Chapter 323

Anthony originally intended to trick the elves, knowing they had war reserves including enough elf beans to feed hundreds of thousands for a month.

Of course, the elves wouldn't give up their elf beans, but Anthony planned to use the elf beans as an entry point to acquire other grains from them—you won't sell me elf beans, but surely you can sell me some plant tubers and dried fruits.

Especially a kind of giant tree called Pink Brown; when cut open, its core can be eaten directly, and when dried, it can be pressed into flour to substitute for wheat flour.

As for the wild greens and tender shoots that sprout everywhere after rain, the elves can't possibly eat them all—deploying manpower to gather them could feed many people; the elves' utilization of the forest is shockingly low.

If the elves can't spare manpower, Anthony would be happy to send hundreds of thousands of people into the forest to gather it themselves.

Food is an absolute necessity; at this moment, only the elves have surplus grain.

Before Galad could utter that name, Anthony quickly interrupted: "Your Majesty, based on your description, you must mean the Deep Wanderers in the desert—I've taken in many fallen folk who fled from there, and they've already bought up all the Deep Wanderers' grain; if you're referring to them, they likely have none left."

Anthony attributed the grain purchase to the fallen folk mainly to prevent Gurianni from holding it against him later—he, as the Grand Archbishop of the Eastern Diocese and Acting Pope of the Holy Church, could never be associated with Deep heretics; that was a red line.

Even if the situation today forces no consequences, any future issue would let enemies repeatedly seize this stain to attack him—it would be a nightmare.

Blaming the fallen folk, however, was far safer; their origins were clear, and the blame lay entirely with Shamarah. By taking them in, I showed compassion and love, forgiveness and kindness—no matter how you spin it, it's merit, not fault.

Poor him—he thought of such a perfect excuse in an instant; no wonder he's a thousand-year-old veteran priest.

Galad, interrupted, was momentarily stunned; she was referring to Ang, of course—because of the sapling and the Tree of Life, the elves had always kept close watch on Ang's condition, knowing they'd planted another batch of soilless rice in the Dragonfall Lake.

Whether saltwater rice or soilless rice, both exceeded the elves' understanding; Kalandael had applied multiple times to serve the sapling, but recent major upheavals among the elves, combined with Ang's persistent silence on her request, had prevented the trip.

What did Kalandael really want? Galad knew perfectly well—serving the sapling was sincere, but mostly it was to study those saltwater and soilless rices; for druids, these things held deadly allure.

Kalandael believed these crops must have been cultivated by the sapling—only the God of Life possessed the power to alter species' habits.

Ang, who owned a Tree of Life, should have grain; though it was absurd to imagine the Church of Light buying grain from Deep refugees, Galad was happy to act as intermediary—even if she lost money, she'd do it just to get close to the sapling.

But Anthony told her the Deep Wanderers' grain was all sold out?

What now? Galad sighed regretfully: "Already sold out? That's too bad." The elves had lost a chance to get closer to Ang.

That wouldn't do! You lose a chance to get close, but I'll have people dying! Anthony exclaimed urgently: "No, Your Majesty, you can help—please sell me some elf beans."

Galad frowned: "Lord Anthony, elf beans are our emergency war reserve; asking for this is too much."

Elf beans were a war reserve, not an emergency food reserve—but the elves were straightforward, not stupid; Galad had enough emotional intelligence to know this.

"Then sell me some other grains—Gao Shu tubers, Pink Brown cores, anything edible." Anthony followed up smoothly.

"Gao Shu tubers? We don't eat those—how could we sell them to you? Harvesting is too laborious. And Pink Brown? That's a tree—can you even eat it? No, no—a tree takes decades to grow; we can't sell it to you." Galad replied.

Since the transmission array couldn't show expressions, Anthony didn't bother managing his face—he was practically rolling his eyes to the heavens. Look at what she just said!

"We don't eat those" and "harvesting is too hard"—purely because they've never been hungry. Wait till they're starving, then see if they'll eat them. Beautiful Queen Galad squatting by a field ridge, gnawing on Gao Shu and beet leaves, would be quite a sight.

