Chapter 358: Should We Cheat?

Why did Shamara fall? Because she was too obsessed with pure light, wanting to seize Ang's power, but she couldn't beat him.

Pure light wasn't just her obsession, her pursuit—it became her very definition of light: light should be this way.

Why is your light so impure? Why is your light so corrupted?

If there were no comparison, fine—but there is pure light. Why are you so impure? Have you betrayed the light?

This, above, was Shamara's true inner state when she fell. Without comparison, there is no harm.

So all along, her feelings toward Ang have been conflicted: Ang possesses the light she seeks, drawing her irresistibly close (to steal it), yet her inner voice screams warnings against doing something foolish.

If you can't steal it, what else can you do? Give gifts?

Shamara smiled bitterly as she dragged over the sack of holy burial shroud: "I had a feeling coming here now would bring good fortune. I thought I couldn't arrive empty-handed, so I brought a gift. I didn't even get to give it—and the good fortune arrived anyway."

"So the 'good fortune' has nothing to do with whether you brought a gift. But why, out of nowhere, did Ang touch her head?" Negril asked, puzzled and curious.

This gardening skeleton rarely did anything unless he was growing things. Even the little angel had to circle him, bounce around for ages, before he reluctantly patted her head. Now he was voluntarily touching Shamara's head?

Ang tilted his head, equally confused. He just felt he should touch her, so he did. Why overthink it?

Seeing his expression, Negril knew he'd get nothing from Ang. This luck-cursed skeleton often acted without knowing why.

Only when growing things was his goal clear; everything else was haphazard. Yet somehow, the results were always good—like the Goddess of Luck knocking on his door at midnight—luckier than anyone could imagine.

With no other option, Negril turned to Shamara: "What about you? What do you feel? Has pure light changed you?"

"Oh oh." Shamara closed her eyes, sensed for a moment, then opened her left palm—black light coalesced into a sphere. She opened her right palm—holy light coalesced into a sphere.

"Huh? You can use holy light again?" Negril exclaimed.

Corruption power is highly contaminating—any holy light it touches becomes corrupted. After her fall, Shamara could no longer use holy light.

Yet now, the sphere in her right hand had regained its former purity.

Shamara shook her head, clenched her left hand—the black sphere suddenly flared as if the blackness was sucked away, transforming into holy light.

Then she clenched her right hand—the holy light turned black. If someone had closed their eyes at that moment, they'd have thought she swapped hands rapidly.

But Negril and Du Luo saw the truth: "A switch between two powers?"

If Shamara could freely convert between corruption and holy light, couldn't she pretend to be the Holy Maiden again?

Shamara nodded, then slowly brought the corruption sphere in her right hand and the holy sphere in her left together.

Two opposing forces either contaminate each other, repel each other, or…

"Fused?" The black and white orbs merged into a single gray-white sphere.

Shamara drew the gray sphere back into her body, extended a fingertip, and summoned a tiny point of light. She walked to Lu Se and poked his arm.

"Ow!" Lu Se cried out, clutching his arm—a fingertip-sized burn appeared.

Then she ran to the little angel, poked her—immediately, holy light covered the angel's arm, blocking the fingertip, yet where they touched, smoke hissed.

Finally, Ang pulled out the little zombie. When her finger touched it, smoke rose again.

Only then did Negril and Du Luo's expressions turn grave: "Extra damage against undead and holy beings?"

Shamara nodded, then repeated the process—poking Lu Se and the little zombie again. She tried to poke the little angel, but got a punch to the eye socket and missed.

But it didn't matter—Lu Se smoked, but the little zombie didn't.

"Whoa. A power that changes according to your will? You can add damage—or not—whenever you want? And switch freely?" Negril hissed in shock.

Shamara nodded.

Lu Se couldn't help but cry out, clutching his arm: "Then why does it hurt me? I'm not undead or holy!"

Negril snapped: "That's the base damage—you got burned."

An arrow hitting undead or holy beings causes extra damage; hitting a living person? Just a normal arrow wound.

Lu Se suddenly understood: "I get it. Everyone who hits me hurts me. That's unfair."

After further study, they understood Shamara's condition: her body now held two coexisting powers—corruption and holy light—which could transform into each other.

She could add extra damage to undead and holy beings—or choose not to, at will.

Once understood, Negril couldn't help exclaiming: "This advantage of yours is enormous."

"S-so that's why I brought gifts—I caught her on the way," Shamara said, feeling she'd struck gold, slightly embarrassed, gesturing to her sack.

The sack had been opened earlier, its mouth propped up slightly, something peeking out. When everyone turned to look, it quickly pulled the opening shut.

The sack was pulled open, revealing the Redeemer Goddess's furious face: "I ran far away! I didn't come here—I was dragged here!"

…

"Tell me, tell me—why did you grab her? Are you trying to give us trouble? Now how do we handle her?" Negril groaned, staring at the Redeemer Goddess, complaining to Shamara.

The Redeemer Goddess had given up. She didn't shout or struggle—just glared angrily at the Archangel's Staff in the little angel's hands, her prized possession.

The little angel, of course, wouldn't return it. She glared back, clutching the staff behind her, ready to punch the goddess in the eye at any moment.

The two stared each other down, about to fight.

Shamara felt awkward—she'd come to give a gift, but ended up delivering a problem:

"I met her on the road. She was hiding in a small town, couldn't farm or wash clothes, living worse than me. She could only secretly heal people to earn a little living."

"Lately, the Church issued orders to capture witches. She was reported. When I found her, she'd just beaten to death everyone sent to arrest her. I thought—hey, the Redeemer Goddess? Perfect. I couldn't show up empty-handed, so I grabbed her."

Negril snapped: "What do you mean you grabbed her? That was Luna's handiwork, wasn't it? Luna, right?"

