Chapter 312: The Immortal Chant Is Sung This Way

The immortal spirit and indestructible soul cross the river of rebirth; the wind of rest is yesterday's clamor, the darkness ahead is the future—shatter the darkness, the new world of eternal life—shatter the darkness, endless descent…

"What kind of nonsense lyrics are these? Full of self-indulgent sorrow and melancholy, as if saying something, yet saying nothing at all—and contradictory to boot: shatter the darkness, yet endless descent? Doesn't shattering darkness mean endless light? Damn, 'endless light'—change a few words and it's a hymn of the holy."

Negril made a face as if his eyes had been burned by chili.

The one with the most musical talent nearby… Vania, yes, Vania—the minotaur cook—she was, surprisingly, the most musically gifted creature among Ang's followers, singing beautifully because she always hummed while cooking.

Moreover, her voice was powerful, resonant, and wide-ranging; she could sing anything from dwarf war chants to castrato high notes.

Of course, the best musician was Santil, the castrato singer Ang had conjured out of thin air—but he wasn't here.

No choice—this was the best they had. Vania said: "Maybe it's for harmony—I'll try—Immortal Spirit—cough—eternal… no, Lord Negril, the rhythm doesn't match, I can't hit the notes."

Negril thought for a moment: "Could it be this isn't a song for undead at all? Maybe it must be sung in the Undead Common Tongue? Wait—do undead even have a common tongue?"

Everyone exchanged glances, then unanimously turned to Ang.

Ang tilted his head and opened his mouth: "Aaaah—"

BOOM! All undead present felt their souls struck by lightning. What note Ang sang didn't matter—what mattered was the soul-level resonance.

The soul resonance spread outward; everyone clearly felt it—as if thunderous war drums pounded, and a faint, ethereal song drifted in~

Immortal Spirit—

And Indestructible Soul—

Crossing the River of Rebirth—

Everyone felt their souls quicken, their focus sharper than ever before; a blazing battle fury rose within their souls…

"So… the Undead Chant is sung with the soul. The soul is the common tongue," Negril muttered.

The wind of rest is yesterday's clamor; the darkness ahead is the future—

As Ang sang this line, everyone felt as if they had returned to the Abyss of Rest. Around them, winds howled; ahead, endless darkness stretched. Yet strangely, they felt none of the usual agitation from the Wind of Rest—only the quiet serenity of listening to raindrops at a window.

The howling wind was like a hand soothing their souls, calming their blazing battle fury.

"Damn, such a strange contrast—the lyrics don't mean this, yet the feeling… soul singing…"

Shatter the darkness, the new world of eternal life—shatter the darkness, endless descent—

The lyrics reached their most contradictory point: after shattering darkness comes endless descent. Normally absurd, yet as they sang it, Negril felt a powerful sensation of falling, as if his soul would descend endlessly.

But soon, he felt a force cradling his soul.

Two opposing forces compressed his soul-fire into a tight core.

BOOM! Negril's body erupted in blazing soul-fire—not just him, but the little zombie too—and from the distant woods, two more points of light flared.

"This… my soul-heart has congealed?" Negril exclaimed in shock.

Negril's brass dragon body was, at its core, an undead vessel—possessing soul-fire, but no consciousness. Negril projected his will onto the brass dragon, controlling its movements.

Since he never needed to fight, Negril never cared much about the brass dragon's soul strength. After all, no one could beat him anyway—stronger was meaningless; enough was enough.

Now, under the resonance of these two Undead Chants, the brass dragon's soul-fire had congealed into a soul-heart.

The soul-heart is the hallmark of high-tier undead. At this stage, undead are known as Golden Skeletons, Ironclad Zombies, Lich Kings, Necromantic Saints, Black Knight Emperors.

"Wait—this body's soul has only existed for two years, and it's already upgraded to a soul-heart? I haven't even slept or trained it much."

Advancing from soul-fire to soul-heart takes a very long time. For example, Phyllin—still has no soul-heart—even though he's been a lich for over a thousand years.

