Chapter 233: Reward: Heavenly Scepter

Ang wants to farm! Even if Harvey comes, he won't stop Ang from farming—no one can stop him!

Ang first flew into the air to observe for a moment, then landed and gripped his sickle upside-down, blade pointing downward, slicing across the ground as he sprinted, effortlessly carving straight, perpendicular guide lines.

Along these guide lines, the little zombie swung its hoe rapidly, quickly digging straight trenches, piling the excavated soil to one side into ridges; soon, the field took shape with neat rows of trenches and ridges.

The little angel carried the Earth Sacred Hammer, running back and forth across the field, smashing large rocks with a single strike.

Huang Tong, the bronze dragon, flew back and forth carrying the seed sower; each time his tiny claws moved, seeds fell precisely into the trenches and ridges.

Cover the soil, water it, press down footprints, then look up at the sky.

The sky was pitch-black, eternal night.

Wrong again. Try again.

Collect broken stones, build drainage ditches, transplant the glowing moss, and cultivate it.

While cultivating the glowing moss, also start seedlings: first artificially raise soil temperature indoors, provide suitable light, germinate the seeds, then transplant them outdoors.

This kind of operation would become an enormous undertaking; Ang and his few companions couldn't handle it alone.

Ang ran a full circle around the relay tower, pulling as he ran, like dancing; the skeletons and zombies slumbering beneath the ground were all yanked upright by him.

Three hundred-odd scattered skeletons, under Ang's control, marched into the field—and chaos erupted immediately.

"This won't work, Ang. These skeletons have no souls—they're just animated by your royal presence. It's easy to make them charge and slash wildly, but asking them to bend down and transplant crops? That's too much. You can micro-manage five or so with your mind, but not this many—they'll just get tangled."

Ang tried controlling five skeletons as Negrilis suggested; indeed, they were far more orderly than a mob of skeletons crammed into the field.

But this control stopped the moment Ang stopped.

Ang selected a sturdy skeleton, condensed a soul flame, and injected it into its skull—thus was born a skeleton with autonomous soul.

Recalling what the lord had done to him, Ang did the same to this skeleton: he implanted all his farming techniques into it.

Yet Ang still underestimated the problem—the skeleton, even after receiving farming knowledge, still spun in circles when placed in the field.

"How could this happen?" Ang, baffled, dragged Negrilis over.

"Perhaps this skeleton's soul is too weak to process such complex knowledge," Negrilis speculated. "Like teaching a fool every magic in the world—he still couldn't cast a single spell."

"We can." Ang meant the farm's skeletons—all of them, including himself, were low-grade skeletons.

Why could he handle farm work, but these skeletons couldn't? Was the knowledge he implanted wrong?

Negrilis sized him up, scowling: "Though I hate to admit it, from every angle, your intelligence isn't low—I suspect you sometimes pretend to be stupid. Maybe the farm's skeletons were specially selected, or created by non-standard methods—like this…"

As he spoke, Negrilis pulled out several spherical objects, dislodged from the extradimensional beast—likely picked up from the corpse of the undead. These spheres resembled the one that had contained the Terror Spirit.

"After studying them, I found these spheres can nurture souls. Place them in areas thick with death aura, and they'll generate souls. This one already contains a soul fragment—probably another three or four months before the soul flame fully forms."

"Too slow," Ang said, reaching out to take it, then shoving it into the Palace of Rest.

A lone hand drifted to a large barrel, lifted the lid, and tossed the sphere inside.

The barrel was filled with Death Essence Liquid, within which floated a purple-gold skeleton.

After soaking for a while, Ang retrieved the sphere—the soul flame had already formed inside.

Negrilis held the sphere, his emotions turbulent: "Why didn't that undead find you sooner? Each of these spheres holds a soul fragment at varying stages—clearly, that undead collected death aura in batches to nurture them."

If he'd known someone could luxuriously use liquid death aura to accelerate soul formation, he'd have wept on the ground, regretting every wasted effort.

