Chapter 197: The Vegetative Man Has Sprouted

Ang dripped divine essence onto the infant's severed leg and continuously cast holy light; the severed limb slowly regrew.

Lisa held the infant, her face filled with anguish: "Oh dear, who could be so cruel? Wolf bite? Damn wolves, I'll get you some wolf pelts for clothes later. Who brought you to a wolf's den? You're only three months old—how heartless! Was it your father? Where's your father? I'll break his legs. Huh? Did a wolf kill you?"

Negril circled the crystal stele curiously, uncertainly saying: "Could this be the legendary Angel Descent Stele?"

Lu Se leaned over and asked: "Like the divine possession of Shamara?"

"Yes. A devout divine practitioner can summon an angel to descend onto their body, causing their power to surge wildly. It's disgusting—this growth has no pattern. Some weaklings, once possessed, can tear apart a minotaur. It's impossible to estimate an enemy's strength, so when fighting a Church of Light divine practitioner, you must give everything you've got."

Negril paused, then added: "But Shamara's possessed spirit was made by herself."

"She made it? She created a divine angel? Is she really that powerful?" Lu Se's eyes nearly popped out.

"What else would you call a fallen angel and a false god?" Negril said dismissively.

Lu Se exclaimed: "I thought she was so meek in front of my lord, I figured she was weak—I was even thinking of challenging her to a fight. But she's this strong? By the way, I just broke through to High Rank Sword Saint, my realm is unstable, I need training and sparring. Negril, can you find me an opponent of equal level?"

Negril snorted: "Wait till Ang beats you up—you'll understand why Shamara is so meek. You'll be meek too."

Since Ang mastered Ultimate Transformation and Dragon God Form, his combat power became immeasurable. Negril didn't know how strong Ang was now—he'd already killed two gods.

The infant's severed leg fully regrew; once the last bit of skin and flesh healed, Ang released his mental control. Instantly, the infant burst into loud, vigorous crying—so piercing it made Lisa flinch, the sound like a soul shock.

"Oh dear, oh dear, what's wrong, baby? Did it hurt? Did Bone Uncle hurt you? Not pain? Then are you hungry? Trouble—I don't even know where to get milk! Vanya! Vanya!"

Vanya, lumbering in like a bear, Tingwan Lisa's words, twisted her fingers nervously and said: "I'm still a virgin cow girl—I don't have any."

After searching everywhere, no one could nurse the baby—not even a horse. The horses stored in the Palace of Rest had none in lactation.

What now? The infant cried nonstop, oblivious to the setting. Lisa shoved a thumb into its mouth to temporarily silence it, frantically asking: "What do we do? My lord, do you have anything an infant can eat? Can't we just bring up Auntie Cow?"

Ang pulled out a fruit.

"Whoa, a World Tree fruit? How do you have this? Did you activate that diseased branch?" Negril gasped.

Ang shook his head: "Grew it."

Negril gave up asking—this guy answered every question with two words. Who knew when they'd get a full answer? Better to go look herself.

Negril retracted her consciousness to the Palace of Rest, moved the Brass Book to the farm, and immediately saw the diseased World Tree branch.

After obtaining Worm Ash Liquid, Ang planted the diseased World Tree branch on the farm. Unlike normal World Trees, this branch was cut from the ancient World Tree and was already 91, 00 years old.

Now, all the spots had vanished; the branch had regained its green hue, sprouting new leaves and buds—clearly, it had taken root.

On the trunk, a fresh cut surface remained—clearly, the fruit Ang had taken came from here.

"Oh my, Ang actually healed the World Tree." Negril had prepared herself mentally when the spots first faded, but now that it truly succeeded, she was stunned—her old friend, the World Tree, was saved.

Returning her projection to the dragon, Negril said enviously: "Little one, you're lucky—eating Life Fruit since birth. I hope you live as long as an elf."

The baby stared with wide, clear black-and-white eyes, sucking hard on Ang's finger, unsure if she even understood.

At that moment, the Angel Descent Stele glowed again, and a voice rang out: "Omnipotent Lord, your faithful are suffering from plague. Please save us. Grant us holy water to drive away this dreadful dysentery."

As the voice spoke, the stele displayed another image—same first-person perspective. In the center stood a barrel filled with murky water.

Around the barrel, besides the first-person observer, a large crowd of ragged humans knelt, all bowing before the water.

"This is the cleanest water we could find. A few days ago, floods drowned rivers and wells, killing many people and livestock. Then dysentery broke out—everyone vomited and diarrhea'd, and soon collapsed. Omnipotent Lord, Old Bak, believer of Baki Village, leads all surviving villagers in offering our most devout faith. Please drive away the dysentery and save us."

Old Bak's voice carried despair and helplessness, nearly breaking into tears. He knew full well this was meaningless—decades of devotion to the Light, he'd prayed this way tens of thousands of times, never once seeing a miracle.

Whether his faith wasn't devout enough, or the gods of Light simply ignored people like him, he didn't know.

But why did the old nobleman, Sir Hall, never pray—and yet received miracles? He fell off his horse and became paralyzed, yet was healed. He'd even nearly whipped me last week, just because I blocked his horse.

But knowing no miracle would come, what else could Old Bak do?

This was their only hope. They couldn't even drink clean water—floods still hadn't receded, no dry firewood to boil water, only murky raw water to drink. Many had begun vomiting and diarrhea. What else could they do but pray?

Better to die quietly in prayer, numbing despair with hope, than to perish in bitter resentment. Old Bak, who'd lived half a century, no longer prayed for miracles—he only wished to lead his people to a peaceful death.

