Chapter 277

At the entrance to a secluded cave, the Goddess of Redemption stepped inside, waved her hand lightly, and the cave mouth vanished, leaving not a trace—even if someone had seen her enter, they would find only a solid rock wall.

This was clearly not some illusion or trickery, but a barrier.

The Goddess of Redemption walked through a short stretch of pitch-black cavern, then suddenly the world brightened, as if she had stepped into a valley filled with birdsong and blooming flowers, sunlight gently falling, a soft breeze brushing past, grass covering the ground, serene and pleasant.

But the Goddess of Redemption had no heart to enjoy the beauty; she strode forward with a frown, quickly stepping abruptly into a grand hall.

From the grassland to the hall's specially crafted colored tiles, she took only one step—so abruptly. In this space, one side was a valley of birdsong and flowers, the other a sacred, solemn temple.

Barefoot, the Goddess of Redemption stepped on the colored tiles, pacing back and forth, her face heavy with worry: "What do I do? The Rope is gone, the Hammer is lost—what if the God of Undeath catches up?"

After a moment of despair, she forced herself to rally, murmuring: "Let me see what weapons I still have. With my current power, I can activate two divine artifacts."

As she spoke, she waved her hand lightly, and from the colored tiles, crystal cabinets shot up—rows upon rows, columns upon columns, stretching into the endless depths of the temple.

Inside each crystal cabinet lay a divine artifact, soul artifact, or holy relic, glowing with radiant light or shrouded in dark mist, each shaped differently, styled uniquely, dazzling and overwhelming.

The Goddess of Redemption wandered among them like a shopper in a market, tiptoeing lightly between the cabinets.

As she browsed, her frown deepened: "All of these are low-grade gear—nothing compares to the Rope of Salvation or the Hammer of Bestowal. What do I do?"

Divine artifacts have ranks, let alone soul and holy artifacts. A good soul artifact can rival a divine artifact, but most are bound to their masters.

Like the Death Scythe, the Bone Flute, or the Dimension-Stepping Hand—they are solidified soul energy, impossible to exist apart from their wielders. So what's displayed here are only special soul artifacts, of low rank.

As for holy relics, they are gifts from gods to their believers—how could they surpass what the gods themselves use? Of course, there are always exceptions…

After much deliberation, the Goddess of Redemption picked a pair of boots. Since she was barefoot, she shook them out and slipped them on, murmuring: "Boots of Escape—if the God of Undeath catches up, I'll at least run faster."

She continued browsing until she reached the very last crystal cabinet.

Inside lay a cross-shaped artifact: a main shaft planted in the ground, with a horizontal bar resting across it.

But the horizontal bar was movable, its ends suspended with trays, like a one-legged balance scale.

"I'll take you," the Goddess of Redemption smiled. "Equal Holy Frame—if the God of Undeath catches up, at least I can take him down with me."

…

In the Palace of Rest, the people Ange had shoved inside gathered listlessly, listening to Luna tell stories.

Luna squatted ungracefully on a field ridge: "The Goddess of Redemption is the most troublesome among the Light Gods, next to the Three Primary Deities. Her combat strength isn't strong, but if I were an enemy, I'd rather face three Galixes than the Goddess of Redemption."

Galix was the archangel rumored to have perished alongside Solid-Bone Locke—but this rumor was clearly false; Locke's skeleton was found in the palace, clearly not killed by force.

There are only three six-winged archangels: the Archangel of Wisdom, Luna; the Archangel of Fire, Galix; and the Archangel of Strength, whoever-he-is. All possess power rivaling the Light Gods.

Even the archangels specifically assigned to combat are stronger than non-combat deities like the God of Scales.

But a god's value isn't measured by combat. Take the God of Scales—because he exists, even the Undying King dares not come knocking.

True, the King could punch him dead—but they'd both die together.

Unfortunately, he met the Dragon God's Transformation, his nemesis, and died miserably in Ange's hands.

Divine arts are interdependent and counter each other, each with its strengths—but the Goddess of Redemption has more advantages.

"Redemption, redemption—saving lives, redeeming souls. The Goddess of Redemption can absorb damage dealt to her, and also damage dealt to others. Countless people have come to her for rescue. They're not ordinary folk—they find coins or magic crystals too vulgar—so they usually offer divine artifacts, soul relics, treasures. No one knows how many divine artifacts she holds."

Luna gestured wildly: "But the worst part is, she can solidify absorbed damage and release it later at the right moment. For example, my Stone Arrow fires a petrifying beam that turns enemies to stone—she can absorb that damage, seal it in a crystal cabinet, then use it against me."

"Though the absorbed petrifying beam is weaker than the original—even if only one-third as strong, it still petrifies. No one knows what weapon or skill she'll use—if it happens to counter yours, it's a nightmare."

Everyone listened, stunned. Negril was terrified: "So she's invincible? Carrying a pile of sealed divine arts and a stack of divine artifacts—she just grabs them and starts smashing. Who cares about elemental counters? Smash ten, and a few won't be countered."

The little angel listened with sparkling eyes, nodding vigorously—clearly, she wanted to do the same: grab and smash.

Luna said: "Of course not. Whether divine artifacts or divine arts, they require divine power to activate. The Goddess of Redemption's divine power is among the weakest—even weaker than mine… I was stronger before. With her power, she can't carry all her artifacts and arts at once."

When Luna mentioned herself, she paused slightly. Negril then remembered: this Luna was not the full form.

In fact, not just Luna, but the Goddess of Redemption, the God of Undeath, even itself—none were full forms. Measuring today's gods by past data is unreasonable.

In all planes, the only entity whose power remains unchanged is the Tree of Life—but the Tree of Life isn't a god, or rather, it scorns becoming one.

