Chapter 269: Burn Your Food

Anthony sometimes didn't know whether to be happy or sad—summoning the Lord God should've been an ultimate move, surely requiring immense power, if not at least time to chant prayers?

No, Ang appeared the moment he called, so fast Anthony didn't even have time to cancel—was there such a lazy Lord God? No dignity at all.

Of course, he wasn't complaining, just annoyed by the lack of dignity—next time he'd definitely devise a dazzlingly impressive prayer, recite it fully, then shout for help.

A powerful aura materialized out of nowhere; holy light burst from Anthony's body, and the light moved—slowly stepping away from him, hands gripping like holding hammers, as if ready to swing at any moment.

A puzzled thought reached both men in the room—they could sense Ang tilting his head, across a plane of existence.

Shamara quickly said: "Six gods, my lord, six divine beings, we need six divine beings."

Ang's consciousness focused on Anthony.

Anthony spread his hands: "I don't know either—she suddenly appeared and scared me half to death, I thought she was an assassin, so I called you for help. As for these six gods… when did you sense this?" This was directed at Shamara.

Shamara said: "Two days ago."

"Be specific."

"Around nine o'clock at night two days ago," Shamara thought for a moment, giving a more precise time.

"Are you certain this is related to Lord Ang?" Anthony asked again.

Shamara nodded firmly: "Yes, it's related to Lord Ang—I felt he needed six gods, but why six, I don't know."

"Nine o'clock at night two days ago? My lord, what were you doing that night two days ago?" Anthony asked.

"Beating a god," Ang said—he'd beaten Hemer, the insect god, for biting the little angel.

Ang's subordinates were numerous—strong and weak, dimensional beasts, giant skeletons, tiny zombies, the World Tree—various kinds. Some had strong territorial instincts, yet they coexisted peacefully, mainly because ranks had been settled long ago.

Whenever a new arrival came, the little angel would bring the tiny zombies to talk to it—talk it out if it went well, fight if it didn't, and if it lost, they'd bring it to Ang.

Some clever ones, like the dimensional beast and Big Bone, had already built good relations; some fools actually fought back—the insect god bit off one of the little angel's arms, and in return got blasted with a Holy Flash.

Then the little angel came back to Ang, Ang went over and beat the insect god again—so that night, he was beating a god.

Shamara and Anthony exchanged glances—if anyone else claimed to be "beating a god," they'd likely be bragging, but Ang said it, so it was probably true—no wonder he needed six gods; one or two probably weren't enough for him to beat.

"Because you were beating one god, Shamara sensed you needed six? What would six be for? Queuing up to be beaten by you?"

Anthony frowned and shook his head: "That doesn't make sense—either we're missing key information, like the time flow in the Damp Sea plane differing from the main plane—it's two and a half hours shorter per day, so nine o'clock two days ago there would've been around four or five in the afternoon—what were you doing then?"

Ang tilted his head: "Incubating a god."

That was precisely when Hemer emerged from its cocoon.

Anthony snapped his fingers: "That must be the key—Shamara's ability is precognition, not prophecy—it must've been triggered by an actual event. Since you were creating gods, maybe you needed to create six."

Ang counted on his fingers, then nodded: "Enough."

The power projecting onto Anthony quickly faded; Ang's presence vanished and withdrew.

"Uh, my lord, could you at least hint what's 'enough'? Don't just leave like that—you're killing me with suspense." Anthony muttered to himself.

Of course, he only dared whisper—he wouldn't dare ask directly through his soul—he was starting to understand why Negril constantly complained about him; Ang really could be infuriating.

"Could it… could it be… six gods… enough?" Shamara whispered weakly, uncertain.

Anthony blinked: "Though unbelievable, if you say it, it probably is. Now—can you sense anything else?"

Shamara shook her head: "I've never sensed anything about Lord Ang—only that night, when we practiced Spirit Possession, I had a vague feeling—but after that, no matter how hard I tried, I sensed nothing."

Anthony nodded: "Probably beyond your ability. Anyway, forget that—how have you been lately? Are you doing well?"

Shamara gave an awkward smile.

Anthony immediately knew they weren't doing well—despite one being a six-winged angel and the other a fallen holy woman, they were just two girls with no worldly experience; once brute force failed, they were completely lost.

Luna was a spirit, had Spirit Armor, could possess Shamara—but could they run around wearing Spirit Armor? Or worse, naked?

To wear clothes, they inevitably had to interact with people—either steal or rob, but stolen clothes rarely fit, and were filthy.

Even if they didn't mind dirty outerwear and purified them, what about underwear?

Would she wear someone else's underwear, even purified? Shamara certainly wouldn't.

So until now, she still wore the underwear sewn from the silk cloth Negril had given her back in the Shadow City.

The fabric itself was excellent, but Shamara's sewing skills were terrible—after months of mending and patching, it was now misshapen beyond recognition—who'd imagine a cold, beautiful holy woman's plain dress hid such deformed undergarments?

Luckily, no one had seen it—if they had, Shamara would've immediately gouged out their eyes.

Food was another problem—though her appetite had decreased, she still needed to eat daily; after months of dried rations and raw meat, she now missed the pastries from the temple.

Besides that, countless small troubles piled up—though bearable, they certainly weren't "doing well"—they now mostly stayed hidden by day, ventured out only at night, avoiding people to prevent more chaos.

Shamara used to act recklessly, but now she dared not—main plane was suffering famine and plague; if she caused trouble again, she'd draw a swarm of pursuers.

Others didn't matter, but Anthony would come after her—he might even convince Ang to join. If Ang came, she couldn't even run.

Her precognition didn't work on Ang, and before him, her inner voice screamed warnings not to move.

Afraid to act, lacking experience—Shamara was miserable.

