Chapter 161: Can Silkworms Eat World Tree Leaves?

You asked Luo Ge already—what other idea could he possibly have? He'd want to chop down even the crooked merchant; as for these robbers and murderers, it's even simpler: "Off with their heads!"

No sooner had he spoken than the thug he was holding up urinated on himself.

Dragging the thug to the marketplace, Luo Ge beheaded him on the spot, his roar shaking the souls of everyone present:

"Foolish people, rules and laws are the only weapons that protect you. When you think you can bully the weak, you too will become the bullied—because there are always stronger beings than you! I have no qualms about killing you all and turning this place into a realm of the dead."

Such a blunt, bloody declaration perfectly fit the persona of the Dark Lord Emperor—everyone trembled like quails.

Without doubt, Luo Ge could pull this off—this dark city was his natural battlefield; even an Arcane Mage wouldn't frighten him.

"Alright, I've scared them enough," Luo Ge said proudly upon returning.

Negrilis snapped back: "Even if you killed half these people, it wouldn't help. What did I just tell you? The person who can solve the food problem is here. Ange, how do we solve the food problem?"

Ange tilted his head, reached into the Palace of Rest, and yanked out Zi Hai.

Zi Hai, hefting his jujube-wood spiked club, roared excitedly: "Where are the enemies?!" He looked like he'd been cooped up too long.

Seeing no enemies around, Zi Hai slumped, slamming his club to the ground: "Little Horse, come here—let me rub you."

Lightning sighed and walked over obediently.

Ange yanked again—Da Wu emerged, followed by three or five titans standing on the ground, instantly making the surrounding space feel cramped.

Only then did Ange begin moving the sugar beets. Soon, sacks piled up like small hills.

The grain merchant's legs buckled—he collapsed to his knees, muttering: "Ruined, ruined—I'm bankrupt, I'm bankrupt."

"Bankrupt?!" Negrilis swatted the merchant's head with a claw: "How much did you pay for your grain normally? I'll give you a five percent discount—just switch suppliers. You still sell the grain, but no more price gouging."

"Really?" The merchant's eyes widened with disbelief: "Really? No price hikes? No price hikes? I'll sell at cost—even at original price! Just saving on transport alone, I'd make a fortune."

Grain itself wasn't expensive, but transporting it here from outside cost three or four times its value.

But Negrilis shook his head seriously: "Don't lower the price. Keep it at original level, then reduce it slowly. Don't slash it all at once—otherwise this already fragile economic chain will collapse. Even the weakest chain is better than a broken one."

The grain merchant and Luo Ge stared blankly: "Eco… economic chain… what's that?"

Negril didn't bother explaining; he called Zi Hai and the others, carried the grain out into the open, and slit open a sack before everyone's eyes: "Grain? We have plenty. No price hikes. Five for one."

Clean grain, low prices—residents of the Dark City went wild, fighting to buy.

Negrilis overlooked one issue: grain quality. The Dark City's merchants sold only old stock—worm-eaten, rat-bitten, terrible quality.

Ange's grain, however, was… a thousand-year vintage, stored for centuries, yet thanks to the Soil of Rest, it was merely dehydrated—not powdered, cracked, or moldy—far superior in appearance.

Yet even in their frenzy, people kept order—because at least five titans stood nearby, clubs in hand, watching like predators.

With grain available, the crisis caused by the Silver Knight Camp's explosion was easily resolved.

While Negrilis handled the crisis, Ange flipped through the scroll the little angel had "bought" from a human child. He opened it—it was a roll of white cloth.

"Oo?" Ange pointed at the cloth.

"Oo!" The little angel pointed to a small hole in its dress.

Only then did Ange notice—the little angel's clothes were badly torn: at least three finger-sized holes visible on the front, five or more on the back.

Usually, Lisha handled the little angel's clothes, making dozens of identical little dresses—ripped, replaced. But Lisha hadn't come along, so the damage went unnoticed.

So it bought cloth to make clothes? Ange looked at it with delight—had it learned that clothes were made of cloth?

Previously, the little angel thought clothes appeared magically from Ange. After using its big attacks, it'd come to Ange for healing and "making" clothes. Of course, it didn't care if it wore anything at all.