"I don't know what these spheres are called—I'll temporarily name them Soul Spheres. They bear the inscription of Du Luo, likely invented by him. This suggests the undead was almost certainly the night watchman of the Sleep Graveyard." Negrilis muttered.

But Ang wasn't interested in his rambling—he acted on his own, channeling the soul flame from the sphere into a skeleton, then tossing the emptied spheres back into the Death Essence Liquid barrel. After a while, he fished them out again—each now held a new soul flame.

In this way, Ang accumulated dozens of soul flames—but this method consumed Death Essence Liquid at a staggering rate; soon, the barrel's liquid level dropped, exposing the hollow eye sockets of Luo Ke's skull, eerily visible.

This was Ang's last barrel of Death Essence Liquid. Without returning to the Palace of Rest, it was nearly impossible to obtain such pure Death Essence Liquid.

Fine. Dozens of soul flames were enough for testing. Ang channeled them all into skeletons, reanimating sixty undead skeletons.

After studying and comparing these skeletons, Ang found their intelligence had slightly increased. Carefully selecting them, he found three with notably higher intelligence—they could grasp part of the farming knowledge he implanted.

How much they grasped wasn't key—what mattered was whether they could apply it. These three could perform simple tasks: hoeing, transplanting seedlings, watering, sowing.

That was enough. The original farm skeletons could only do these things too; Ang's many abilities came later.

With three extra skeletons helping, Ang's transplanting speed increased dramatically. Combined with the little zombie, he now had five workers for transplanting seedlings. Why not include the little angel? It couldn't handle such delicate work—it was a miracle if it didn't destroy the seedlings entirely.

Soon, rows of glowing moss shimmered across the pitch-black earth, between them, sturdy green seedlings stood in perfect alignment.

Ang walked to the center of the field, stepped on the soil. Three hours later, all the seedlings were malnourished, yellowing and withering, unable to even form flower spikes before dying.

Negrilis scratched his head, dejected: "It seems the light from the glowing moss isn't strong enough to satisfy the Rapid Death Aura. Maybe we should stop planting until the Eternal Night ends."

No one answered. He turned—Ang was crouched on the field ridge, chin propped on his hands, silently staring at the field, as if deep in thought.

The little angel and little zombie crouched beside him; Da Gu sat nearby; Da Mao perched atop Da Gu's skull like a furry hat. The scene was calm, peaceful.

Seeing this, Negrilis suddenly realized: right—they didn't need to eat. Whether they grew crops or not didn't matter. Solving problems, thinking through them—that was Ang's true pleasure.

From planting glowing moss, Holy Mushrooms, to sugar beets, long-grain rice, saltwater rice, World Trees—Ang never fixated on what to plant. As long as he could farm, he was satisfied.

As long as he could farm, did it matter where the King had gone, or the army of the Sleep Graveyard? No. Even to Negrilis himself, it didn't matter—he was merely satisfying his own curiosity.

Realizing this, Negrilis's despair vanished. He exhaled, flew to the other side of the ridge, crouched down, and tilted his head to gaze at the dazzling sky.

For the first time, he calmly observed the Eternal Night sky—the inverted ribbons of light, the only source of illumination. Though dim, they cast clear silhouettes, like a moonlit night.

As he watched, Negrilis suddenly perked up, eyes wide, murmuring: "Could these light ribbons be chaotic flows spewing from spatial rifts?"

Unfortunately, nothing could carry him up to investigate—he could only stare helplessly. Just then, Ang turned his head toward the distance—a cloud of mist drifted slowly, hesitantly, as if ready to flee at any moment.

Only when it spotted the tall, conspicuous Da Gu did the mist quicken its pace, calling out from afar: "It's me, it's me, my lord—it's Ferrik!"

The mist drifted closer, solidifying into Ferrik's form.

"Greetings, my lords… What happened here? Isn't this Relay Tower Four? How did it become like this? Is Holquch here?" Ferrik was bewildered.

