Chapter 253: Du Luo Is Dead

In the Land of Slumber, sleep is vital; if you cannot sleep, you can only face the endless tombstones and contemplate life.

"Don't you know I suffer from neurasthenia and insomnia with nightmares? I finally fell asleep once, and you woke me up crying and wailing—do you even know what a bad morning mood is? Wait, who are you? Intruders?"

The lich, sitting up from his flipped tombstone, cursed loudly—but then finally noticed Ange and the others, instantly sensing their difference, his face lighting up with excitement.

"Intruders, right? You're intruders, aren't you? Perfect!" The lich leapt from his grave in excitement, unleashing a soul-shriek: "Wake up! Intruders! Something to play with!"

His soul-shriek spread like a hurricane; around him, tombstones—flip-top or slide-top—opened one after another, spilling out skeletons, necromancers, and undead, rippling outward like waves.

One moment the Land of Slumber was silent, the next it erupted into a paradise of undead—countless undead surged from all directions, shoulder to shoulder, waving bones and clacking jaws.

As chaos threatened to spiral, Ange stepped forward, transformed, and roared.

The soul-shriek of Bone-Lock swept across the land like a hurricane; nearby undead felt as if a magical hairdryer had blasted their souls—every spirit felt refreshingly clear, nearly blown away.

After the soul-shriek faded, all undead froze in place, utterly silent.

One second passed, two seconds, three seconds—then the undead snapped back to awareness, bowing before the purple-golden skeleton, their soul-howl rising in waves: "Lock! Lock! Lock!"

The lich awakened by Negril trembled violently: "Lord Lock! Lord Lock! Is it really you? You've finally come! You've finally come to save us? You haven't forgotten us, these wretched wandering souls! Do you remember me? Do you remember me?"

The lich knelt on the ground, arms outstretched eagerly, as if trying to hug Ange's legs.

A stunted embryonic dragon slipped between them, staring at the lich, and mused: "I think I remember you… aren't you that guy?"

"Bronze Dragon, you sneaky little thing—are you the Knowledge God?!" the lich cried in shock.

Negril spat blood internally, roaring: When did "sneaky" become my trademark? Do you even know what "sneaky" means? I'll lock you in a room with Lightning and let you experience it!

"I remember now—you're Nightwatcher Dark Circles!" Negril strained his memory and finally recalled who this "guy" was.

At the same time, the transformation ended; Ange reverted to his human form. The lich stared blankly at him, his cloudy eyes filled with utter confusion.

If it were only Ange, the lich might have doubted his eyes or suspected a hallucination—but with the Bronze Dragon present, and him calling out his nickname, the lich's doubt deepened into bewilderment.

What happened? Why has Lord Lock become like this?

"Knowledge God, I'm not Dark Circles—I'm Nightwatcher Lamor. Long time no see, Knowledge God. You…?" Lamor hesitated to ask.

"Indeed, where are your dark circles? Why aren't they there? That's why I didn't recognize you at first," Negril asked in surprise.

Lamor smiled bitterly: "My lord, the dark circles were my own creation—to commemorate how I died: insomnia-induced sudden death. But after sleeping over a thousand years, I figured I shouldn't keep them anymore, so I let them fade."

"Pfft—no wonder you have such a bad morning mood. Do you still suffer insomnia after death?" Negril asked curiously.

"Of course! Even worse! When alive, if I couldn't bear it, I'd just pass out. Now? I can't. I toss and turn, and no matter what, I just can't sleep. My soul is flooded with chaotic thoughts—every time I quiet down, they surface. Unless I fully resolve them, I won't sleep." Lamor poured out his grievances.

Negril didn't know what to say. Undead easily controlled their souls; only those utterly unable to restrain their wandering thoughts could suffer insomnia. Yet here was one, truly existing.

"That's truly painful. I understand. So… what's the situation here?" Negril changed the subject.

"My lord, I was going to ask you the same thing. Why did the Palace of Rest vanish? Why can't our souls sense His Majesty or Lord Lock anymore? For all these years, no one came to find us. We can't leave. What happened?" Lamor demanded urgently.

Seeing his confusion and bewilderment, Negril's heart sank. Trouble. Could it be that no one here knew what had happened either?

"Where's Du Luo? Is Du Luo here?" Negril asked quickly.

Lamor nodded: "He's here."

Negril exhaled in relief. Good. As long as Du Luo was still here, he'd surely know more.

But before Negril could rejoice, Lamor added: "But Lord Du Luo went out exploring for a way to escape—and was shredded by those lights outside. Only his phylactery remains."

"Pfft! Couldn't you have said that all at once?!" Negril spat blood, astonished: "A phylactery can be used to resurrect him! Where is it?"

Lamor shook his head: "It's in the grave. He can't be resurrected. Lord Du Luo said that resurrection would consume vast soul energy. This is a sealed space—where one gains, others lose. If he revived, many souls here would perish. So he chose not to. He told us to call him only if we find a way out."

Negril nodded. She might not have understood this before, but since Ange brought the Death-Infused Liquid into the Palace of Rest and let it diffuse freely, the Death-Infused level here reached saturation.

Since then, Negril realized: Death-infused energy, to undead, is like air to the living—without it, their souls wither.

If Du Luo revived, he'd drain the limited death-infused energy here; the other souls, deprived of nourishment, would slowly wither and die.

But now, Ange had arrived. Du Luo could be saved.

"Quick, take me to his grave. Oh, by the way—where's Lock's grave?" Negril urged, casually adding the question about Lock's tomb—perhaps she still remembered the idea of urinating on graves.