But liches usually study magic; their power depends on magical skill. Soul strength only affects recovery speed.

Not just Negril—the little zombie had also congealed. They'd even given it the Chain of Wailing to accelerate its growth—but Ang singing two verses was enough. This Undead Chant was clearly an upgrade accelerator.

Besides them, all other undead had also refined their souls significantly, making great progress.

"I get it now—this 'descent' isn't what we think. It means inward contraction—endless inward contraction. Isn't 'sinking inward' exactly the state of a soul-heart?" Negril suddenly understood.

Lu Se tugged Negril's arm: "I understand what you're saying—but what are those two things?" He pointed toward the two glowing spots in the woods.

At that moment, a faint, ethereal song drifted from the direction of the lights.

"I have ceased to breathe—"

"Yet I am not yet dead—"

"Soul-fire replaces life; before dawn's light arrives, you must flee—"

Everyone's spirit trembled. Now even living beings like Lu Se and Lei Ting felt the shock.

Lei Ting whispered: "Such a beautiful voice? I feel my soul touched… who's singing?"

All turned their gaze toward the distant woods. When Ang sang earlier, Negril and the little zombie had ignited soul-fire—and those two distant lights had flared almost simultaneously.

"I am left with only myself—"

"All loved ones have left me—"

"The cloak of night drapes over me—"

"Hiding the secret of my rotting skin—"

Lisa suddenly clutched her chest—these lyrics struck straight to her heart.

I am left with only myself. All loved ones have departed. I wrap myself in thick garments, hiding the secret of my withered skin.

When she first became a lich, watching her skin slowly wither, Lisa had been so frantic she wanted to explode—her rage and regret drove her to smash things and hurt people.

Only Phyllin endured her outbursts, staying by her side, soothing her, until time wore it all away.

To avoid becoming ugly, Lisa tried countless methods—even stretching and stitching her skin flat.

The soul-striking song hammered like sledgehammers into everyone's hearts; all fell into gloom and despair.

Only Ang and a few others looked confused—why were they sad? The sapling immediately sent out enthusiastic thoughts: Push—grow—push—grow—trying to revive them.

But its enthusiasm couldn't counter the song's soul-deep resonance.

Oh~ where shall I go? My body is crawling with maggots—

Oh~ where shall I go? I doubt the whole world—

…

The cessation of breath is not the end of life; the peace of the soul is the beginning of death—

…

Oh~ where shall I go? The soul is at peace—(where the Wind of Rest blows)

Ah~ (here the undead are born)

Ah~ (this scene is etched in my memory)

Negril couldn't help exclaiming: "My god—there's harmony? So professional! Now I know what those two are—Wailing Banshees. Why are they here?"

No one paid attention to Negril's muttering. Everyone was lost in the beautiful song—the chorus was about to begin.

The song grew gradually joyful.

Come, darling, congratulations—you are immortal—

Release your energy—

Ignite your soul-flame—

Cast off all chains, become your brand-new self—

All were entranced by the music, their bodies swaying involuntarily. Lei Ting even tapped and shuffled, dancing lightly—if he entered a dressage competition, he'd be hard-pressed not to win the championship.

When they recovered from the song, they walked toward the two glowing points. As they drew closer, they saw clearly—they were two spectral forms.

The two spirits moved toward them, but upon seeing Ang's group, they hesitated, as if wanting to turn and flee.

"Don't run, don't run—I'm dead, not alive!" Negril hurried forward, revealing his soul-heart, and flew toward the two spirits.

The two spirits quickly bowed to Negril, then asked in confusion: "But you…"

"Magic—a magic trick. I'll find a corpse later and show you. By the way, you're Wailing Banshees, right? Why are you here?"

The two banshees exchanged glances and shook their heads: "I'm Dolly, this is Domi. We don't know why we're here. It feels like we've wandered here for years, dazed and aimless—until just now, a voice woke us. Who woke us?"

The two women scanned the group, then fixed their gaze on Ang. Without needing to be told, they recognized his aura. They knelt solemnly: "Thank you for granting us rebirth."

