Chapter 229

From above, a carriage and a unicorn raced forward at right angles to each other, growing closer and closer until they passed at the exact point of intersection.

The undead and demon faces on the carriage all turned in shock to stare at the 'horse' that had just brushed past.

On the head of this 'horse' crouched a large cat; on its back sat a armored figure, a little girl, a skeleton, and a copper juvenile dragon—cramped together, six entities with six pairs of eyes, all tilted in unison toward the carriage, their gazes shifting as their relative positions changed.

Finally, they passed; the carriage moved from the left rear to the right rear of the horse, and the four beings on its back plus the cat on its head snapped their heads around in unison, continuing to tilt and stare at them.

The undead was stunned: Is this even a horse?

The demon face on the brazier blinked slowly and murmured: "Why does this seem familiar? Where have I seen them before?"

The undead exclaimed: "You know them? Turn back, they're turning around to chase us—do you owe them money? Otherwise, how dare they chase my carriage?"

In the Lands of Descent, anyone who owned a bone horse and carriage was inevitably a high-ranking undead or lich—like a Grand Sage—who would dare chase a high-ranking undead across the wasteland? Only if they truly owed them a fortune.

After speaking, the undead noticed no reply; he turned to see the brazier had gone dark, the demon face long vanished.

The undead was truly shocked now—this slippery demon had fled? Ran without even a word—had he recognized that group as something terrifying?

The undead immediately grew wary, his soul replaying the scene he'd just seen: What had the demon feared? The large cat on the horse's head? How terrifying could a cat be?

The little girl? Such a sweet, pale, adorable child—what could be frightening? He'd seen countless golden skeletons; none were terrifying.

The only unusual ones left were the copper juvenile dragon and the armored figure. The dragon wasn't scary—but if there was a juvenile dragon, didn't that mean an adult dragon was nearby?

But an adult dragon unseen couldn't possibly scare the Lord of Terror away—could it be because of the armored figure?

At that moment, Lightning caught up, riding alongside the carriage, six heads tilted toward the undead, the copper juvenile dragon at the rear speaking: "Hello, do you know where the Fourth Relay Tower is?"

The undead's heart skipped: Could it be this coincidental? Going to the Fourth Relay Tower now—could they really be the replacement?

He kept his face expressionless: "You're going to the Fourth Relay Tower? What a coincidence—I'm passing right by it. Follow me. May I ask, what's your business there?"

Negril answered honestly: "The night watchman at the Fourth Relay Tower doesn't want to stay anymore. We're here to replace him."

Of course—relay towers were always desolate places, rarely visited for years. Now, running into them head-on—only a replacement could make sense.

But the undead scanned them: "Which one of you is replacing him? The night watchman must feed the Relay Spirit—too weak a soul won't do, and only one person can feed it. The Relay Spirit recognizes only one soul; others who approach will be injured."

The undead looked around: only the skeleton and the armored figure fit the profile of undead beings; the rest were all living things, vividly alive—how could they possibly feed the Relay Spirit?

Negril pointed at the frontmost zombie: "It."

That fit the undead's understanding. Soon, a tall tower appeared on the horizon; the undead pointed: "The Fourth Relay Tower is there."

"Oh, thank you so much! We'd have missed it without you—thank you very much. May I ask your name?" Negril politely said.

It was hard on it—still remembered to ask someone's name.

"We're all travelers of the Lands of Descent—why bother remembering names? Goodbye." The undead waved casually; his bone horse, in sync with his soul, instantly accelerated toward the horizon.

Only after they vanished from sight did the carriage skid to a sudden halt, spinning sideways. The undead rose from the roof, gazing toward the relay tower.

Ange's group had shrunk to a tiny white dot, now beneath the tower.

Inside the carriage, the brazier suddenly reignited, flames coalescing into the face of the Lord of Terror.

The undead immediately cursed: "You demon—you can't be trusted! Ran off so fast—was it really that terrifying?"

"I was afraid they'd notice me—the unicorn is extremely sensitive to demonic energy," the Lord of Terror explained.

"Unicorn?" The undead froze. What unicorn?

"You didn't realize they were riding a unicorn?" The demon exclaimed.

"It's a horse! Where's its horn?" The undead was stunned.

"Covered by that big cat…"

The undead and the demon exchanged glances, both feeling the other was unreliable.

"Forget it—let's hurry. Don't miss the chance to take over while the Relay Spirit is asleep," the demon urged.

"And you?" the undead asked.

"I'll guard the carriage—don't want it stolen," the demon said.

The undead sneered: "Everything falls to me—you're just the carriage guard."

Though he grumbled, the undead still floated toward the relay tower.

Watching the undead's fading shadow, the demon's expression grew grave. He thought inwardly:

"If you knew one of those things contained a being that accelerates life, you'd beg to guard the carriage. What bad luck—again running into this group. Good thing he's undead—he won't be affected by life acceleration. And he's a powerful mage. Hopefully he won't be crushed like those pest controllers."

As the undead and demon spoke, Ange's group arrived beneath the relay tower. Far off, they saw a lich standing on tiptoe, gazing eagerly—when he spotted them, he rushed over like he'd found family.

Of course, that was before he saw clearly. Once he saw clearly, he froze: "You… are you this poor?"

Five things riding one horse—how destitute must you be to do that?

"Huh? Not poor! Oh, our horse is strong," Negril was baffled, then realized—he floated up and patted Lightning's rear: "See?"

Instantly, Lightning kicked him in the side, sending him flying like a ball: "Who are you calling a horse?! Where are you touching?!"

