Chapter 234: The Two Hundred Thirty-Second: That Coward Spring Wind Doesn

"The Scepter of Heaven? In your possession?!" In Ang's consciousness space, Anthony, just pulled in, leapt up upon hearing Negrilis's words, eagerly asking.

"Not with me—in the hands of the Lich Emperor's Grand Sage. Said it's a reward for completing the task. Why are you so excited? Didn't you already take a whole pile of Archangel Scepters from the Tree of Life? By the way, what did you do with them?"

"How can they be the same?" Anthony exclaimed anxiously. "Can you even compare them? Those were just antiques—I had experts restore them, planning to host a Lost Relics exhibition, touring the Eastern Diocese to lure in all the devout believers from the West."

"What's the difference?" Negrilis asked. "I know a little about the Scepter of Heaven, but I'm not sure, so I came to ask you. Anthony, why don't you switch allegiance and become my follower? Let me update my knowledge base."

Anthony shot it a sidelong glance. "Dream on. My faith in the Master is unwavering."

After a pause, Anthony grew solemn. "The Scepter of Heaven is the key to Heaven."

Key? Ang and Negrilis instinctively looked toward Ang's Passage Hand.

"What's it do?" Negrilis asked quickly.

"From the descriptions in the holy texts I burned, the Scepter of Heaven can summon Heaven to descend." Anthony recalled.

"I get it—it can perform spatial positioning, like how you were used to anchor the descent into the Abyss of Rest."

"Yes, probably. Second, it can summon the Gates of Heaven."

"Gates of Heaven? Not the Stairway of Heaven? So it can open portals?" Negrilis guessed.

Anthony nodded. "Probably. It can also open the Stairway of Heaven. Basically, whoever holds the Scepter can travel freely between the Sacred Heaven and here. You're saying the Grand Sage offered it as a reward? Anyone who solves the food problem gets the Scepter?"

"Yes. That's what Ferrik said." Negrilis replied.

"This reward has deep meaning. Tsk tsk tsk—the Grand Sage is still as cunning and wise as ever." Anthony praised.

"Heh. I haven't seen that old undead in over a thousand years. I hope he hasn't lost his mind—daring to offer an artifact that directly connects to the Sacred Heaven? What if the Church gets it and summons Heaven back?"

"No—this task and reward are designed to lure the Church. Only the Church has the capacity to solve the food crisis in the Land of Despair. Only the Church would care about the Scepter of Heaven. Others might want to, but they couldn't transport food to the Land of Despair."

Anthony's reminder struck Negrilis instantly: "Right! The Grand Sage wants to solve the food problem—and only the Church can move massive quantities of food into the Land of Despair. This reward is bait. They don't even know the Sacred Heaven is gone—that the Plaza of Gods is now planted with elf beans. The Church will definitely bite."

Here, Negrilis's mischievous streak returned: "What if the Church gets the Scepter, returns to Heaven, and finds elf beans growing on the Plaza of Gods? Will they launch a Holy War against the elves?"

"Yes." Anthony grimaced. "I'd be the first to answer the call and launch a Holy War against the elves. So the Scepter must not fall into Gurianni's hands—it'd be disastrous. Many would die."

Negrilis nodded, then asked: "But doesn't the Grand Sage fear the Church might use the Scepter to summon Heaven here and drive them back east again?"

"Summon Heaven to the Land of Despair? Impossible. The sky above the Land of Despair is filled with spatial rifts. The Sacred Heaven cannot approach."

Negrilis perked up: "Real spatial rifts?!" It had suspected those hanging light bands in the sky were chaotic streams from spatial rifts—but never thought it was true.

After further questioning and discussion, Negrilis fully understood the Scepter of Heaven's nature and agreed on a strategy with Anthony. Just as it prepared to sever the soul link, Anthony suddenly remembered something and said:

"By the way—the elves are searching the entire world for Master Ang, publishing apologies everywhere, offering to accept punishment for past offenses, begging only for Master Ang's forgiveness. Now the whole world is guessing: who is Master Ang?"