The Tree of Life is a superorganism, inherently stronger than any deity. The faith offered by elves is like donating to a billionaire.

So the Tree of Life still lives; all other gods have vanished, except those sealed away.

"Does that mean the disappearance of gods is tied to faith energy?" Negril murmured. "This Goddess of Redemption is new—does that mean she once vanished and only recently reborn? Could she retain memories? Could she know why the gods disappeared?"

Everyone's eyes lit up.

The little angel's eyes lit up too. She grabbed the Earth Holy Hammer and swung it wildly, several times pretending to throw it, terrifying the Earth Holy Hammer into a frenzy.

…

At the well's edge, Ange stared blankly at the familiar buildings and gate ahead.

What was the most familiar building to him? The Palace of Rest? The Copper Book Tower? The World Transit Station? The Temple of Undeath? Meishencheng?

None of them. His most familiar building was the boundary marker of the farm barrier—a structure in the center of the farm, resembling both a stele and a tower.

Birds nested on it. Nearby farmers piled harvested stalks around its base, so it was half-buried year-round, with only the top sticking out.

Later, the farm's skeletons scattered or faded. Ange became the only active being within. Only after he gathered vast amounts of stalks to compost and burn did he slowly clear the debris around the marker, revealing its full form.

It was an unremarkable thing—but after a thousand years of seeing it, it became utterly familiar. So Ange recognized it at once: it was a boundary marker. This was a farm barrier.

The well stood at the edge of the farm barrier. Cross the fence, and you entered the barrier's range.

The farm barrier covered roughly three thousand mu. A little more than half the farmland was leveled and built upon; the rest was cultivated, sparsely planted with crops.

Scattered among the fields were small sheds, likely built for easy crop care—just like the straw piles Ange himself constructed.

Here, all life—eating, living, farming—was concentrated within the farm barrier, because elsewhere was uninhabitable. Everywhere stretched gray, lifeless rock—even the sky was rock. This place resembled the hollow interior of a giant stone.

Everywhere was dark, except within the barrier, where sunlight shone.

Within the barrier, the residents had already heard of Ange's arrival and were rushing together, carrying broken farming tools, shouting loudly as they charged forward.

Negril, projected onto Ange, saw this and exclaimed: "So… so many minotaurs. They're even thinner."

At least a hundred minotaurs had gathered—males, females, old, young—rushing forward in a wave.

Ange pulled out the little angel and the little zombie. Ten minutes later, the hundred minotaurs lay bruised and swollen on the ground, farming tools held above their heads, bellowing mournfully.

Ange pulled out everyone one by one.

Negril immediately circled the entire farm barrier, stunned: "Identical. Why is there a farm barrier here?"

Ange tilted his head, thought for a moment, then walked into the group of minotaurs, picked the thinnest one, pulled out a sack of grain, and asked: "Here, why, farm?"

The minotaur's eyes widened in disbelief as it stared at the full grains inside, excitedly cried: "G…give…to me?"

Ange nodded.

The minotaur opened its mouth wide, about to dive headfirst into the grain sack.

The little zombie lunged, shoved it to the ground with a shoulder, and roared loudly at it.

The minotaur stared uncertainly at the little zombie, then at Ange—what did it mean? Can you speak?

Negril said: "Answer the question. Why is there a farm barrier here?"

The minotaur blinked its innocent, large eyes.

Negril had to gently prompt: "Do you know what a barrier is?"

The minotaur shook its head.

Damn. Didn't even know what a barrier was—how could it know about a farm barrier?

Negril raised its head and turned to the other minotaurs: "Does anyone know the answer? Whoever answers gets this sack of grain."

The minotaurs exchanged glances. Each face showed desire—but no one spoke.

Negril had Ange pull out more grain—one sack, two sacks, until five sacks were piled up. One minotaur finally stood: "My lord, we don't know what a farm barrier is, but we know where the answer might be. I'll take you there. If you divide these grains among all of us, will you?"

Ange looked closer—it was the same minotaur woman from the well.

"Fine. No problem. Lead the way." Even if she hadn't offered, Negril would have helped them anyway—look at how starved they were, each skeletal, you'd believe they were minotaur zombies.

The minotaur woman stared at the piles of grain sacks, swallowed hard, then turned away with difficulty, leading Ange and the others toward the far end of the farm.

As they walked, a thunderous rumbling came from her belly, like drums beating.

The minotaur woman, clearly used to it, grabbed her pants and pulled tight—immediately silencing the noise.

"This is… truly tragic." Negril compared her to the two other minotaur women from Wraith City and Bridgehead Town, plus Waneya the cook—and decided this one was the most pitiful.

Negril quickly signaled Ange to pull out a beet: "You're guiding us—you can't be weak. Eat this first to fill your stomach. By the way, what's your name?"

The minotaur woman couldn't hear Negril's words—her eyes were glued to the beet, as if magnetized.

Negril had no choice but to forcibly shove the beet into her hand, finally pulling her attention back.

"R…r…really…for me to eat?" The minotaur woman's voice trembled.

"Yes, yes, yes—eat." Negril felt both pity and helplessness.

Lu Se no longer ate fresh beets—only honey-candied ones, and even then, he was picky, peeling off the skin and only keeping the translucent inner part, drying it into fruit leather as a snack.

Lu Se lived so luxuriously, while others here ate dirt. Unfair. Negril vowed to cut his snacks later.

The minotaur woman gnawed fiercely at the beet, too busy to answer Negril's question. She walked while eating, soon reaching a stone stele at the farm's edge.

Negril understood why this might hold the answer—the stele bore inscriptions, but in demon script: "Banish the Divine Bull Clan to…"

Negril had just read this when Ange suddenly stepped forward and swung the Death Scythe across the stele.