Chapter 332

Watching Eistolia carefully pick up two-meter-long poles to carry those farm manure buckets, everyone felt a strong sense of dissonance—Truth God, and yet so beautiful; if elves saw this, they'd be furious.

But when they saw the pure, delicate little angel flying past with buckets, flapping her wings, everyone instantly felt harmony again—if even a Holy Angel has to carry buckets, what's an elf god?

Lisa sighed in frustration: "I thought she'd give up after seeing how hard it was, but she actually has the guts to push through—now I've really offended her. Why on earth does she insist on serving the Master?"

Negril glanced at the druid on the distant tree-man Gaoer and muttered: "Elves have it rough— their god has vanished, and she's not here to serve Ang, she's here to serve the little sapling."

Elves have it rough—before, the God of Life would occasionally respond to them; now, there's no response at all. No one knows if she was burned to death or what.

After losing the God of Life, elves struggled terribly—they were like spoiled, immature children who, stripped of protection, now had to fight just to survive.

The Tree of Life wasn't just their god—it was a colossal tree with inexhaustible resources: its branches could be made into bows and staves, its bark into clothing, its fruit edible, its hollows into homes. Without special needs, elves could live their entire lives on the Tree of Life without ever touching the soil.

Even their newborns could be left to play freely—the God of Life would protect them, preventing them from falling and dying.

But recently, three elves have fallen to their deaths: two infants, one adult.

Yes, without the God of Life's protection, even adult elves could fall from the trees.

Thus, the Tree of Life was no longer a safe haven; everyone had to move to the ground.

Actually, they'd already moved to the ground before—the God of Life had been angry and released green mist, forcing them down—but that was only temporary. Now they realized they might have permanently lost their god.

Moving from the trees to the ground wasn't just a change of residence—it raised living costs dramatically. Now they had to assign specific elves as childcare attendants to watch over and teach the young.

In addition, beds, chairs, tables, pots, bowls, buckets, even tents and curtains—all became necessities, because on the ground there were mosquitoes and insects; up in the trees, those pests couldn't climb.

They didn't produce these things themselves, so they had to buy them from humans—forcing many elves back up the trees, ignoring the risk of falling, just being more careful and tying ropes around their activity zones.

Most elves adapted well to tree life—just need to watch the young and the elderly.

But this was only one problem. Without the God of Life's protection, they had to adapt to too many things—previously, within the Tree of Life's range, it never rained; all rain turned to mist, evenly sprinkling over crops.

Now it rained. Especially after the Tree of Life was burned—even though Ang saved it—the leaves were nowhere near as lush as before. Rain now pierced through the branches, drenching them into "soaked elves."

Here's an explanation: "Soaked Elves" is a famous human painting—a frail elf, completely drenched, her clothes clinging to her body, revealing graceful curves and faint skin tones, her eyes wide with panic, that delicate blend of fear and charm—considered one of the top ten masterpieces in human art history.

But elves aren't frail at all—yet even the strongest elf gets sick easily when soaked.

Oh, right—sickness. Now elves get sick far more often than before; some even suffer from insomnia.

In short, every aspect of life had been severely affected—but all could be overcome. The one thing they couldn't overcome: the Tree of Life no longer bore Life Fruits.

Elves are long-lived, with lifespans up to a thousand years—but outsiders didn't know: only elves who had eaten Life Fruits could live a millennium. If born and never eating a Life Fruit, their lifespan shrank to two hundred years.

If the God of Life never returns, then from now on, every newborn elf will become a short-lived species.

In the coming centuries, newborn elves will age and die sooner than their parents, a process continuing until all long-lived elves who ate Life Fruits are dead.

Only now did Eistolia truly realize how absurd her earlier thoughts had been—it wasn't that the God of Life belonged to elves; it was that elves couldn't survive without the God of Life. Without its protection, even basic living became hard.