Ange didn't care either—but Lisha and Negrilis did. Every time the little angel went naked, Lisha looked at everyone like they were perverts.

Understanding that clothes were made of cloth was a major step forward.

Ange reached out, touched the cloth—it felt odd. Pulling it out, he saw it was light, thin, with tightly woven threads—far superior in material and quality to ordinary cloth.

He showed it to Negrilis, who was startled: "This isn't cloth—not cotton or hemp—it's silk? Silk fabric?"

He brought over the human child: "Who wove this cloth?"

The child pointed to himself.

"You? Impossible." Negrilis scanned him up and down, shook its head in disbelief.

The child panicked, struggling with his newly regained but clumsy speech: "I—I wove it. My worms spun it. Take me there—I'll show you the worms."

The child had been highly cautious before, selling only to naive targets like the little angel. Even when seeing grain, he knew how to choose—willing to abandon two sacks to carry one. But he'd been watched too early.

Now he willingly led Ange and the others back—he clearly trusted they wouldn't harm him.

After nine twists and eighteen turns, they reached a secluded cave. Its entrance was cleverly hidden in a depression at the dead-end's ceiling.

If you saw a dead end and turned back without going inside, you'd never find the entrance.

Inside, they quickly reached a semi-open pit: half covered, half open to the sky. The child lived under the covered half—even airships flying overhead couldn't spot anyone below.

Secretive, well-ventilated, with sunlight—it was practically a mansion in the Dark City.

On the pit's floor sat pots—clay pots crudely molded and sun-dried—each planted with grass.

Between pots and walls stood shelves. On one small section, grass was laid out, and plump white worms crawled over it, munching the leaves.

Seeing the worms, Negrilis exclaimed: "You're a Bug Master? A follower of Hemertos?"

The child frowned: "I'm a Bug Master… Hemertos? Who's that?"

"Uh… what's your name?" Negrilis asked. It hadn't thought to ask earlier.

"Klei." Klei answered, then rushed to a pile of junk, lifting up a gaunt woman.

"My—mother," Klei introduced, quickly pouring water into a bowl and feeding it to the frail woman.

The gaunt woman cowered, eyes darting, shrinking back constantly. Both her mind and body were abnormal—except when she heard Klei speak, she looked at him with surprise.

After feeding her water, Klei got busy: using tools to crush grain, separating husks from germ.

He didn't waste the husks, carefully collecting them. He popped a germ into his mouth, chewed—it was dry—then ground it into flour, mixed with water, kneaded into dough.

As he worked, Klei spoke: "Mother—her mind is bad, she can't—speak. But she can command the silkworms to weave. These—I call them Weaving Worms."

Negrilis studied Klei's mother—her features were once delicate, clearly beautiful in her youth. But extreme malnutrition and madness—likely from severe psychological trauma.

She responded only to Klei's voice. Her gaze occasionally landed on him; otherwise, she stared at sky or ground, never focusing on Ange or the others.

Negrilis sighed. A beautiful woman raising a child in this place—any suffering was unsurprising.

Klei moved quickly, kneading the dough. He told Negrilis: "I'll go bake the bread. Please, my lord, watch over my mother—just ignore her."

"Wait—where will you bake the bread?" Negrilis asked.

No need for Klei to answer—Luo Ge replied: "In the Dark City, some rocks naturally emit heat—very hot. Stick food on them, and it cooks fast. We have no way to make fire. This is the best way to eat cooked food."

"I see. No need to go—Ange can do magic."

Not only could he do magic—he could micro-manage. Ange manipulated fire elements, precisely roasting the flatbread golden-brown. The rich wheat aroma spread—Klei couldn't help swallowing saliva.

Klei's mother, who'd been huddled in the corner wrapped in rags, crawled over, hugging her knees, staring blankly at the bread, drool dripping from her lips.

Klei stared, stunned by his mother's unusual behavior. Normally she barely moved—even a live rabbit would make her flee. Was it because of the food?

After baking, Klei tore off about one-sixth and handed it to the little angel. The little angel grabbed it to bite—Ange smacked its head.

"Oo!" The furious little angel shoved the bread back into Klei's lap, then huddled in the corner, knees hugged.

Klei was confused—did the lord think his bread was dirty?

