Chapter 17: The Fanatic Believer

The squealing was naturally from the little zombie; after smashing the skeleton to pieces, it charged toward the other skeletons again, but then heard Ange let out a loud “Aoo!” and reluctantly retreated.

Ange stared at it in surprise—he had never known the little zombie could run this fast, much quicker than an ordinary zombie, faster than a skeleton, and significantly faster than a human sprinting a hundred meters.

Ange understood now why it could harass the gray-bone skeletons and eliminate so many of their followers without a scratch; with this speed, nothing on the wasteland could catch it.

The skeleton that had been smashed now had only one arm left; it stared at Ange in terror, backing away while gathering its scattered bones—first the other arm, then both hands clattering together, then one leg, then the other; once assembled, it immediately stood up and fled as fast as it could.

As for its companion, it had already run off the moment Ange let out his “Aoo!”—utterly disloyal.

“We’re saved,” the boy sighed, his strength draining; he could no longer hold his sister and both tumbled to the ground in a heap.

The little girl, perhaps hurt from the fall, weakly began to cry; the boy scrambled forward on his knees, lifted her up, and looked around.

His gaze first landed on Ange, then on the little zombie, then on the silver skeleton—but he found none of them reliable; finally, gritting his teeth, he mustered his last strength to pick up his sister and stagger to the altar, pounding his head against the ground in desperate prayer.

With each bow, strands of soul-flame poured into the undead fire as if it were free.

Ange stared blankly at him until Negrilis couldn’t take it anymore: “Save him! What are you standing there for? This is a fanatic believer—don’t let him down, or all his fervent devotion will turn into hatred toward his faith; that’s how the Fallen Believers are born.”

Ange tilted his head: “How do I save him?” He was just a farming skeleton—he nearly choked people feeding them two bites of food; the girl clearly wasn’t starving—he had no idea how to help.

Negrilis sighed: “Lucky me, running into you.”

Since meeting Ange, Negrilis had broken too many rules; yes, part of it was his own post-sealing despair, but mostly it was because Ange was infuriating—he always walked straight to the opposite of what you expected; if you didn’t intervene, he’d make things slide exactly where you least wanted them to go.

Why could he never encounter a fanatic believer himself? This guy has the luck of a dog’s turd. Forget it—there’s no point dwelling. After all, he was sealed away now; rules no longer bound him. Let it vanish.

“It’s just a demon’s dysentery—causes vomiting and diarrhea, death by dehydration. Easy to cure. You know the owner here, right? Borrow a mage from him. Doesn’t need to be high-level—just not a novice.”

“Magic? I know how.” Ange said.

“You know magic? A skeleton knows magic? Don’t joke. Go find someone.” Negrilis sneered. Skeletons know magic? With their feeble mental energy and linear thinking? They couldn’t even draw a single magic circuit.

“I know four spells: rain, burn wasteland, pollinate, loosen soil.” As he spoke, Ange cast “Rain”—his palm opened, the elements gathered above a small patch of ground, quickly condensing into droplets that drizzled down like a light shower.

“What kind of devil magic is this? Why are they all about farming? Did you invent them yourself?” Negrilis, a former God of Knowledge, was baffled—he’d never heard of such spells. Could there be magic he didn’t know?

Ange nodded—he had indeed invented them. As a farming skeleton, watering was daily work; he used to carry water from the well.

Until the fifth year after his soul of undeath vanished, the well near the farm dried up.

Watching his crops wither day by day, Ange grew anxious, struggling to find a solution. Back then, a thousand years ago, his brain was far smaller; he thought for months without result, helplessly watching his plants die.

He thought and thought and thought—wasn’t that meditation? So in the second year, he sensed moisture in the air, and realized he could draw the air’s “water” down to the ground.

At first, he could only gather enough water for three or five plants; that year, his harvest was three catties of grain. The next year, his mental energy grew—he could now summon water to irrigate an entire row; that year, he harvested twenty catties.

Year by year, third, fourth, fifth, until the three hundred and twenty-second year, he finally mastered “Rain” enough to cast it continuously, drenching the entire farm.

With the experience of inventing “Rain,” Ange invented “Loosen Soil” to make tilling easier, and “Pollinate” to ensure plants bloomed in his farm, where insects were scarce and manual pollination was essential.

“Burn Wasteland” was for fertilizing the soil.

Speaking of fertilizing, Ange noticed that weeds grew more vigorously where skeletons had fallen; he tried burying broken bones in the fields—and indeed, soil with bones was richer than soil without; powdered bones worked even better.

No place had denser bones than the Palace of Rest; everywhere were rotting skeletons—he only needed to collect a small portion, enough to last him a long time.

This, then, was why Ange knew magic.

“You really do know magic—but your mana is tiny, barely at the level of a Level One mage. Yet how can you cast continuously? With so little mana, one spell should drain you completely. Try again.” Negrilis was utterly baffled.

Ange cast “Rain” as Negrilis instructed; once the raindrops drizzled to the ground, he cast “Rain” again—and again, as soon as the previous spell faded, the next one appeared.

The effect was as if his hand were a sprinkler, pouring water onto the ground without pause.

“The only explanation is you possess infinite mental energy, causing your mana to regenerate at an incredible rate,” Negrilis speculated. Mana’s quantity could be sensed, but mental energy could not—unless someone just looked energetic, but how could you tell if a skeleton was “energetic”?

“Since you know magic, then—get a cup of water. This is a purification spell, a simple Level One Holy Light spell. Purified water becomes holy water, specifically for dispelling dysentery.” As he spoke, Negrilis—

After finishing, Negrilis grinned as if struck by a funny thought: “Heh, if the Church of Light ever found out a skeleton learned their purification spell, what would their faces look like?”