"My lord, this way," Lamor gestured politely to Negril, then knelt directly before Ange: "My lord, please."

His attitude toward the Bronze Dragon and Bone-Lock was utterly different.

As Lamor led them farther away, Negril asked: "I met an undead outside. He gave me the coordinates for this place. They said he was a nightwatchman here. Is that true?"

"Yes. A traitor who consorted with demons and sold his soul. He actually escaped? I thought he'd been shredded in the Void. So he led you here—turned out to be a good deed after all. I'll have to thank him later." Lamor said.

"Uh… we killed him." Negril replied awkwardly.

"Perfect! I was going to thank him before killing him. Lucky for him." Lamor growled bitterly.

"…."

Earlier, the undead had swarmed everywhere, startling Negril—she hadn't paid attention. Now, walking along, she noticed something: many graves remained unopened, their tomb grass withered, the surrounding death-soil sparse.

Negril pointed to the closed graves: "What's wrong with these tombs? No one lives there?"

"Oh, probably low-grade undead. Their souls withered and died." Lamor sighed.

Negril's spirit trembled. She flapped her wings higher, scanning the landscape and counting carefully.

Though the scene seemed vast, a closer count revealed barely over twenty thousand undead risen. The Land of Slumber once held millions of sleeping undead—how could only so few have awakened? Had the rest perished?

Lamor nodded, confirming Negril's suspicion.

Hundreds of millions of undead, reduced to barely twenty thousand? The situation here was worse than she imagined—nearly at the point of total collapse.

If they'd arrived a few centuries later, would the undead here have dwindled to a single skeleton, like in the Palace of Rest?

Under Lamor's guidance, Ange's party arrived before a grave.

Du Luo was the Alchemy King—his tomb was not as flamboyant as his palace, merely a simple flask shape: narrow at the top, wide at the base.

"This is Lord Du Luo's tomb. But under these circumstances, if we can't resurrect him, we must not awaken him. Knowledge God, what preparations have you brought? Can you save us all?" Lamor ventured cautiously.

Lamor's words carried two meanings: first, asking if Negril had a way to rescue them; second, asking if she could resurrect Du Luo—if not, don't wake him, or his morning mood would be worse than Lamor's.

Negril spread her hands: "I don't know if I can save all of you—I need to study it first. Let's wake him up. Even if we resurrect him, he must cooperate. Worst case, we take his phylactery out."

Negril's words were evasive—but she had no choice. She had no soul-link with Du Luo or Lamor; she couldn't speak freely.

"I'll do it." Without waiting for Lamor, she flew to the tombstone and knocked: "Hey hey hey, Du Luo! Home? It's the Knowledge God—I've come to pay my respects! Wake up!"

Silence. She knocked again. Then again. Then turned, puzzled.

Lamor also looked confused, rushed over, and pounded the tombstone twice—no response. He leapt back in alarm, then without a word, began digging into Du Luo's grave. Soon, he unearthed a phylactery.

The phylactery was a finely crafted magical box. Inside lay the lich's heart—but when opened, Du Luo's contained only a shrunken, withered heart, and a pile of tiny components that should have been embedded in it, now scattered and broken.

Lamor's face turned ashen. He wept: "D… Du Luo… Lord Du Luo… has perished."

Negril felt a surreal, absurd disbelief. Du Luo, the Alchemy Lich—dead? What nonsense!

Though the Land of Slumber was dire, over twenty thousand undead still survived. As a Lich King, Du Luo had the most resilient soul among them—he should have outlived them all. He couldn't perish so soon.

Even if his energy truly ran dry, he could have ruthlessly drained the souls of others and held on until the end.

He didn't even need to be ruthless—most of the twenty thousand undead here were mindless, their souls as easy to harvest as plucking cabbages.

Yet Du Luo did nothing. He let himself perish. It made no sense. Had he suffered some terrible injury?

"Let me see." Negril gestured for Lamor to hand her the phylactery.

Lamor gave it to her. Negril studied it, found nothing, then passed it to Ange, and asked Lamor: "Did he leave any relics? Any last words?"

Lamor nearly wept: "I only just learned he perished—he left no last words. All his relics are here. Should we dig deeper?"

A good idea. Negril immediately summoned the little zombie to dig into Du Luo's grave.

The little zombie, shoveling with two gloves like a dog digging, amazed Lamor—few liches moved with such agility or speed.

"My heavens, how is he doing that? How are his joints so flexible?" Lamor gestured to his own stiff limbs, astonished.

Zombie, zombie—how could it be called a zombie if its movements weren't stiff? Liches are merely intelligent zombies—their movements aren't much more fluid.

"Heh, I'll tell you later," Negril chuckled mischievously. When the holy light of the Purifying Spell hits him, I wonder if he'll jump out of his skin?

Alas, after digging up Du Luo's grave, they found no last words, no relics. It was normal—valuable items were kept in the palace. Who'd bury them in a tomb?

Negril was utterly disappointed. She'd hoped finding Du Luo would reveal where the King had gone—but now he was dead, left no last words, only a phylactery—and a phylactery couldn't speak. What now?

She turned—Ange was still holding the phylactery, staring at it.

Negril asked: "Any discoveries? Any residual consciousness?"

Ange shook his head.

"Then why are you still holding it? Put it down. We'll rebury it—this time, it's truly a grave." Negril sighed.

Ange tilted his head, hesitated, and asked: "The lich's heart is dried out. Can I use it to resurrect him?"

As he spoke, he pulled out a vial of concentrated Holy Insect Ash Liquid.