Negrilis laughed: "We're not 'people'—we don't eat. You two eat. You baked for us? How thoughtful. I should've said so earlier."

Huh? Not people? Klei glanced at the pink, adorable little angel—unbelievable.

After confirming again that Ange and the others truly didn't eat, Klei split the bread in half, gave one half to his mother.

His mother, already drooling from the bread's scent, grabbed it and devoured it loudly—crunching, smacking her lips.

Klei said sadly: "All these years, I couldn't get Mother to eat enough. Thank you, my lord, for the grain."

"No thanks needed. You earned it with your silk cloth—silk, right? Spun by these worms?"

Klei shook his head firmly: "These worms wove it. I call them Weaving Worms."

As he spoke more, Klei's speech grew smoother, communication easier. After talking, he'd fully explained his situation.

Klei was a Bug Master—but he'd stolen his skills. Few guarded against a seven- or eight-year-old mute, so he'd picked up bits and pieces. But without lineage, he had no bugs.

So he tried manipulating strange creatures, eventually discovering silkworms could be raised—and became obsessed.

To feed them, he gathered many plants—but most were rejected. After many trials, he found a few silkworms would eat—grass being the easiest to grow.

This pit was ideal for growing grass and raising worms. But as he raised them, Klei realized: silkworms were useless. Fat, white, they only ate and slept—even refused to pupate.

Their only use? Protein. So many fully grown silkworms were cooked and eaten under excuses like "too hot, heatstroke," "didn't eat grass, got sick," or "too expensive to feed."

After eating so many, only the ones he'd carefully selected remained—the ones that ate least and grew fastest. He planned to raise them as his main food source.

Then one night, he woke to find his mother staring at the silkworms all night. The next morning, he found a strip of cloth on the shelf—woven from silk spun and woven by the silkworms themselves.

From that day on, he named them—Weaving Worms.

These silkworms could weave only under his mother's control. Otherwise, they just spun silk—and the silk tangled and clumped into a lump.

But his mother's mind was erratic—sometimes lucid, sometimes manic—so she rarely controlled them. When she finally produced one bolt of cloth, Klei took it to market to trade for grain—and met Ange's group.

Raised in this environment, Klei was sharp. He knew how to pick buyers with means—and which ones were easy to deceive. So he quietly approached the little angel.

But he misjudged their purchasing power. When Ange pulled out a sack of grain, Klei nearly fainted—so much grain? With his age and size, he couldn't possibly carry it home alive.

Before he could refuse, three sacks were dumped on him. He couldn't resist taking the risk—too much was offered. But he failed. Had Ange not saved him, that thug's kick would've killed his malnourished body.

"Sigh… you've survived this long? Truly remarkable," Negrilis said sympathetically.

A ten-year-old boy who not only survived but fed his mother, stole Bug Master skills, and bred a new silkworm strain—remarkable indeed.

With such harsh conditions, he achieved this. What wonders might he create with better conditions?

"Perfect—we need someone who can control bugs. Will you join us? We'll feed you, house you, provide medical care and education. Maybe we can even cure your mother."

Earlier, in the Stone Gate Cavern, the hooded man claimed he could raise bugs—Negrilis had been tempted. Turns out he was just stalling.

Here was Klei—also raised bugs, and valuable ones at that. Coincidentally, the World Tree's leaves kept growing. Pruning was necessary to spur new buds—and new buds made the best scrambled eggs.

To get the buds, we must cut old leaves. Throwing them away is wasteful—feed them to the worms. Will the silkworms eat them?

Though silk cloth had little value, for the sake of the buds…

Just as he thought of this, Negril suddenly sensed firelight and turned to see Ange holding a ball of flame, burning silk cloth—but the silk showed no reaction at all, as if the flame didn't exist.

"Uh, this silk… can't be fire-immune, can it?" Negril's eyes instinctively gleamed with the glint of coins.

If it's fire-immune, the silk's status instantly changes—from an ordinary item to a magical artifact, its value rising at least twentyfold.

Just as Negril was trying to determine if it was fire-immune, a pained groan came from the corner; Klei's mother clutched her stomach, face pale and sweating, rolling on the ground.

Klei stared in panic at his mother, utterly at a loss.