All their refinement and elegance were gifts from the God of Life—it erased the most mundane struggles: elves didn't need to hunt or forage every morning, didn't need to crawl through forest ditches mining ore, didn't need to endure the burdens of childbirth and childrearing—so they had endless time for refinement and elegance.

Eistolia remembered the parasites living on the giant trees—how similar were elves to them?

Previously, Eistolia still thought: I'm an elf god—I'm here to serve the little God of Life, you're lucky, you should be honored, you should be grateful.

Now she dared not think that way. She was just a pitiful creature abandoned by her god—no, not even pitiful, just a bug. She brought it on herself. As Kaelandiel had lately been muttering: "The God of Life doesn't like elves…"

With this clear understanding, she now approached this task with perfect composure—fine, if they want me to carry manure, I'll carry manure. What's the big deal?

But… but… smelling the odor from the buckets made Eistolia's scalp tingle. Lisa had the advantage—she couldn't smell anything at all.

Clearly, holding a long pole wasn't enough to lift the buckets—she nearly tipped them over; the contents sloshed, splashing out a little.

Eistolia shrieked and shot back several meters—even though she was wrapped in multiple layers of shields, not even a spark could touch her.

But even if it didn't touch her, touching the shield was unacceptable—if it did, she'd rather discard the shield entirely. Even if the shield was invisible energy, it still repulsed her.

Fortunately, nothing touched her. Then she snapped out of it, smacked her own head—she'd been distracted by Lisa, forgotten she was a Truth Mage. No one said she couldn't use magic to carry them.

Eistolia pointed a finger—powerful elements surged into the pole in her hand.

When Eistolia shifted her thinking to magic, the problem became simple: just lift two wooden buckets with a pole. For a Truth Mage, this was so simple it didn't even require magic.

Elements flooded the pole, forcibly altering its elemental affinity. Normally, this would take a long time—the pole was ordinary jujube wood, not an elemental plant, with very low affinity, requiring prolonged elemental infusion or alchemy.

But Eistolia preferred brute force—she didn't need the pole to last long anyway. Just force it.

With altered elemental affinity, the pole could now be moved with basic elemental manipulation.

The wooden pole rose into the air on its own, plunged into the buckets, and began moving.

A lone stick, carrying two buckets, floated away. Eistolia fanned her nose and drifted after it.

Fine, she'd done it—but when she floated back, Ang was already gone, everyone scattered, busy with their own tasks. Who had time to watch her carry manure?

Eistolia felt slighted, pursed her lips, swallowed her pride, and encouraged herself: "Is this permission to stay? Fine, then I'll stay."

As she wandered the streets searching for Ang, she suddenly sensed a magical resonance and whipped her head toward a building by the roadside.

Above the building's entrance hung a large, glittering nail-shaped sign. According to Lisa, this was a nail salon—a cute little girl stood at the door, holding up her sparkling hands to the sunlight.

Every angle she turned, the patterns on her nails shimmered differently, dazzlingly.

Yet the little girl radiated a magical aura that made Eistolia sharply alert—she was a mage of the same rank.

At the same moment Eistolia turned, the little girl sensed her too, turned, saw an elf, and instantly snatched her hands behind her back, floating slowly forward with a smile: "Little one, manicure?"

Little one!? A few-hundred-year-old elf called a little girl? By a child?

Before Eistolia could react, the little girl extended her glittering nails, handing her a card: "Say my name, get ten percent off."

Eistolia took it—black wooden card, inscribed with one name: Death Star, Oberli.

Eistolia instantly remembered the name. As a Truth Mage, she kept tabs on peers—even if she hadn't met them, she'd heard their names.

"So it's her. No wonder she calls me 'little one.' A lich? But so beautiful? Manicures? What kind of monsters live here?" Eistolia murmured.

In Meishencheng, even a random encounter was a peer-level monster—no wonder Ang didn't care about her service.

Just then, Oberli, who had floated away, floated back, waving: "Come on, let's go see the spectacle."

When Eistolia followed Oberli outside the city, she found most of Ang's top-tier forces gathered—clearly, a major operation was underway.