"I can send people to harvest it myself. Pink Brown—you've never eaten it, have you? It's fast-growing wood; it matures in three years. Trees under three years are tender; after that, the inner powder hardens—good for making ropes, maybe, but humans can't chew it." Anthony said.

Galad remained silent for a long while, likely checking with others; after ten seconds, she muttered: "How do you know more about our forest than we do? We do cultivate Pink Brown—I'll sell you about ten thousand cubic meters."

"Not enough, Your Majesty. Pink Brown yields less than half its volume in grain—can ten thousand cubic meters produce three thousand tons? Most of it's tubers—they grow in vast patches; find the right spot and dig, and you'll find them everywhere. If harvesting is inconvenient, I can send people to dig."

As Anthony spoke, he muttered inwardly: Why do I know more? Because my main deity has the Cultivation Godhood and a Tree of Life—and he tills the soil himself.

Galad fell silent, then replied firmly: "The forest isn't just the elves' forest—it hosts many other species that live and breed here. I can't dig up a patch of land and sell its contents to you, nor can I let you enter the forest."

Anthony had expected this. He immediately said: "If the forest isn't just yours, why can't we enter? Can't we just gather wild greens and Gao Shu tubers?"

"No." Galad said.

"Then sell me more grain." Anthony pleaded stubbornly.

When a veteran priest like Anthony played the fool, a two-hundred-year-old girl like Galad couldn't resist—soon she was forced to sell him tens of thousands of tons of additional grain.

After a while of bickering, the Dwarf War God, who had been silent, suddenly asked: "Anthony, is the Western Diocese your territory?"

"No," Anthony replied, startled.

"Then why are you pushing so hard?" the Dwarf War God asked.

"Oh come on, people are dying—does it matter whose territory it is? Save the lives first!" Anthony said.

The Dwarf War God fell silent.

Anthony couldn't let him stay silent—he quickly said: "Lord Copper Hammer, sell me some grain?"

"We don't even have enough for ourselves," Copper Hammer replied gruffly.

"Of course you do—you just drink less alcohol. I know you have several times your daily rations stored as brew—sell it to me." Anthony said.

"You're dreaming!" Even through the transmission array, they could hear Copper Hammer puffing up, glaring, and leaping from his chair as if to kick Anthony's knee.

This idea struck the dwarves' Achilles' heel—dwarves could go without food, but never without drink; annually, they used several times their food rations for brew.

"Drink less! You've all got bulbous noses and fatty livers—drink less for beauty! Sell me some." Anthony said.

After relentless pestering, Copper Hammer was forced to sell two ten-thousand-ton batches of grain.

Now no one dared speak—speak, and you'd have to sell grain. After a pause, Dai Sen seized the chance to revive last meeting's resolution: expel the Deep Wanderers.

"At the last meeting, Your Majesty wasn't present; the vote was tied three to three, so it was shelved. Now that you're here, I request a re-vote," Dai Sen said.

If last time the expulsion of Deep Wanderers was motivated by self-interest, now Dai Sen was truly desperate—the Western Diocese was truly short on grain, and every returning Dragon Knight reported the same thing: the shores of Dragonfall Lake were planted with rice.

If they could expel the Deep Wanderers and seize Dragonfall Lake, at least some of the grain shortage could be alleviated.

As for Anthony's claim that he'd bought up all the Deep Wanderers' grain—just ignore it. You forced Queen Galad and Lord Copper Hammer to sell grain—do you really think they'd support you? Dai Sen thought bitterly.

Dai Sen and Gurianni weren't in the same place; Dai Sen hadn't consulted Gurianni beforehand. The moment he spoke, Gurianni's expression changed instantly—he muttered under his breath: "Idiot."

Du Nini, who had been silent as a quail, finally spoke up, clearing his throat: "Lord Dai Sen proposes a resolution: expel the Deep Wanderers. Re-vote now begins."

Then he fell silent again, slipping away so cleanly Anthony couldn't latch onto a word.