Negril flew back, fuming: "I'll deal with you later." He turned to the approaching lich: "Hello, we're here to replace the relay watchman. I'm Negril. What's your name?"

The lich scrutinized Ange's group, his cloudy eyes filled with hesitation and distrust: "I'm Holchuk. You're really here to replace me? Can you handle it?"

Holchuk, desperate to escape, asked only out of habit—he didn't care if they could manage. After verifying their identities, he said nothing, led them into the tower, and climbed toward the top.

Can you imagine someone who's watched a tower alone in the wilderness for thirty years—and now someone finally comes to relieve him? His heart would be screaming to leave immediately. Holchuk had been there for three hundred years.

As for whether anyone might trick him or harm the Relay Spirit—he didn't care. Anyone who understood what the Relay Spirit was would never dream of such a thing.

The Relay Spirit was the tower's most precious asset—a soul entity without intelligence, yet with soul strength dozens of times greater than high-ranking undead like Lich Lords or Golden Skeletons.

Yes, dozens of times.

A Golden Skeleton's mental range barely covered three to five kilometers. A Relay Spirit's reached forty.

Thanks to this vast range, messages sent via communication bone plates within its influence spread to every Relay Spirit's coverage zone.

Strip away its functions—essentially, it was a super-soul entity with a forty-kilometer mental reach. Try to harm it? One glare could shatter your soul.

Had it possessed intelligence, these Relay Spirits would have become terrifying forces within the Undead Empire.

But the main reason no one dared touch them? They were Havi's subjects. Though mindless, they retained memory. Harm one, and it would record your identity and send it to Havi. Pray now—you've been marked by the Lord of Mourning.

So Holchuk never feared anyone harming a Relay Spirit—unless they wanted to die. His job as night watchman wasn't to protect it, but to feed it soul energy daily, replenishing its consumption so it remained active.

Otherwise, these mindless entities loved nothing more than sleeping. Left unattended, they'd drift into slumber easily.

The group reached a door halfway up the tower. Holchuk searched, found a switch buried under cobwebs, and said awkwardly: "Haven't used it in centuries—almost forgot where it was."

He brushed off the grime and pushed hard—uh, stuck. Didn't move.

"It jams?" Negril leaned in curiously. The World Transit Station hadn't moved in a thousand years—yet never jammed. The demon valley's teleport array was broken, but input soul energy and it repaired itself automatically.

With such self-repair capability, he'd never seen undead empire structures jam.

Holchuk pushed harder, harder, harder—if he were still alive, he'd be drenched in sweat. Finally, he forced the switch down: "Too long unused. Once you take over, oil it every few decades."

As the switch pressed, the entire relay tower trembled slightly. After a moment, everyone felt the powerful soul above fall silent.

Even before entering, they'd sensed the Relay Spirit's immense presence. Everyone except Ange felt oppressive—even the most energetic little angel grew quieter. Now, the pressure vanished.

As the pressure lifted, a wisp of gray mist drifted to the tower's base and slowly rose along its walls.

Holchuk waited a moment longer, then opened the door and continued climbing to the summit.

Soon, they reached the top—directly before them, inside the array, loomed a massive soul flame, as large as a washbasin.

Normal undead soul flames were fist-sized. This Relay Spirit's flame was at least a hundred times larger.

Negril instantly understood the Relay Spirit's mechanism: "So that's how—it explains the strength."

Holchuk blinked: "How what?"

Negril smiled mysteriously, saying nothing. This was a good method—Ange could use it to create such powerful entities. Why tell anyone?

Holchuk didn't press. His only desire now was to finish the handover. He stepped forward.

At that moment, a ball flew in through the window, landing beside the Relay Spirit and exploding violently—a mental impulse struck the already-sleeping spirit.

Everyone froze in shock. Ange reacted first—shot out the window in a flash, seeing only an undead rapidly drifting down the tower.

Ange didn't hesitate—summoned a fireball and hurled it.

The undead materialized, face filled with surprise—he hadn't expected Ange's reaction so fast.

But seeing Ange's fireball, his expression shifted to confusion and disdain. Confusion: a skeleton casting magic? Skeletons could learn magic?

Disdain: casting magic in front of him? He was a lich mage.

The undead flicked his hand—the incoming fireball vanished—Dispel.

High-level mages could disrupt elemental control and suppress spirit, stripping enemies of magic. The closer the spell was to the caster, the stronger the effect.

"I didn't expect a stupid skeleton to learn magic. Who taught you?" the undead asked curiously.

Ange tilted his head: "No one."

"No teacher? Then who taught you magic?" The undead was more intrigued—how could a skeleton learn magic? An impossible feat.

"Self-taught." Ange answered honestly.

The undead laughed as if hearing the greatest joke: "Hahahaha! You won't even admit who taught you? Self-taught? A stupid skeleton creating magic? Then I'm the God of Truth! Let a real mage teach you what magic truly is."

Enraged, the undead swept his hand before him—a row of fireballs identical to Ange's appeared before him.

Clearly, this undead's magic skill was no joke—he didn't cast the standard Level 4 fireball, but a compressed Level 2 miniature version.

After seeing Ange's single spell, he perfectly replicated it—proof of his exceptional magical mastery.

He intended to blast this lying skeleton to pieces. Though rare, a magic-wielding skeleton didn't earn the right to lie. Self-taught magic?

He himself, a lich mage, had never created a spell.

No sooner had he spoken than the undead saw Ange make the exact same motion—hand sweeping forward, producing a row of identical fireballs.