Chapter 224: Lord of Mourning—!

After the Eternal Night descended, the human territories west of the Central Mountains also became active; soldiers, laborers, and farmers—some armed with fine or crude equipment, dragging carts and wheelbarrows—began converging from all directions.

The teleportation array glowed without pause, as if plugged into a power circuit, while countless griffins flew back and forth across the sky, ferrying people in and out.

The only ones idle and unsure what to do were Ange and his group.

Serina held the large cat, Shamara clutched a washbasin, and Lu Se ran out and stole three white robes—one for himself, one for the little zombie, one for the little angel.

Honestly, the little angel's pale, soft, adorable appearance, wrapped in the white robe, looked exactly like a pure virgin saint.

Ange put on a scarecrow hat, had the little angel ride on Lei Ting, and suddenly their group became a procession escorting a saintess to Shengbicheng—such a group was utterly unremarkable amid the chaos, and many even bowed to them.

They found where Branduo and the others were staying and had the three of them lead the way.

Young Branduo was bewildered: why had the lord returned with so many people? He was about to ask, but his father dragged him aside: "Yes, my lord." Branduo spoke as he pulled his son and nephew ahead to lead.

Negrilis was shoved back into the Anxi Palace; among this crowd, he, the underdeveloped Huang Tong dragon, was the most conspicuous.

Projected onto Ange, Negrilis muttered in awe: "These church folks are all shrewd ones—they're masters at reading the air."

Shamara deeply understood: "They're no longer pure. Everyone's faith is clouded by desires and obsessions; everyone has learned scheming, forgotten their original mission, and lost sight of their followers and the people… the purest holy light—I've only seen it on you. But you're undead heretics…"

"Oh, so that's why you turned completely dark after meeting us. I get it now." Negrilis exclaimed.

Guided by the three "elite" holy knights Branduo and under the aura of the little angel riding the unicorn, Ange's group entered Shengbicheng without difficulty.

But once inside the city, everyone grew lost and turned to Shamara: "Where now?"

Shamara was equally lost; her inner voice told her to come to Shengbicheng, but not where within it—perhaps the time hadn't come yet, so she sensed nothing now.

Shengbicheng was now a vast military camp; all activities yielded to military needs. The streets teemed with disciplined soldiers, priests, clerics, and archers.

Their confusion soon drew attention; a knight rode over and called from afar: "Are you the Saintess procession? The Saintess group is assigned to the wall—only Sector Four has space now. This way, please."

Negrilis muttered under his breath: "It's like watching a play—there are even reserved spots?"

Once on the wall, they understood what "reserved spot" meant: defense positions.

Below the straight wall stretched an endless expanse of the Deadlands; the earth was now covered in undead, and from the wall, all one saw were countless pinpricks of blue light—the eye sockets of skeletons.

The wall was divided into hundred-meter sections, each requiring a saintess to hold it; saintesses could do too much—blessings, prayers, morale boosts, and sometimes even spirit possession to serve as frontline combatants.

In addition, each section was assigned an equal number of priests, clerics, swordsmen, shieldbearers, archers, trebuchets, and crossbows—balanced and complete.

But Negrilis was confused: "Your church only has a dozen or so saintesses, right? Why does no one seem to recognize us? And why random assignments? No training or coordination needed? Just shove any saintess into any empty spot?"

"What else can we do? We're already overwhelmed, and we can't predict who will arrive. Whoever comes fills the gap. Who told you the church only has a dozen saintesses? Only a dozen are active; add those still training, the young, the retired, the married—there are hundreds. Anyone capable of spirit possession counts as a saintess."

"Oh, I get it—dozen active, dozens in reserve, but still only around a hundred. Surely you'd all know each other?"

"Because they're not on the same plane. Some have never set foot in the Fallen Lands. Every saintess, cleric, and Divine Knight with their own unit has a badge. Each badge carries a Supreme Mobilization Order; whenever it glows, everyone must drop everything and respond immediately."

"But since seven hundred years ago, the undead assaults have weakened yearly. Back then, they had a Purple-Gold Skeleton commanding the whole front—the church had to pour all its strength just to hold them. Every battle cost the church heavy casualties."

"Purple-Gold Skeleton? There's one on the other side? Why didn't Anthony mention this?" Negrilis cried out in alarm.

"Yes, a Purple-Gold Skeleton. Maybe he didn't know. Juliani told me—since church texts kept burning for no reason, important matters are no longer written down but passed orally. Some secrets aren't even known by regional bishops. And the Purple-Gold Skeleton hasn't appeared in seven hundred years."

Ange and Negrilis exchanged thoughts silently—why would texts burn without cause? Apparently, someone had realized this centuries ago and started guarding against him.

Of course—burning so many texts, if the church didn't start guarding against him, they'd be fools.

Seven hundred years ago, Anthony was still struggling to lay his groundwork on the main plane—he'd never come to the Fallen Lands. But more importantly, he didn't want the undead to push back.

Billions of undead flooding into the main plane would shatter it.

Because of this mindset, Anthony avoided the Fallen Lands entirely in his early years—so much so that he didn't even know someone had broken through to become a Purple-Gold Skeleton.

"Until seven hundred years ago, that Purple-Gold Skeleton vanished for no known reason. Since then, undead assaults have weakened yearly, now barely routine. The Supreme Mobilization Order no longer requires full response—those willing respond, those unwilling can stay."

"But people still gladly respond—it's not just a chance to earn merit, but also to expand connections. Look."

Following Shamara's gesture, they looked afar—the wall was filled with people moving about, holding gold and silver cards, approaching suitable targets, chatting, exchanging, quickly becoming familiar.