But it wasn't Du Nini's fault—the Star Republic had only a few hundred thousand people; even if they ate nothing, they couldn't spare much grain. As Chairman of the Security Council, he couldn't appear to contribute nothing—best to hide and let Anthony not see him.

Even better hidden was Brucek—he still hadn't uttered a word.

After the vote, everyone hurried to leave. Dai Sen stared at the two-to-five result, stunned—the resolution was defeated. But last time there were three votes—why only two now?

"Idiot! Did you think Copper Hammer's questions to Anthony were scolding him for meddling? No—he was scolding you. It's your territory, so why aren't you speaking, while Anthony does all the work? Because you don't care about lives. Idiot—soon we may all lose the dwarf vote." Gurianni reconnected the transmission array and launched into a furious tirade.

"Huh?"

Anthony happily received tens of thousands of tons of grain from the elves and dwarves; though the quantity was small, it would buy a few more days—every extra day was precious, for harvest season was coming soon.

…

Ang's hand bones drifted over a plot in Farm No. 2, watering and fertilizing a new variety of beet.

Due to climate conditions, outside fields had either passed planting season or were fully planted; only the two farms inside the Palace of Rest, protected by a barrier, had slightly different climates and could still grow crops.

Thus, this became Ang's last source of joy.

Unfortunately, the two farms combined were only six thousand mu—he dared not plant long-cycle crops, so he grew fast-growing new varieties, like rapid beet.

After long-term iteration and optimization, the beet's growth rate had become terrifying: under sufficient light, its leaves could be harvested every five days, and harvesting could continue throughout the entire growth cycle.

The minotaurs loved beets; now beet leaves had become their staple food, widely cultivated across the Calm Sea Plane.

But beets weren't just edible in leaves—their tubers were even tastier, extremely sweet, suitable for raw consumption, sugar extraction, or brewing—so the question arose: leaves or tubers?

"Minotaurs eat leaves, Lu Se eats tubers. Harvest leaves, and tubers turn mealy; don't harvest leaves, and tubers take too long to mature. So you're trying to breed a new variety that allows continuous leaf harvesting without tuber mealy degradation?" Nageleis asked.

Following Ang, Nageleis felt his cultivation knowledge soaring—he now tossed out technical terms effortlessly.

Ang nodded.

"Even if we had a few hundred more Lu Ses, they couldn't out-eat the minotaurs. What happened to the tubers from the leaf-harvested beets before?" Nageleis asked.

Ang pointed to a pile of earth far away.

Previous beet varieties, if leaves were harvested during growth, developed shriveled, inedible tubers—but discarding them was wasteful, so Ang buried them all in the Earth of Rest, planning to feed them to insects.

But now Hermerel couldn't even keep up with eating rice stalks and water algae; as cultivation expanded, it was clear Hermerel's eating speed would never match crop output—these shriveled beet tubers might never be used.

"Why not brew alcohol? I heard dwarves love drink. We brew it and sell it to them, then trade for their grain," Nageleis suggested.

It matched Anthony's idea perfectly.

Ang nodded, dug up the beet tubers, purified the dirt off them with a purification spell, then tossed them haphazardly into a purified barrel, filling it with holy water.

Ang had a natural advantage in brewing—at least in sterilization, no one could match him. If brewing wasn't clean, the mash wouldn't ferment—it would rot.

He grabbed a bottle of dwarf-favorite liquor, mixed it with the beet tubers, then touched the mixture with his finger.

Under the Instant Death Aura, yeast rapidly broke down the beet's sugars, multiplying explosively; once the quantity reached a threshold, Ang poured the yeast-laden liquid into the barrel, sealed it, and let it ferment.

Ang began working; the two banshees, Dala and Domi, began their routine performance—the Song of the Departed drifted through the air of the Palace of Rest.

The song soothed souls, lifted spirits, enhanced focus, and added background music to make labor less tedious—Ang didn't stop them.

They usually sang like this, but today, after only a few moments, an unfamiliar voice irritably snapped: "What the hell is that? Wailing like ghosts and wolves—can't you let anyone sleep?!"

Ang and Nageleis both felt their souls tighten—Who? This is the Palace of Rest!