"The elves surrendered? So fast? Did the Tree of Life wake up?" Negrilis exclaimed in shock. Only two months? How could the stubborn elves surrender so quickly?

Unless the Tree of Life had awakened and forced them to submit—but that shouldn't be possible. The Tree's condition didn't look like it could wake in just two or three months.

"They want to surrender? Fine. They want to apologize? Fine. Dream on. Ignore them. Let them wait a few months. Keep an eye on their movements." Negrilis said.

Negrilis had no intention of contacting the elves now—they were too arrogant, too uncontrollable. Wait until the Tree of Life awakens, so something can restrain them.

Actually, Negrilis still held a decent impression of Gailard and Kaelandael—but the Truth Mage with the anti-magic field gave Negrilis a dangerous feeling.

After severing the soul link, Negrilis said to Ang: "The Scepter of Heaven must not fall into the Church's hands. The Sacred Heaven is currently stuck above the Abyss of Rest. If they regain control of Heaven, we'll be in trouble. What's your plan?"

Ang tilted his head and pulled out a handful of seeds. "Use these."

"Pfft! Aren't these the high-yield grain seeds you first planted? Damn it, I forgot about them! In the erosion-ridden environment of the Abyssal Palace, you still got them to mature in one season—on fertile soil, can you achieve harvest in three months with high yield?"

"Pre-sprouting, yes." Ang replied.

"Damn it! So you've already decided what to plant here, just waiting for the Eternal Night to end? Then what the hell have you been doing these past few days—tilling, planting glowing moss, running around like a madman?"

Ang tilted his head and answered honestly: "Playing."

Pfft pfft pfft pfft~~~—spit out a pile of blood, if there were any.

The grain seeds Ang cultivated in the Abyssal Palace were true high-yield crops. For over a thousand years, as the farm's fertility steadily declined, Ang had continuously improved the seeds to ensure harvest before each growing season ended.

These seeds, bred under extreme conditions, exploded with astonishing power when planted on fertile land outside. Ang's fastest harvest time had been one and a half months.

But this rapid harvest reduced yield. Later, he mastered the Death-Quickening Aura, making short growth time less of an advantage. Then came the superior-tasting long-grain rice, then the saltwater-magic rice that could grow in saline water—causing Negrilis to overlook this original strain.

Short growth time, relatively high yield—wasn't this the perfect artifact for this plane?

But what truly upset Negrilis was that Ang had clearly decided what to plant long ago, yet still spent days fruitlessly tilling and planting, making Negrilis worry he'd be discouraged, heartbroken—ah, damn it!

In the following days, Ang spent his time clearing and preparing farmland—adjusting soil fertility and pH, plowing, sterilizing, purifying, burying base fertilizer—all essential groundwork for healthy crops.

Some tasks were tedious for ordinary farmers, but Ang handled them effortlessly—just by continuously casting Purification Spells.

Thus, across the land of the undead, a constant hissing sound arose, accompanied by the scent of sun-dried bedding, as deep-seated death Deqixi were utterly purified, leaving even the hardiest insects and bacteria unable to survive.

While Ang prepared the land, in the slums behind Saint Wall City, the Grand Sage was overwhelmed—too many tasks demanded his attention. At this moment, he deeply felt the drawback of the scarcity of intelligent undead.

For instance, now—even interrogations required his personal involvement.

"This suspect: robbery, murder." His undead subordinate directed skeletons to line up criminals, pointing to one.

"Robbery? Murder? Suspect, raise your head. Did you commit these acts?" As the Grand Sage questioned, the criminal lifted his head, eyes growing vacant, mumbling: "Yes… killed two…"

The Grand Sage had clearly used some mental interrogation technique—he extracted the confession instantly. Hearing the answer, he waved dismissively: "Behead."

