Chapter 227: Dare to Burn My Fields

How could Kaelandael possibly know that there exists a crop that requires the blessing of a sapling to sprout—and thus cannot be grown at all?

"What do we do? We killed it. The God of Life will be furious." Kaelandael was about to cry.

Now, their relationship with Ang had deteriorated to this state—solely due to the elves' fault, and worse, an act of ingratitude.

Back then, they had panicked and grown angry upon seeing the God of Life shed all its leaves, but two months have passed, and the truth proved Nage's words were not lies.

The Tree of Life had not died; when the bark was peeled back, the branches and trunk were lush green, healthier than ever, and even the diseased limbs showed fading—or vanishing—gray patches.

Ang was truly healing the God of Life.

And now, the elf race had not only scared away the God of Life's savior, but also killed the new crop they had cultivated. When the God of Life awakens, how furious will it be?

If it were an ordinary crop, it might be acceptable—just compensate, tenfold. The elves were wealthy and powerful; money barely mattered to them.

But these crops could not be compensated. Saltwater Demon Rice—unprecedented, a high-yield crop grown in saline-alkaline soil—if killed, would be not only Ang's loss, but the loss of all living species.

Though no detailed statistics existed, at least twenty percent of the entire plane's arable land was saline-alkaline, meaning if fully reclaimed, the plane's usable farmland could increase by at least twenty percent.

That was the entire plane—twenty percent more land—enough to feed hundreds of millions more people. A terrifying number.

Yet that was only saline land; wetlands and tidal flats along the coast had not even been counted. If widely adopted, this was a divine substance capable of reshaping the entire continent's fate.

And now, this divine substance was about to be killed by her.

Just the guilt of being a Druid who had killed a new species would make her burst into tears.

Geraad's expression also turned grave. Kaelandael had repeatedly explained to her the importance of Saltwater Demon Rice—if it truly died, even offering herself as compensation would be useless.

"What do we do now?" Geraad asked.

"Find Ang, and beg his forgiveness."

…

The elves began searching the world for Ang, while Ang, whom they were searching for, now crouched on a stone platform, watching humans process rice—and only then did he realize humans had so many ways to dehull grain.

Mortar and pestle, of course, were nothing new—but they could also use a roller: place rice between two flat stones, press down hard on the top stone, and slide it forcefully.

There were also pounding, beating, and other methods—all inefficient, but compensated by sheer numbers; after much labor, they obtained a batch of dehulled rice.

They placed the rice into buckets and stared expectantly at Ang. They no longer found this skeleton terrifying; instead, they found him gentle and kind, even slightly handsome.

After all, who could pull out buckets of clean water and rice while one was starving and thirsty without becoming handsome?

Too bad there was no pot—cooking the rice into porridge became another challenge.

Ang didn't find it difficult. He poured water into the bucket until it rose one finger's height above the rice, then summoned fire elements. Soon, the water in the wooden bucket boiled.

Negril leaned over and said: "Be careful. Don't set the bucket on fire."

After pulling out Brandu and the other three, Ang casually "summoned" everyone else as well.

Everyone assumed it was summoning—including Brandu. They didn't realize Ang had pierced space to pull them from another dimension; the difficulty was entirely different.

Seeing this bizarre group—dragon, horse, human, cat, and holy maiden—Brandu was no longer surprised, and didn't even want to ask.

If any villager showed doubt, he would immediately rush over to warn them, so everyone else also grew "unsurprised" by this group.

Ang would never set the bucket on fire. He controlled all fire elements strictly within the bucket's interior, where only water and rice existed. Once activated, the heat rapidly transferred into the water; as long as the water didn't boil dry, the wooden bucket wouldn't burn.

Heat made the water boil, heating the rice inside. Soon, the rice turned into porridge, bubbling and releasing fragrant steam.

Everyone involuntarily gathered around, staring hungrily at the porridge, swallowing saliva.

"So thick! The spoon doesn't even sink to the bottom. Too thick—I've never eaten porridge this thick, not even on Holy Light Festival. Can we eat it yet?"