Shamara's holy armor emitted a voice: "Y-yes, Lord of Knowledge."

"Now what? Ang kicked her out before. Now you've dragged her back. How do we handle her?" Negril grumbled.

Shamara and Luna felt deeply uncomfortable, only offering awkward, apologetic smiles: Damn it, even goddesses as gifts are rejected. This conversation's over.

It wasn't just Negril's disdain—it was genuine confusion. The Redeemer Goddess had been obedient: after being banished, she hid in a remote town, lived quietly, never broke her promise to Ang.

Ang couldn't kill her—but how to house her? Wherever she went, she was an unstable factor. And now she seemed self-destructive, even picking a fight with the little angel.

The Redeemer Goddess felt wronged. She'd hidden in a backwater town, healing people just to earn a few coins—and still got caught? Fine, no more hiding. That Archangel's Staff is mine—give it back!

Before they started fighting, Shamara stepped forward and dragged the Redeemer Goddess away.

"Let go of me! Let go! That Archangel's Staff is mine—let me take it back!" the Redeemer Goddess struggled.

Shamara whispered: "Use some strength. I'm not even pulling hard."

The Redeemer Goddess whispered back: "Use strength—I'll hold tight."

Thus, "reluctantly," they were dragged away. Once Ang and the others were out of sight, Shamara released her: "Now what? Where do you want to go? Shall I take you?"

The Redeemer Goddess looked lost: "I don't know. I hid in such a remote town—and you still found me. Are you an ogre?"

"Why not go to the Church?" Shamara asked, puzzled. If she went to the Church, her status as goddess would guarantee protection—why hide and heal secretly?

At the word "Church," the Redeemer Goddess shook her head like a windmill: "No, no, no—absolutely not. I'm the Redeemer Goddess. Do you know where I sense the most despair? From the Church."

"Redemption" made Shamara fall silent. She knew exactly what the Redeemer Goddess meant. The Church trained its clergy from childhood—brutally, erasing their nature, soul, and will.

During this process, despair was the strongest feeling—you couldn't even quit. Quitting meant abandoning faith. And that was unthinkable: either lock them in a dark cell, or burn them at the stake.

Every year, more children died or went mad from the training than you could count on two hands.

No one cared about these children's mental health. They called it necessary training. Survive it, and you become the Church's most faithful believer.

Other gods didn't care either. As long as believers spread their faith, how they were made didn't matter.

But the Redeemer Goddess was different. She was the goddess of love and redemption—every despair and pain fed back to her. If she could, she'd have destroyed the Church long ago. She'd never return.

Shamara was chosen as Holy Maiden at sixteen—she hadn't endured the worst stages. Yet even so, her personality was extreme and bitter. Imagine how despairing and oppressive the Church's environment must be.

"Then come with us," Shamara said. "Otherwise you can't even afford clothes—your armpits are full of holes."

The Redeemer Goddess shyly covered her armpits, stubbornly retorting: "I just don't want to use divine power. Otherwise my clothes change daily."

"Money works too. Look—black silk?" At the mention of clothes, Shamara's enthusiasm surged. She unclasped her holy armor and pulled up her undergarment's edge.

"Huh? Lace trim? What material is this?" the Redeemer Goddess exclaimed.

"Silk. Lisa says it's black lace-edged, odor-resistant, sweat-wicking, anti-static, body-hugging underwear—made in Meishencheng. Very expensive." Shamara pulled it up slightly.

"Wow!" The Redeemer Goddess shrieked like a girl seeing the world for the first time.

So when Ang's group left, they saw two women on the roadside, pulling each other's undergarments to inspect them.

…

Back at the Fallen Dragon Lake, the grain had been harvested, packed into sacks, and rushed away at top speed.

Large-scale grain transport has never been easy. Often, famine results not from lack of harvest, but from insufficient transport.

The north reaps a harvest; the south suffers drought. But grain can't reach the south—or the cost is too high, no profit—so the south can't buy food.

At such times, a powerful institution must step in, allocating resources regardless of cost. That's what Andong does.

Without this, Andong wouldn't have rushed to break with Guolian. But he also considered Dai Sen's situation—if he didn't break now, Dai Sen would be exposed soon.

Multiple factors pushed him to take this step. Now he must consolidate his victory.

This will take a long time. Andong is already overwhelmed—he didn't come along.

Those with work dispersed. Only Ang, the little angel, and the little zombie remained. They mounted Lightning and flew toward Huxindao, where the Record Pillars had been moved, because Ang had discovered a flaw.

"You found a flaw? You never notice anything else—why do you notice everything when growing things?" Negril grumbled. "What flaw? Tell me."

Ang said: "It doesn't record outside the range."

With Ang's explanation, Negril understood: the Record Pillars recorded crop growth within a 3, 00-mu area. If factors affecting growth lay beyond that range, the Pillars couldn't record them.

What factors beyond 3, 00 mu could still affect crop growth?

If someone cast special growth-enhancing magic upwind—or cast magic in the air during rain, letting it fall with the rain—they could cheat.

"You mean someone could cheat the Record Pillars and produce more grain than us?" Negril gasped.

In the past, if someone produced more, fine—Ang might even have learned their methods.

But this time, winning first place matters most. The champion's influence dwarfs second place—critical for promoting the new grain.

If the yield comes from cheating, the grain has no value—it can't be promoted.

As they spoke, over a patch of rich black soil, several owls huddled in the air, whispering: "Master, are we really going to do this? If the contest finds out, our reputation is ruined."

The owl called Teacher said: "You must not forget—the school's simulation array's highest record is already thirteen hundred and twenty jin. If you can't surpass that number, we're likely to lose—what reputation will we have then?"