return to the Palace of Rest?"

"Palace of Rest? It's reopened? I can go back? Is the Emperor still there? He's gone? The Palace of Rest is empty? Then why go back?" Rog asked, bewildered.

"And do you still want eternal sleep?"

"Eternal sleep? That's death! Am I mad? By the way—who was that guy? Smelled like a Holy Church lackey. You shouldn't have held me back—I should've cut him down!"

"…………" Negril was speechless: "That treatment was too thorough. He's a different person now."

Suddenly, a glowing figure sprinted back from afar—it was Anthony, panting urgently: "Run! The Silver Knights are coming!"