As a necromancer merchant, he traveled constantly. Though this place held no business potential, he occasionally passed through. It had once been a desolate, silent wasteland—how had it transformed into this?

So many neat, orderly fields—this required a human settlement of thousands! But where were the people?

"Oh, Ferrik? We just made these fields—nothing special. Don't be so shocked. What are you doing here?" Negrilis crossed his arms, acting as if it were trivial.

Ferrik sized up Negrilis, smiling awkwardly with an expression that screamed "I don't believe you for a second." But he didn't press it, instead answering Negrilis's question:

"My lord, I've been promoted—I'm no longer a merchant. Now I'm an official in the Trade Department under the Grand Sage, handling trade matters. I'm here to find a source for grain." Ferrik spoke excitedly.

As a lone, powerless merchant, Ferrik's greatest pain was having no patron—everyone could bully him. His speed in paying taxes to Brandu proved how accustomed he was to such treatment.

Now he had a chance to ally with the greatest patron of the Abyss—the Grand Sage. Though Harvey was stronger, the Grand Sage governed the entire Abyss.

With the Grand Sage as his patron, who would dare tax him again on the trade routes?

Negrilis sneered: "You got promoted because your trade routes collapsed, didn't you? Without promotion, you couldn't even be a merchant—your customers are all gone."

Caught out instantly, Ferrik's form nearly dissolved in shame. "Well, yes, that's partly true. We broke through the human lines—those who couldn't escape became prisoners. Who's left to buy anything?"

"So what? You don't need to eat. Are you afraid of starving? Now that you've joined the Grand Sage, failing your quota means punishment."

"Yes, yes! We have quotas—fail them, and we're punished. Bronze Dragon Lord, you're so wise—you understand everything!" Ferrik flattered enthusiastically.

"Hahaha, you've got good taste." Negrilis crossed his arms, tail raised high.

"To avoid my punishment, I beg your lordship's help." Ferrik pressed on.

Negrilis smirked knowingly: "You want grain?"

Ferrik nodded like a chick pecking grain.

"Why would you think to buy grain from us? Do we look like we have any?" Negrilis asked curiously.

"Yes!" Ferrik declared firmly. "There were cultivated fields in that cave, and now these freshly tilled fields here. You must be expert farmers. If even you have no grain, I don't know where else to find surplus food."

Negrilis nodded approvingly: "Sharp observation." Then his tone shifted: "But we have none. We planted, but nothing grew. The crops in the cave haven't even sprouted—come see for yourself: everything here is dead."

Ferrik had already seen the field. He sighed in disappointment: "Even you don't have any? That's terrible. Most humans have evacuated the Abyss. Future supplies will dwindle or vanish entirely. The population we once supported can no longer be fed—we'll have to let half die. Starvation… it's unbearable."

Negrilis fell silent. It was a harsh reality. The Abyss was barren, unfit for life—even worse than the Palace of Rest.

The Palace of Rest at least had normal day-night cycles. Here, Eternal Night came every three months. Crops had to complete their growth cycle in three months, and even the best yields were too meager to feed the population.

External supplies were essential. For years, the main plane provided seventy percent of the Abyss's food, sustaining seventy percent of its population.

That meant if the main plane's supply ceased, at least seventy percent of humans would starve—a catastrophic disaster.

But Negrilis dared not sell grain freely. Massive grain exports would tie them to the Grand Sage—how would they explain the source?

Tell him Ang had an extradimensional beast capable of crossing planes? What if the Grand Sage demanded to see it?

Don't forget why they were trapped here—because they couldn't return home. If they could cross planes, why bother fighting human lines? Why not just teleport back to the Palace of Rest?

"The Grand Sage said," Ferrik sighed, "that whoever solves the grain supply problem will be awarded the Heavenly Scepter—a trophy he acquired over a thousand years ago. What a pity."

Negrilis's ears perked up: "What did you say?"