"Yes, yes! Who ever eats porridge this thick? This is the kind only noble lords in Shengbicheng get to eat. If I cooked it, I'd never dare use so much rice."

Some women's eyes sparkled as they whispered among themselves. In this barren plane, many had never seen pure grain cooked into food—whether porridge, rice, or bread—always mixed with vast quantities of edible filler.

Like wild greens, tree bark, moss, mushrooms, even white clay—stretching one meal's grain into two or three, flavor no longer mattered, only fullness did.

Without mixing, once the grain ran out, the rest was inedible.

The porridge Ang cooked was something they wouldn't dare prepare even on the grandest festival.

The only time they ever tasted such food was during Holy Light Festival, when priests, clerics, and holy maidens from Shengbicheng's grand cathedral freely handed out holy cakes—the best food most had ever eaten in their lives.

If Ang's porridge could be shared with them, their idea of the best food might forever change to this bucket of porridge.

But as the porridge boiled, Ang didn't stop—he kept cooking, letting vast amounts of steam escape, the porridge in the bucket growing ever thinner.

Seeing this, many hearts clenched: "Still cooking? If you keep going, it'll dry out!"

"Uh, Holy Skeleton Lord… you're not trying to cook the legendary rice, are you?"

"Rice? The legendary kind where the spoon stands upright without falling, made entirely of grain, and just a few bites keep you full for days?"

The topic of rice instantly ignited. Despite their hunger, they excitedly chatted about exaggerated legends of "rice."

Negril heard their words and felt both amused and pitiful—everyday food from the main plane had been deified. The daily lives of these bottom-dwelling residents of the Abyss were unimaginable.

He couldn't help recalling the bloated children in the slums. Negril said: "Add salt. Otherwise, it's flavorless. You still have some salted lamb meat, right? Slice a few pieces."

Even Brandu couldn't hold back anymore. He leaned over and whispered: "Lord, did you just say… salt?"

"Yes, salt. What's wrong?" Negril asked, puzzled.

Lake Dagu was a saline lake; many places along its shore had natural salt deposits. Ang had dug up several bags and stored them in his space.

In the slums, Negril had wanted to give salt to that little girl—but feared she'd be robbed, so he hadn't taken it out.

Brandu said, moved: "It's too precious. Here, salt is worth more than gold."

Soon, the rice was cooked. With the right amount of salt and salted meat, it smelled delicious, making many drool.

No bowls? Ang shaped rice balls—each person received one, holding and gnawing it. Many shed happy tears, and Ang gained a large amount of pure soul flame.

With this bucket of rice, the humans' favor toward Ang skyrocketed. They now called him Holy Skeleton Lord.

After everyone had eaten their fill, Brandu and others began escorting the villagers down the mountain. Serina enthusiastically invited them to settle in Qiaotoubao.

In the Abyss, villages with too few people couldn't survive. After Eternal Night, the first to vanish were always those with sparse populations.

Not long after leaving the cave, they saw Dagu idly crouching by the roadside, staring longingly toward the cave.

Negril flew over, curiously asking: "Why haven't you left yet?"

"You?" Dagu immediately recognized this as the consciousness that had once inhabited Ang.

"That's convenient. And you? Why are you afraid of humans?" Negril asked, puzzled.

Dagu sighed: "Too fragile. Falls off. Can't reattach."

Negril's expression stiffened: "You mean, when humans lose arms or heads, they can't be reattached—so you're afraid of breaking them?"

Dagu nodded.

"You're truly a kind skeleton. Then go farther away. Better not follow us." Negril tried to persuade it to leave.

"No. You scared me." Dagu clung to this point.

But when humans approached, Dagu ran off again.

This had become a burden—a hanger-on. Dagu followed from afar, never approaching humans, yet refusing to leave.

Negril had no solution, hoping this stupid skeleton would grow bored and leave on its own.

Unfortunately, before that hope could materialize, Negril turned—and the little zombie and little angel were gone. When it turned back, those two had somehow appeared before Dagu, yelling "ao ao ao," as if speaking.

