Chapter 308

The ferocious iron-skinned zombie's head was pinned down, its entire body freezing in place, then it realized its claws couldn't reach the enemy.

It swiped wildly a few times, still unable to reach the enemy—Ang's arm was just a little longer than its own.

The iron-skinned zombie immediately shifted targets, its sharp claws scraping Ang's arm, producing a sharp screeching sound.

After a few more scrapes, the zombie suddenly felt its hands couldn't grip anything—when it pulled them back, it blinked: where were its nails? Why had they been worn flat?

Confused, it stared at Ang's arm—only a pale, soft arm was visible, but the texture it had felt just now wasn't like this at all.

The zombie scraped again; its fingers slid across, immediately sinking into skin, then scraping against something hard.

Seeing its bewilderment, Ang removed his hat with his other hand, revealing his skeleton—and the purple-gold bones of his hand.

The iron-skinned zombie grew even more confused, instinctively continuing to scratch Ang's arm—screech, screech—wait, had its fingers been worn down?

"Hohoho!" The iron-skinned zombie let out a hoarse roar, clenching its fists and slamming them hard against Ang's hand.

It didn't budge. After a few blows, the zombie glared at Ang with its cloudy eyes, then silently turned and walked back into the passage.

Watching the iron-skinned zombie's behavior, Negril rested his chin and said: "Hmm, it's intelligent—not a zombie, but a lich."

Ang pulled out the straw, and the group walked into the graveyard.

It was a vast underground space; along the edges were traces of human construction—level ground lined with rows of stone coffins, all sealed shut, except one, which lay open. Inside it sat the ugly iron-skinned lich, hugging its knees.

Seeing Ang's group enter, the lich gazed at them listlessly, then climbed into the coffin and quietly pulled the lid shut.

"Oh? Angry? It must be my descendant—I'll give it a good beating," Lisa said.

Walking to the coffin, she yanked hard—the heavy stone lid clattered open.

The iron-skinned lich had pulled the lid up itself—no oddness. But Lisa, dainty and pale, yanking it open—now that was absurd.

Lightning twitched, unable to resist leaning close to Negril and whispering: "Old witch is also a lich—what level is she?"

Negril thought a moment: "Didn't notice, but she has a soul heart—she's probably iron-skinned too."

"That explains it," Lightning realized: "Hitting people really hurts."

The lich inside the coffin was stunned, staring blankly at delicate Lisa, who had opened the lid with one hand, unable to react.

Lisa grabbed its ankle, yanked it out of the coffin, and scolded: "Which generation are you? How rude! Seeing people and not greeting them is bad enough—but you attack? Who taught you? I'll teach you a lesson in your ancestor's name—tell me, which generation are you?"

With each insult, Lisa slapped its head. Each word, each slap.

The iron-skinned lich snapped out of its daze, roaring and lashing out.

"Oh? You dare fight back?" Lisa grabbed its hand, yanked it forward, threw it to the ground, then stepped on its back, unleashing soul energy and swatting its buttocks with massive palm strikes.

The iron-skinned zombie's thick hide wouldn't feel pain even if its buttocks were shredded—but don't forget: soul energy inflicts soul damage on undead. Each slap was like a soul lash—the iron-skinned lich screamed in agony.

The lich shrieked in agony, frantically reaching for Lisa—but her foot pressed down on its back like a giant's, and its stiff joints couldn't reach upward.

The screams made Lightning and Negril exchange glances—then suddenly realized: "Philein fears his wife—I understand why now."

"Aaaahhhhh!" The iron-skinned lich didn't yield—it screamed, and suddenly flames of soul energy erupted from its body. With a violent heave, it shoved Lisa off, spun around, and lunged.

Lisa was furious—like seeing a descendant disobedient, disrespectful, repeatedly uncorrected, deserving of being beaten on the spot.

Hmm, well, it was already dead… Whether it retained its memories before death was uncertain—if it didn't, then it was merely an undead entity possessing its descendant's corpse.

Realizing this, Lisa's gaze sharpened instantly—no more timid caution, replaced by ferocity.

Holy light blazed from her body; a spectral figure crossed space, gently embracing her, layers of armor wrapping around her, forming a beautiful suit of armor, its hands gripping a sheaf of grain…

Everyone was stunned. The iron-skinned lich was stunned—so cool! Was this person transforming to attack it?

Lisa was stunned—she was the Holy Maiden; when she unleashed power, summoning a divine spirit was natural, right? But she hadn't summoned one in over a thousand years—once she dared not, later, there were no divine spirits left.

Now, unconsciously summoning one—and something actually attached? And armored itself onto her?

Negril was even more stunned, staring at the grain in Lisa's hand: "Harvest Spike? Harvest Goddess? Did you summon the Harvest Goddess?"

"I… I don't know!" Lisa frantically shoved the iron-skinned lich to the ground, grabbed its legs, swung it high into the air, slammed it down, swung it high again, slammed it down again.

After several repetitions, the iron-skinned lich lay paralyzed, unable to rise—Lisa had shattered its bones.

It took five seconds. Lisa rushed over, showing off her armor: "Quick, quick, look—what's going on? When I unleashed holy light, I impulsively summoned a divine spirit—and immediately felt something coalescing, then being drawn to me."

As soon as she finished speaking, the armor on her body dissolved into light particles and vanished rapidly.

"Huh? Why did it disappear?" Lisa asked.

"You can't withstand this power. You said you felt something coalescing—but you can't withstand it? How? And why did the Harvest Goddess respond when you summoned a divine spirit?" Negril was equally baffled.

The God of Knowledge only transforms events into knowledge if those events have occurred—if something has never happened, it cannot know how it works.

Everyone gathered in a tight circle, carefully discussing, making Lisa repeatedly describe every change and sensation she'd felt.

Negril had no clue, but after listening, Ang said: "Shamara. Gray Angel."

A lightning bolt pierced Negril's soul—it suddenly understood, leaping up in excitement:

"Shamara created the Gray Angels—did you just create a Harvest Goddess? No no no, the Harvest Goddess's divine essence still exists—you stole her divine power—could it be… you defined what a Harvest Goddess is?"