Anthony said gently: "I'm rebuilding the Fallen Legion—do you want to join?"

"Puh—" Shamara spat out her drink—what was the Fallen Legion? It referred to those she'd drained of holy power and corrupted—now Anthony invited the instigator herself to join? What nonsense.

Anthony said seriously: "I'm not joking. A group of people with fallen power, under your command, could accomplish much."

"They'd never follow me—I turned them into fallen ones," Shamara countered.

"You don't need them to know your identity. Here's a Spirit Armor egg," Anthony said, placing it on the table.

"Impossible—even if I wear the armor, they'll recognize me from the fallen power," Shamara said.

Anthony smiled slightly—he now had an 80% chance of convincing Shamara to join him, because she was only discussing operational details, never outright rejecting his proposal.

"We can do it like this, and then like this—no one will ever suspect you."

Shamara stared, dumbfounded—could you really do that? She suddenly understood what "scheming old fox" meant—if she became enemies with someone like Anthony, she'd be played to death without even knowing who was pulling the strings.

…

Ang withdrew his power, then scratched his head.

Negril hurriedly asked: "What did you do? What trouble did Anthony get into? Again calling for help?"

After Ang explained, Negril frowned his scale-brows: "Six divine beings? Why six? Why not seven, eight, or ten?"

Ang tilted his head.

Negril flapped his wings, flying back and forth: "You have the Undying Godhood—that's one. Me—that's two. The God of Beauty and the God of Cultivation only have faith fires—they don't count as divine beings. The insect god—that's three."

"The sapling isn't a god—even though the elves call it the Life God, its power comes from itself, not faith—it's stronger than any divine being."

"The Scale of Balance has only one ring, no godhood—can't count. So you only have three gods unless you ignite the faith fires of the God of Beauty and the God of Cultivation."

Negril counted on his four claws: "That's only five—still one short."

"Lisa, Harvest," Ang said.

Though stated plainly, Negril knew it was a question—he shook his head: "No. Stealing divine power makes a pseudo-god, not a true god—no godhood granted."

"Oh, then this," Ang said, reaching into the Palace of Rest.

Soon, Negril felt his body—the Copper Book—being dragged rapidly, pulled to the edge of the farm, beneath the World Tree.

Negril instantly knew: Ang had planted something again.

There stood the World Tree, a vast bamboo grove—Ang parted the bamboo and pointed to a bud inside: "This."

The bud was identical to the one that had grown the God Body in the Druid Gorge—but much smaller, about the size of a washbasin.

"Ku Bada, you're growing a god?!" Negril couldn't help but scream.

Ku Bada, this damn skeleton was secretly growing gods—yes, a bud might not yield a god, but it was a faster method of creation—the elves had studied it for a thousand years and finally succeeded.

Too bad, that God Body had been crushed by the Life God.

"Can you guarantee it'll grow into a god? Only if it has godhood," Negril asked.

Ang nodded.

"Then enough—if we ignite the faith fires of the God of Beauty and the God of Cultivation, plus this, we'll have six gods. But what do we need six for? Did Shamara say anything else?" Negril asked.

Ang shook his head.

Leaving the Palace of Rest and returning to his body, Negril kept muttering: "What do we need six gods for? What do we need six gods for?"

Ang suddenly summoned the faith fire of the God of Cultivation, puzzled: "It's growing."

The God of Cultivation's faith fire had expanded—once a tiny flame, finger-sized, now palm-sized.

"What did you do? When did it start growing? Did a huge wave of new followers appear?" Negril grabbed Ang's hand excitedly, eyes wide.

The God of Beauty's faith fire had remained unchanged, so Negril hadn't paid much attention to the God of Cultivation's—until now it suddenly grew.

Ang thought for a moment: "Seven days ago."

"Seven days ago? Why are you telling me now?" Negril fumed.

This damn skeleton didn't care about anything but farming—even when the faith fire grew, he didn't say a word—unless this happened?

Seven days ago—what happened then?

That was when crops were harvested and sent to the main plane for Anthony…

Thinking of crops, Negril instinctively turned toward the cultivation area—and saw wisps of white smoke rising slowly in that direction.

Negril had a bad feeling—he turned to look at Ang.

Ang hadn't noticed yet, still staring blankly at the God of Cultivation's faith fire.

How he wished he'd never notice—otherwise this plane might explode…

"Ang, don't panic—look over there," Negril said, forcing himself to speak.

Ang looked up, then shot forward, sprinting out of Shazhou, racing to the waterway. He'd expected him to sink—but he didn't. His feet stepped on air as if it were solid ground, walking straight toward the rising smoke.

Negril didn't know what to say—wasn't that lightning's aerial flight? Ang had forced it out in a panic.

In the cultivation zone, Gulu Gu and its kind swam silently beneath the gel plates, dragging a large sack, pulling out stones and scattering them into the waterway.

After they passed, the stones reacted with water, hissing and exploding—the water boiled and smoked, burning the gel and crops; though they didn't char to carbon, they sank and boiled into sludge.

Before the stones reacted, Gulu Gu and its kind had already swum far away, muttering as they went: "You killed Gulu Gu's sea god? Burn your food. Starve you."

Gulu Gulu did not know what its actions had stirred up across the entire seabed.

"We're done—all the food is gone, Anthony's relief plan can't go on," Nagelis said, staring at the murky, soup-like surface, immediately grasping the chain reaction's severity.

Without sufficient food supplies, all of Anthony's plans would collapse; if food could not be replenished soon, the entire scheme would unravel in a chain reaction, Anthony's prestige would plummet, and he might even be ousted from his position as Acting Pope.

PS: Uh, today's my birthday, sigh, whatever, there's no day off anyway, please vote.