Negril's heart leapt—fine, the zombie was one thing, but the little angel was now a true angel, radiating pure holy light, inherently hostile to undead. Don't let them fight.

It flapped its wings and rushed over—only to see Dagu spread its hands, and the little angel leaped hard, landing on its palm, then bounced to its shoulder, plopping down.

"Aoo!"

"Aoo? I don't understand. I'm Dagu. What's your name?"

"Aoo!"

"You're called 'Aoo'? Nice to meet you. I'm Dagu."

"Aoo aoo!"

"Aoo aoo!"

Clearly, they were speaking different languages—but miraculously, the three managed to converse. Soon, the little zombie also climbed onto Dagu's shoulder, and Dagu ran around carrying both.

"This… works? You can make friends like this?" Negril was stunned.

Seeing they wouldn't fight, Negril relaxed and flew toward Ang. As it flew, the communication bone plaque hanging from its neck suddenly rang.

"Ladies and gentlemen, zombies and bones, hello! After three hundred years of companionship, it's time to say goodbye. The frontline relay station's mission is complete. We've broken through the evil human defenses, seized the entire Abyss, opened the path home—we're coming to Anxi Palace."

The passionate speech came from the very voice that had called Ang insane.

The bone plaque fell silent for a long while, then a weak voice replied: "This is Relay Tower Three. Don't you know that after seizing the Abyss, we still have to invade the main plane to return to Anxi Abyss? And after reaching Anxi Abyss, we must check if the World Transit Station is intact, only then can we send a request—and only when Anxi Palace responds can we enter?"

"Huh?! So many steps?! Oh no, how long will I have to wait to go home?!" The voice that called Ang insane sounded like it was about to cry.

"How long? The main plane has a plane barrier—much harder than the Abyss. We fought here for a thousand years; the main plane might take three thousand. Who knows?" the weak voice replied.

"Three thousand years?! I'll die of boredom! I don't want this! I quit!"

"Quit? Fine. Just tell the Grand Sage. Someone will come to replace you."

"I can quit?" The voice that called Ang insane was completely stunned.

"Of course. What's wrong with that? Just say it."

"But the one who assigned me here told me: 'Want to quit? Only when you die.'"

"... Are you still alive?"

"I..."

"Hey? Hey? What? Hey? Hey? Did you run?" The weak voice called repeatedly, but the voice that called Ang insane never replied again.

"Ran off so fast. Such a good post, and someone still doesn't want it. What a waste. The land around the relay tower belongs to you. If bored, raise pets, take in humans, till the land, grow crops, build a town—keep it lively and you won't be bored. Oh, by the way, buying salt. Anyone with salt, contact me: Relay Tower Three."

When the bone plaque mentioned "till the land and grow crops," Negril sensed a figure appear before it. Its heart sank—trouble.

Sure enough, it looked up and saw Ang standing before it, the soul flames in his eye sockets blazing fiercely, fixed on the bone plaque.

Negril swallowed hard: "W-we'll plant back in the main plane, okay? The soil's richer."

Ang shook his head: "Elves."

Negrilis forced himself to say, "Can we go back to the Abyss of Rest and plant there? There are no elves there."

Ang shook his head: "The soil isn't fertile."

"But it's too dangerous here! Who knows if Harvey will find us? What if he burns your fields?" Negrilis pleaded desperately—this was the Land of Despair, what kind of place was this?

This plane had just been unified by undead creatures, and a Lord of Mourning still lurked here—it was extremely dangerous. The Lord had never imagined Ang would even consider planting crops here.

Yet upon reflection, Ang hadn't properly farmed since the elves drove him out of the main plane, and no other land's soil or environment could match this one.

Realizing these points, Negrilis knew trouble was coming—the Purple Gold Skull might not stop Ang's soul from planting.

Sure enough, Ang's skull burst into roaring soul flames as he spoke in a dangerously calm tone: "You dare burn my fields?"

Da Gu, who had been playing with the little angel and the little zombie, suddenly felt a pang of dread and instinctively turned his head toward them.