Chapter 15: My Lord, Don

Nagelis underestimated the hunger of people desperate for food; despite his orders to limit numbers, the temple was overrun by crowds who had heard the news, and upon learning that only sincere faith could earn the King’s aid, everyone rushed frantically toward the altar, eager to prove to the King how devout their belief in undeath—or in food—truly was.

The crowded masses nearly crushed the dilapidated temple, and the Niutouren family's desperate shouts could not maintain order.

The silver skeleton, who had been sweeping all along, reversed his broom; black mist coiled around the bristles and swiftly transformed it into a two-handed greatsword—this was the unique trait of soul weaponry: it could shift into several forms depending on need.

If you were truly bored and wanted to practice, shaping a hundred or two hundred variants was no problem; once mastered, the transformations could occur in an instant.

Gripping the greatsword, the silver skeleton leapt high, landing atop a stone pillar beside the altar, arching his body as he unleashed a silent soul shriek.

The thronging masses could not hear this shriek, but they all felt a force that froze the soul pass through their bodies—like a chill down the neck, only tens of times stronger.

Most of them stiffened, trembling all over.

As the silver skeleton’s shriek echoed, the temple’s open ground erupted into rows of white bone fences, enclosing the entire temple grounds.

After the silver skeleton’s roar, everyone calmed down; surrounded by the bone fences, they suddenly remembered: this was the Temple of Undeath, the realm of the dead—not a place for reckless noise.

They lined up obediently, stepping forward one by one to kneel before the altar; when they truly and sincerely believed in undeath, Ang could feel a connection form between himself and his believers, bridged by the Flame of the Dead, weaving a soul network.

In that instant, Ang could even hear faint whispers from within their minds—this sensation was profoundly strange.

Most were “Grant me food,” a few were “Let me live forever,” occasionally even “Kill my neighbor’s fox spirit” or “Make the Wind of Rest vanish.” This made Ang realize how complex the inner thoughts of living races truly were.

Beyond hearing these thoughts, Ang’s most important task was converting this faith energy, which gave him the same feeling as when he was in the dungeon—constantly guiding energy into his own body.

Soul crystals were condensed energy formed from the souls of undead beings; because they could be reversed and absorbed back into the soul, other undead could use them too, making them a natural equivalent—thus serving as currency, universally recognized by all undead.

This energy could naturally replenish Ang’s soul; previously, to transfer food, he had dared not use it freely, but now with so much surplus, the ratio of food to soul crystals had reached one to one hundred—he could use it as he pleased.

An endless stream of soul energy surged in, and Ang felt himself growing at an astonishing pace.

Sometimes change came suddenly: the soul flame abruptly contracted, all its flames rushing inward to form a pulsing, spherical core; with each expansion and contraction, pure soul energy flooded into every bone of his body.

Nagelis noticed Ang’s condition and exclaimed in surprise: “Soul Heart? I told you your soul was too dense—not like a gray bone skeleton. You were almost there already. In no time, your bones will transform into golden skeletons, and you’ll become a Golden Bone King.”

A Golden Bone King? That sounds powerful. The lord who created me was a Golden Bone King—does that mean I can now create other skeletons like him?

…

The rituals at the Temple of Undeath became routine: believers who could sincerely offer their soul flame received one jin of food each day, and they could come daily. Ang had transferred about ten tons—roughly twenty thousand jin—of food, enough to sustain the temple for some time.

Not everyone was devout, nor did everyone truly believe in undeath; among two hundred people, roughly one hundred could offer soul flame—those with weak faith would not return.

After one round of filtering, the stable congregation numbered only about two hundred—a very good number, considering the underground city’s total population was only around five thousand, and many were from races or groups with their own beliefs, or were undead themselves, further reducing the pool.

The underground city’s leadership was deeply divided over this sudden emergence of the Temple of Undeath; even the succubus Lina proposed banning believers from worshiping, fearing it might become an unstable factor.

But the moment she voiced it, Aisike exploded in anger: “Are you mad? I’m a believer in undeath too—do you want to shut me down too?”

Aisike was a necromancer—who among necromancers didn’t believe in undeath?

Lina’s heart lurched—she had forgotten that. Worse, she had forgotten the Lord’s identity: the Lord himself was an ancient lich, one of the Undead.

To propose shutting down the Temple of Undeath on a lich’s territory—Lina realized she must have lost her mind to suggest such a thing.

Philin knew she hadn’t meant it maliciously and reassured her: “Lina only meant well—she feared this sudden addition might disrupt our current stability.”

Lina nodded vigorously, like a chick pecking millet; she had only recently joined the underground city and didn’t understand the Temple’s situation—but now she understood: the Temple of Undeath was simply a place to worship undead beings.

Philin, who knew the truth, said: “Don’t worry. The temple’s reopening may become the most stable pillar of the underground city. And its constant release of food eases our grain shortage—it’s a great thing. Just pretend it never happened. Don’t interfere.”

On the other side of the room, Kleig wore a faint “I knew it” smile—he had known all along: Philin had suddenly brought back several shipments of grain, and now the temple reopened and began distributing food—anyone with sense could guess the connection. Only this brainless succubus would blurt out nonsense.

Seeing everyone had reached consensus, Philin changed the subject: “How’s the progress on using glowing moss as supplemental lighting for crops?”

Aisike and Lina exchanged glances, their eyes finally settling on Kleig.

Kleig said: “It failed. The moss won’t grow in the fields. Too far away, its light is too dim to help. We tried planting it between crop rows, but it needs damp soil—it still won’t survive. Water it more, and the roots rot; the crops rot too, my lord. I think this method is unworkable.”

“Oh? Failed? But I’ve seen it work before,” said Philin.

“Impossible,” said Kleig, the clever goblin, unyielding on technical matters: “My lord, were you tricked by magic? Someone used magic to artificially sustain crop growth to deceive you. My lord, don’t be fooled!”