"Behead" meant the criminal was dragged aside, where a Silver Skeleton plunged a bone dagger upward through the chin, straight into the brain, twisting hard.

From this position, the dagger could pierce the brain without damaging the skull structure—twist once, and death was absolute. This preserved the corpse intact.

One could also stab through the eye socket—but then the eyes would be destroyed. If the corpse became a lich, would it be a one-eyed lich?

Even such details were considered so thoroughly—no wonder it was the Lich Empire.

"This suspect: theft, large sum."

"Cut off hands."

"This suspect: rape."

"Behead."

"This suspect: rape, child."

"Cast into Soul Hell—burn until dead." Soul Hell was a punishment worse than death—souls were burned.

Normal beings burned by fire would faint or die.

But Soul Hell burned the soul itself—no fainting, hard to die. "Burn until dead" meant the soul's consciousness was scorched away until it no longer recognized itself.

The Grand Sage swiftly judged. Under his mental pressure, each criminal confessed their crimes honestly.

Judgment was only one task. Far more troublesome was feeding the captured humans.

Over the years, the Grand Sage had tirelessly increased the number of living beings, trying to sustain a larger population.

Some believe undead are immortal, eternal—but that applies only to high-level undead. Lowly skeletons and zombies don't die, but they wear down.

Human joints, even with muscle and tendon protection, deteriorate badly by age fifty-six.

Skeletons have no such protection. If they moved like humans, their joints and feet would wear away in just a decade.

To maximize preservation of low-level undead, the best method was to keep them lying still. In the dead lands covered by Silt Soil, their decay could be greatly slowed.

But even with this, a thousand years was the limit. Without fresh corpses to replenish them, all undead would eventually rot.

Most undead now were from the great campaigns a thousand years ago, many already crumbling. If things continued, only the high-level undead—those with metal- or flesh-reinforced bones—would remain functional.

So living beings are not enemies of the undead—they are the foundation of the Lich Empire. The undead are not enemies of the living—they are the new form after death.

But this interdependent relationship, twisted by the Church's propaganda, became irreconcilable.

Why would the undead kill you? They don't eat people.

This time, the Church's retreat left behind hundreds of thousands of living beings—people, horses, cattle—a tremendous asset.

The Grand Sage didn't care whether his minions were humanoid skeletons or equine necromancers—as long as they were undead.

The only problem: how to feed these hundreds of thousands. The supplies abandoned by the Church, and nearby human villages, could provide food for one or two Eternal Nights.

But for sustainable development, food self-sufficiency was essential. Otherwise, the end result would be nothing but hundreds of thousands of corpses.

To solve this, the Grand Sage was willing to offer the Scepter of Heaven—surely the Church would bite.

Solving the food problem meant gaining hundreds of thousands of living souls. But reclaiming the Scepter of Heaven meant possessing the key to Heaven.

Midway through the trials, someone rushed in: "Grand Sage! The teleportation array has received a request!"

The Grand Sage perked up: "Finally! You handle this." He floated away excitedly, pointing at the undead who had been bringing prisoners forward.

"Me? Grand Sage, I don't know how to judge… uh, fine, I'll judge. This one—murder? Behead."

"This one—adultery? Hmm, behead? Behead, behead."

"This one—cheating? Behead."

"This one—prostitution? Behead."

"Behead! Behead! Behead!"

The Grand Sage arrived at the teleportation array, eagerly anticipating who the Church would send to negotiate.

A flash of light—several farmers appeared in the array.

Not the Church? The Grand Sage froze. These people carried no trace of holy light.

One of the farmers shouted loudly: "Are you the Grand Sage of the Lich Empire? We are members of the Druid Guild. This is the cultivator of the thousand-pound-per-mu high-yield grain seed, winner of the Spring Wind Cup. Grand Sage, we bring you the high-yield grain seed!"

The high-yield seed's inventor sneered dismissively: "There won't be a Spring Wind Cup anymore. That coward, Spring Wind, doesn't deserve to have his name on a grain competition."