Indeed, someone spotted Ange's group and came over to greet them; Branduo handled them skillfully, and soon collected several cards.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the staircase; people rushed over, gasping: "Oh my god, the Eastern Church has arrived!"

"What? Anthony's people dare come? Didn't he break away?"

He broke away, but did not crown himself emperor—he remains merely a Grand Archbishop, acknowledging the Church as orthodox, yet refuses to obey its orders until the demonic forces lurking within are eradicated.

"Who's leading them?"

"The Duke of Heishan—the new holder of the Earthly Sacred Hammer."

"Wait, Heishan Duchy is in the Western Church—how did it become Anthony's?"

"This… this… Grand Archbishop Anthony has incredible tactics."

"Wait, you just called him Anthony—why are you calling him 'my lord' now?"

Ange and Negrilis exchanged thoughts—they knew who had arrived.

Indeed, a elite unit ascended the ramp; at its head was the bastard son of the Duke of Heishan, whom he himself called Heishan—the same man Ange had briefly met in Luolan.

Compared to his former destitution, Heishan was now utterly transformed—dressed in luxurious gear, radiating noble bearing.

Behind him, a squad of elite soldiers marched up; their armor drew gasps from all: "Elven Mage Armor? Good heavens, did the Duke of Heishan raid the Mage Guild? Where did he get enough Elven Mage Armor to equip his soldiers?"

"Even if he had money, how could he buy so much? Elves won't sell it to you."

Perhaps sensing or anticipating such whispers, a goblin trotted over with a warm smile, bowed, and handed out cards: "I have these. Need any?"

Others' cards were gold or silver; this goblin's was wooden—thick, like a wooden plaque. When first offered, many faces showed disdain: "Typical goblin—so stingy."

But due to the goblin's enthusiasm, they reluctantly accepted—then instantly changed expression upon touch.

The strong sensed pure life force on it; the weak felt a cool, refreshing aura. Closer inspection revealed a ring of bindweed along the edge—alive.

This vine thrived by parasitizing strong-living plants. Did this plaque possess immense life force?

Connecting it to the warriors' Elven Mage Armor, everyone instantly realized what this plaque was: "World Tree plaque? Good heavens—you use a World Tree as a business card?"

"Hehe." The goblin grinned innocently: "We've got plenty at home. Worthless, worthless."

Everyone felt tricked—the World Tree was singular, the elves' most treasured possession. Yet this goblin claimed "plenty at home, worthless"?

But regardless, using a World Tree as a business card proved his power—everyone instantly warmed to him.

Soon, the goblin approached this side; far off, he saw a crowd gathered, too many to count, faces obscured—only a horse's rear end looked familiar, but no head visible.

White horses were everywhere; the goblin didn't think twice, exchanged cards with Branduo and the others, then left.

After the goblin departed, the crowd dispersed. Seryna and Shamara, who'd been forcibly pulled to block the view, asked puzzled: "What was that? Do you know that goblin?"

Negrilis, too lazy to explain, muttered: "Know him? Owe him a lot of money."

"Oh." Seryna understood, hugged the big cat, and quietly, quietly moved away.

Shamara, however, pulled out two Holy Crystals and pressed them into Ange's hand: "That's all I have."

Ange tilted his head in confusion—why give him Holy Crystals?

Just as he thought to return them, the tiny wraith coiled around his finger lunged out, clutching one tightly.

Negrilis was embarrassed—he'd only said it offhand to avoid explaining, yet Shamara had pulled out money to repay the debt. Were all of Ange's acquaintances this single-minded? Couldn't they tell joke from truth?

It wasn't just about the money—dealing with Ange, the equal-value skeleton, meant he'd have to repay something in kind.

"Keep it. Pay her back with something else later," Negrilis sighed.

He had no choice—the tiny wraith had already dissolved a tenth of the Holy Crystal, shrunk a bit, then collapsed, letting out a huge "Haaah."

"So it eats Holy Crystals?" Shamara asked curiously. She'd seen the wraith before but didn't understand its nature—a holy wraith? The idea felt absurd.

"Wuuuuu~~~" A horn blared from beyond the Deadlands, shaking the earth; the undead carpet, like a living rug, slowly parted, revealing a path stretching across the land straight toward Shengbicheng.

Shengbicheng had no gate—it was a saddle pass where the mountain ranges met, forming a gap. The Church of Light had built a seven-hundred-meter-long wall across the gap, erecting countless defense towers and shields to firmly hold it.

The parted path led straight to the wall—and to the other end, where they saw a purple-gold figure.

"Lord of Mourning—!" A voice, hoarse as a castrato robbed of his treasure, shrieked the name with unprecedented shrillness and terror.

The wall fell silent, then confusion spread—most didn't know what "Lord of Mourning" meant, exchanging glances, whispering.

On the high platform behind the wall, Dai Sen, the Grand Archbishop, leapt out, eyes glowing with holy light, fixed on the purple-gold skeleton at the path's end, trembling, muttering: "Why did it come? Why now? Not seen in seven hundred years—why now, in my tenure? I % # $ @ * #"

After cursing, Dai Sen screamed in a voice sharper than a castrato: "Raise the shields to maximum! Max! Soul Towers and Defense Towers to full power! Add more magic crystals! Hurry! All weapons, everyone—prepare! Be ready for Spirit Summoning! Quick, quick, quick! Don't want to die? Move!"

Everyone heard infinite dread and panic in Dai Sen's voice.

As Dai Sen screamed, the purple-gold skeleton moved.