As the believers' prayers echoed in the image, strands of holy light gathered on the crystal stele, slowly forming a transparent crystal.

"Holy Crystal?" Negril recognized it instantly—Shamara had traded several, but all were black. Now, for the first time, she saw a white Holy Crystal.

"So Holy Crystals are formed from believers' faith? That's Faith Essence, just like Ang's Soul Crystals? Where's Shamara's black Holy Crystals from? Does she have believers too?" A cascade of questions flooded Negril's mind.

Ang gestured toward the Holy Crystal; it flew into his hand. After a brief glance, he stored it in the Palace of Rest.

Seeing this, Negril knew what he intended and immediately cleared space before the stele.

Equivalent exchange: Ang took the Holy Crystal, so he must return something.

Ang summoned holy light and reached into the stele.

Old Bak leapt up in excitement, staring in panic at his right hand: "It's… it's glowing! Glowing!"

Never expecting to witness a miracle, Old Bak held up his glowing hand, utterly bewildered: "What do I do? What do I do? It's glowing! The gods of Light have answered us!"

Negril snorted inwardly: Gods answered? Dream on. These steles are used by angelic spirits—given their mental capacity, it's probably just an automated response.

The other villagers were equally stunned. Old Bak, old and confused, didn't know what to do—how could they?

Ang tilted his head and reached toward the barrel.

Old Bak instantly felt his right hand move uncontrollably, plunging straight into the water.

His hand glowed with holy radiance; the murky water rapidly cleared, even the silt at the bottom vanished completely.

Soon, a barrel of crystal-clear water appeared—cleaner than water scooped from a pristine well.

Old Bak and the villagers trembled with excitement, surrounding the barrel, murmuring: "We're saved. We're saved. We're saved."

The image faded. Negril continued circling the stele, muttering:

"This stele is strange—it aids power transmission. Normally, projecting power into the material plane causes at least a tenfold decay, but with this stele, decay is much less. Ang, how much less decay does your projection onto the silver coin have compared to this stele?"

Ang silently calculated, then replied: "Five times less."

"Tsk, five times less? No wonder others can't beat the Church of Light. Others suffer tenfold decay; theirs only suffers a fewfold. No wonder Angel Descent is so powerful—even if you personally possessed the silver coin, you couldn't beat a priest with Angel Descent," Negril sighed.

The Church of Light's rise wasn't accidental—even their power projection had advantages.

As they spoke, the stele glowed again.

"Tsk, again? Is the Church of Light this busy?" As Negril spoke, the stele displayed another image—Old Bak, the same villagers.

"Omnipotent Lord, your faithful are suffering from hunger. Please save us. Grant us abundant food…"

Old Bak had fed the sick villagers the holy water—its effect was immediate. Their vomiting and diarrhea stopped, and now they cried out from hunger.

The starving, exhausted flood victims clung to this last straw, offering even stronger faith, begging for divine mercy.

Another Holy Crystal began forming—perhaps because their faith had grown stronger after the last miracle, the crystal formed faster.

Ang grabbed it, pulled out a sack of grain, and shoved it into the stele.

A sack of grain suddenly appeared before Old Bak.

Old Bak was stunned. One miracle was enough—but why was the Light God so quick?

This didn't make sense. How was this different from what the scriptures and epics described?

Ang's generosity made Old Bak doubt reality—but the sack was real. Inside: fresh, plump grain.

Chewing raw, hard rice, Old Bak still felt uneasy. Then a slick-faced villager sidled up, Shitandiwen: "Old Bak, shouldn't we pray again? Ask the gods for some firewood? Raw rice is awful to chew."

Old Bak glanced sideways at him and said: "If you hold true faith, the Light will answer your prayer. Go."

The slick villager chuckled nervously and retreated: "Gods won't answer me, heh, heh." He had some self-awareness.

The crystal stele dimmed and glowed again—extremely busy.

Unsurprisingly, the Church of Light's faith base was rock-solid: billions of believers, always praying. Many had unwavering faith—no single stele could handle it all.

After Ang responded several times, Negril stopped him: "Enough, enough. I get what these steles do. Don't answer them anymore—otherwise they'll think the Light Gods are answering, and all their faith will flow to the Light Gods."

Ang shook his head.

"What does shaking your head mean?" Negril asked.

"Here. It goes here." Ang stared at something, and behind his head, the Scale Ring slowly emerged.

"It goes into the Scale Ring? The faith essence from your responses flows here?" Negril exclaimed.

Ang nodded.

"But… but that's not a godhead. Can you use the Scale Ring to steal the Light system's faith, like Shamara, a false god?" Negril asked.

"No. They always, go here." Ang pointed at the Scale Ring, troubled—he couldn't explain clearly.

Fortunately, Negril was used to Ang's speech style and guessed: "You mean, after you respond, their believers' faith energy keeps flowing to you?"

Ang nodded.

"Holy crap. If that's true, you're not stealing faith—you're stealing believers. You're digging up their roots," Negril gasped.

Shamara stole faith, but remained within the Light system. Ang was tearing out the foundation itself.

Before Negril could say more, Phelin rushed in hurriedly, excitedly shouting: "My lord! My lord! The plant-person sprouted! The plant-person you planted has sprouted!"

"Sprouted?" Ang was surprised. The one planted in the Palace of Rest hadn't sprouted in days—this one had been planted less than a day, and already sprouted?

"But the sprout looks weak, my lord, please come quickly," Phelin cried urgently.