Ang tilted his head.

"Get up, get up. By the way, are you two the only ones? Where are the others? You're from the Wailing Opera Troupe, aren't you? Banshees always travel in groups—why are you alone?"

The two banshees looked at each other, then shook their heads: "We don't know. We remember the Witch saying: 'A soul storm is coming. Sleep. May you awaken one day.' Then we woke up here. But before that, we think we were already wandering this land."

"Soul storm? What soul storm? Where's the Witch?" Negril asked urgently.

My god—it was finally something different! A soul storm? Even the Witch couldn't withstand it? Why make them sleep? Could sleep protect against a soul storm?

But the two banshees' expressions turned cold, glaring at Negril: "How dare you speak the Witch's name? Bold lizard!"

One banshee instinctively opened her mouth—but glanced at Ang and held back. If not for Ang, she'd have already cast a fear spell on this audacious brass dragon.

"Uh, me, me—I'm the God of Knowledge, the Brass Book, Ang—mention me!" Among the Undead Empire's few who could speak the Witch's name without consequence, Negril counted himself.

Ang pulled out the Brass Book. The two banshees immediately knelt: "We bow before the God of Knowledge! We didn't know it was you—please forgive us."

Negril, naturally, didn't hold a grudge and pressed on: "Where's the Witch? Where did she go? Why are you here?"

The two banshees looked at each other, then shook their heads: "We were invited by humans to a music festival. On our way back, the Witch received some message—she grew gloomy, then suddenly stopped, ordered us to sleep, and spoke of a soul storm. When we regained awareness, we saw you. We don't know where the Witch went."

Disappointment. It was clear they couldn't provide more key information. Perhaps that's why Mei Sha had found the lead banshee's Chain of Wailing here—others may have once existed here too.

But over a thousand years have passed. Some may have scattered, others been purged by humans, others burned by the sun—all possible.

"Forget it. Let's farm. Maybe other banshees are nearby—we'll search while we till."

Ang quickly pulled out the Earth Holy Hammer and tossed it to the little angel. The little zombie, now upgraded, conjured two massive hoes, and the group charged out.

Negril turned to the two banshees: "What about you? Will you join us? If so, you must offer a soul oath to Ang."

These were the Witch's people. Negril couldn't force them to swear—but if they volunteered, it was fine. If the Witch wasn't dead, he wouldn't be blamed.

The two banshees hesitated only briefly before offering their soul oaths. Not just anyone could sing the Undead Chant. Ang sang it—and granted them rebirth. Offering their souls was only right.

Especially now that they knew a thousand years had passed, the Undead Empire was gone, and they had no home to return to—they had no choice but to surrender their souls.

But after swearing the soul oath, they were taken inside the Abyss Palace for a turn—and only then did they realize: the Undead Empire had dwindled to just these few.

Ang led everyone in cheerful cultivation of mushrooms—crushed stones, clean humus, damp air, mild sunlight, Kebada; it was truly a heavenly realm for sacred mushrooms.

After two days of playing, Lu Se and the others grew unhappy and slacked off: "This is so boring. Didn't we come here to help Grandma Lisha crush the Uss Kingdom? When are they coming?"

As soon as he finished speaking, a rapid clatter of hooves echoed through the hills; a knight with several deep scars across his face galloped up, dismounted before Lisha, and shouted: "My lord, the Uss people have arrived!"

It was Kro, whose disabilities had been cured, who reported to Lisha; after finishing, Kro turned to Ang and bowed with a hand over his chest.

This very lord seized his leg, cut it off, trimmed it straight like a sugarcane stalk, reattached it—and Kro felt not a single pang of pain. Once reattached, he could walk again; it was nothing short of a miracle.

Yet Lisha looked at the scars on his face and sneered: "Kro, won't you treat those scars on your face? They're hideous."

Kro smiled faintly: "No. They will forever remind me that mistakes carry severe consequences."

PS: The full text of "The Song of the Departed" is below; lyrics by Thor Xiaoying

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