Chapter 191

His face is fine, but the hat is broken.

The straw hat is a very basic item, capable of producing only a few illusions, easily pierced by outsiders with equal mental strength.

Yet this simple item is supremely suited to Ang, whose mental power is extraordinary; once he wears it, even Truth-tier masters like Bruusk cannot see through it.

But no matter how suited, it is still a basic item, not something indestructible. To be honest, it lasting over a thousand years without breaking is already astonishing, mainly due to its limited self-repair ability.

This repair ability has limits: minor scratches can be fixed, but major damage is beyond its capacity.

"Broken…" Ang picked up the hat, gripping the two fractured ends, his voice filled with loss.

"Yes, broken. Patch it up. Ask around later—who can repair straw hats? Or just buy a new one." Negril sighed.

Ang nodded. There was nothing else to do.

In the World Transit Station, Patex was brought out and repositioned on his Guardian Seat.

With his feet firmly on the ground, feeling the endless energy flowing from the seat, Patex exhaled: "Even though it often runs out of energy, it still feels safer standing on it."

"Alright then, I won't take you out anymore. I'll have Ang replace you with another Guardian." Negril replied.

It hadn't expected that removing a Guardian from its seat would unsettle them. If that's the case, better leave it. Replace it with a mindless one to spare Patex distress.

Patex's hand shot out, gripping Negril tightly, its voice muffled: "I spoke wrongly just now. Staying by the Master's side is what truly comforts Patex."

"Hmm, which one is more unsettling?"

"Staying with the Master—oh no, staying here—is more unsettling."

"Alright then, I'll take you along from now on."

"To serve the Master!" Patex exhaled deeply. It had never imagined a casual remark might nearly cost it its job.

Almost all believers across the plane were gathered, kneeling in the cleared lower level of the Transit Station, gazing up at Ang, praying devoutly.

"Great Lord Ang, who holds the Light of Purity, heals wounds… He stands eight feet tall, noble and majestic, his body like a pillar holding up heaven and earth, his gaze a lightning bolt piercing through fog…" The minstrel Konab's voice echoed throughout the Transit Station.

The handsome minstrel had now become one of Lisa's most capable subordinates.

Whether heroic deeds or miraculous wonders, they must be sung far and wide, passed down through generations.

How to sing them? Besides writing them into poems, operas, and novels, the most common carriers are minstrels.

They wander streets and alleys, spreading your deeds in song wherever they go.

A good minstrel is the best vessel for spreading faith. So when Lisa learned that one of the undead in Dark City was a minstrel, she immediately transferred him to her command without hesitation.

Now, specially trained minstrels number over a dozen—this is standard procedure. The Church of Light's minstrels, called the Holy Choir, are counted by squads, not by individuals.

They travel far and wide, or remain stationed in one place, singing Ang's deeds in endless variations.

Of course, most of it is fabricated. This vegetable-growing skeleton has no deeds to spread—except for once destroying a worm-god named Hemertos, which deserves grand celebration.

"Ladies and gentlemen, listen close: the worm-god has eight eyes and ten legs, its horde swells like a tide. Our Lord Ang issued a divine decree: faithful believers lead the way…"

Amid the rhythmic chanting of the minstrels, waves of soul-flame surged toward Ang.

The fervor of tens of thousands gathered in one place is something you cannot feel in daily life; even the calmest believer, under such influence, catches the emotion of those around, their feelings building until they become fanatical.

Of course, this fervor cannot last. Afterwards, everyone grows weary, listless, and their willingness to offer drops sharply.

Thus, such large-scale rituals are essentially borrowing future faith—but if well-executed, they can solidify belief.

What we must do now is borrow a period of faith.

Ang had slept for half a year, not tending his fields, rarely activating the Rapid Death Aura—the most soul-flame-consuming ability. Now he had accumulated enough soul-flame to match half a year's worth.

This vast power is sufficient to activate the entire World Transit Station, especially the Twelve Guardian Seats.

But for safety's sake, Lisa gathered everyone, urging prayers while they witnessed the miracle: could resurrecting a Light Lord not be called a miracle?

Not just a miracle—a supreme miracle. If the Church of Light's believers saw this, their faith might shatter, for their god had been revived by another.

Too bad the Abyss of Rest has no Church of Light followers. Otherwise, we'd have dragged a few over to watch.

The Twelve Guardian Seats activated. Powerful soul energy flooded into the seats, awakening the Guardians, who stood silent and ready.

In non-combat situations, the Twelve Guardians remain motionless, for movement consumes too much energy. And except for Patex, none possess intelligence—they can't even make jokes.

But within the Twelve Guardians' range, even six-winged archangels dare not teleport in. They are super-weapons, guarding the World Transit Station and deterring powerful beings from other planes.

Surrounded by the Twelve Guardians, even if the God of Balance revived, he'd still be crushed.

Of course, the Twelve Guardians are merely backup. Shamarah had already stepped behind the statue, her hands pressed against its back, ready to corrupt at any moment.

The sky darkened. The Wind of Rest drifted gently. The basin housing the Transit Station was veiled by wind, as if becoming an isolated island cut off from the world.

"Begin," said Negril.

Ang had already prepared. At his words, streams of holy light washed over the statue, peeling away layers of gray dullness, restoring flesh to vitality.

Restoring vitality was far less difficult than removing stone. Half an hour later, the once-gray statue had regained the natural hue of living flesh.

Nearby, Lu Se whispered to Lisa: "Grandma, oh my—"

"Who are you calling grandma?" Lisa shot him a sideways glance.

"Uh, Lady Lisa, why does this Light Lord look so… alive?" Lu Se rubbed his head, whispering, while internally grumbling: Grandma's grip is getting stronger—hitting hurts.

Lisa's essence is a lich. No matter how youthful she appears, that essence never changes. A necromancer having strong strength isn't unusual, is it?

"They are living beings—or rather, the divine design demands they be living. If not, they must become so." Lisa said.

"Divine design?" Lu Se frowned.

"It's complicated. I don't fully understand. Ask Lord Negril when you have time—he should be able to explain." Lisa replied.

Far away, Negril's earbone twitched. He pretended not to hear and strolled off to the other side, putting distance between them.

As they whispered, the restored God of Balance suddenly slumped, about to collapse to the ground.

Behind him, slender yet strong hands caught him.

The God of Balance leaned on them, barely steadying himself. He shook his head, dazed. Once upright, he waved his hand behind him: "Withdraw."

The strong hands did not withdraw. They held him firmly.

This made the God of Balance frown. Without opening his eyes, he snapped: "Withdraw. Can't you hear me?"