Eistolia's heart tightened—her first thought: If I perform well, I won't have to go back to carrying manure.

Oberli floated over eagerly: "Are you going to fight? Count me in."

Ang nodded indifferently.

Negril stared, bewildered, at Oberli and Eistolia joining in.

Undoubtedly, Oberli represented the Star Republic, Eistolia represented the elves, and with Bruceck coordinating from overseas, the dwarf king and Anthony secretly allied—did that mean five of the seven factions at the Dimension Security Meeting were involved in this operation, preparing to strike the sixth?

Glory. Dai Sen could die in peace.

Unaware he'd been targeted, Dai Sen was preparing for battle. Two days ago, he'd finalized a plan with the Dwarf King: he'd provide elite combatants, the Dwarf King would supply aerial and ground troops, to launch a surprise attack on Meishencheng.

The dwarf goat cavalry and griffin knights were his most valued forces—but remembering the fate of the dragon knight corps, Dai Sen felt uneasy, so he kept drawing from his hidden reserves.

Through a teleportation array, he arrived at an unknown dimension. Stepping out, he saw nothing but endless white bones stretching across the vast plain before him.

Dai Sen held his breath, cast a breath-sealing spell on himself—this dimension had no air; only undead and elemental beings could survive.

Sensing movement, a skeleton at the edge of the teleportation array lifted its head, saw Dai Sen, then dropped back down.

Dai Sen suppressed his holy light, not daring to leak a single drop—otherwise, the mountains of undead would overwhelm him, and he'd die horribly.

Leaving the array, he walked forward. Skeletons occasionally lifted their heads to glance at him, then dropped back down. His appearance had been circulated here—they all knew him.

Ang had seen three waves of Dai Sen's undead: one was Gold Tooth Kebeng, one was the corpses thrown into the Abyss of Rest to spread the undead plague, one was the black knights who infiltrated Meishencheng.

Dai Sen claimed they were captured in the Drowning Lands—but never said who they served. Even Gulianyi didn't know.

Yes, despite Gulianyi's help, Dai Sen ignited his divine flame and revealed many things—but he concealed this one.

Through countless corpses, Dai Sen reached a clear patch in the center of the plain. From above, a faint mark was visible—the Mark of the Forgotten God.

Within the mark's area, a purple-gold skeleton sat on a raised mound, fist propping its chin, as if deep in thought.

Sensing Dai Sen's approach, the purple-gold skeleton's eye sockets ignited violet flames, looking up blankly: "Who… are you?"

Familiar scene, practiced response: "I am your servant, Dai Sen."

"Servant? Who am I…?" the purple-gold skeleton asked blankly.

"You are the Lord of Mourning, Solid Bone Locke."

"Solid Bone Locke? That doesn't sound right. I hate that name. Why am I here?" the skeleton asked blankly.

"You fought the Forgotten God and were struck by his Mark of Forgetting, losing many memories. Only the God of Undeath can restore them. I am the servant sent by the God of Undeath to serve you. The Forgotten God's minions are moving again, Lord Locke—I need your strength to eliminate them."

The purple-gold skeleton sat there, thinking hard, then crouched down, and after a long while, sighed in frustration: "I can't remember. Let me think again."

Dai Sen sighed inwardly—another failure. This purple-gold skeleton wasn't Solid Bone Locke, but the Mark of Forgetting had erased its identity.

If he repeated it enough, ten thousand times, until it accepted the identity he fabricated, he could fully control it.

"Take your time, don't rush. But the Forgotten God's minions are about to invade—you must stop them." Dai Sen said.

The purple-gold skeleton thought again, then after a while, lifted a hand—only four finger bones remained; the ring finger bone was gone.

As it moved, a corpse suddenly erupted from the ground—its skin deathly pale, expression vacant, like a freshly dead zombie—but the mark on its forehead made Dai Sen's soul tremble—was this the body of the Forgotten God?