Chapter 40: Brass Dragon Scale

Though furious, he wasn’t about to boil them with radishes or skewer them like beef; he still needed them to haul water to the shrine for the holy mushrooms, so he settled for giving each one a single whack with a stick.

But this reminded Ang: “Why eat the leaves?”

The most valuable part of beets is the tuber; the leaves are thrown away as trash or composted, yet the minotaur aunt and her family only chewed the leaves.

“Delicious,” said the minotaur aunt, her eyes bulging like ox eyes.

“Sweet,” added the young bull.

“Crisp,” supplemented the second young bull.

“Can grain be exchanged for this?” the minotaur aunt ventured to ask.

Such a good deal? Ang paid the minotaurs wages for their labor—food and lodging included, plus a small amount of grain each month.

But their family ate too much; fortunately, he grew holy mushrooms—if he’d grown only grain, the yield wouldn’t have sufficed to feed them.

Voluntarily requesting grain be swapped for beet leaves saved Ang a huge amount of grain, and beet leaves seemed to regrow after cutting—multiple harvests per year meant the minotaurs’ food supply was effectively solved.

If cultivation expanded slightly, all the minotaurs in the underground city could live on beet leaves, leaving the tubers for humans—a perfect solution for both sides.

After agreeing to swap their grain rations for beet leaves, Ang cut several extra bundles and tossed them to the minotaur aunt: “Sell them.”

Seeing this, Silvercoin grew uneasy: Could a skeleton who farmed and sold vegetables be trusted?

What he was about to do was betray the Church of Light; if Ang couldn’t protect him, he’d be better off pretending nothing had happened and just taking his medicine to finish his remaining years—he was already over ninety.

“My lord, could you please heal Elder Silvercoin? My power isn’t enough to purge the toxin all at once,” Lisa stepped forward to report.

The Corrosion Scar was essentially a toxin; if not fully removed at once, residual poison would gradually return to its original level.

Ang nodded and extended his hand; he’d grown accustomed to the principle of equivalent exchange. As soon as Lisa approached, her soul flame transferred to him continuously, so he naturally wouldn’t refuse a small request.

When a holy light rose from Ang’s palm, Silvercoin’s legs trembled—this scene was too surreal: a skeleton casting holy light—was this sacred or blasphemous?

He unleashed over sixty Purification Spells at once on Silvercoin, likely cleansing every trace of toxin from his bone fragments—but Ang’s Purification Spells lacked Lisa’s skin-nourishing, beautifying effects.

What was difficult for Lisa to accomplish in one go was effortless for Ang; after all, when healing angelic skeletons, he routinely used seven or eight thousand Purification Spells—sixty-some was nothing.

After finishing the healing, Ang turned to return and resume cutting grass; his scythe extended its blade aura, causing Silvercoin—who recognized it—to tense up and instinctively step back: Death’s Scythe? The Soul-Reaping Death’s Scythe? Using Death’s Scythe to cut grass?

“My lord, wait,” Lisa pulled Ang back: “Elder Silvercoin brought some local specialties—rare goods from other planes. Please choose some.”

Before Ang could respond, Negril stirred inside his soul: “Oh, rare goods? Gnome junk shop? I must take a proper look—these gnomes often get their hands on strange and bizarre items.”

Negril was interested; Ang didn’t care. He squatted on the field ridge. The little zombie popped out from nowhere and mimicked Ang by squatting beside him; the angelic skeleton fluttered over and squatted on Ang’s other side.

Lisa, Anna, and Lan also gathered around, clearly very interested in Silvercoin’s specialties.

Silvercoin’s excuse for arriving was that he’d brought many specialties to establish a trading outpost in this world—he had the confidence to say so because gnome merchants were renowned far and wide.

Whenever gnomes were mentioned, everyone thought of cunning and junk shops, precisely because too many merchants existed, good and bad alike.

Of course, gnome engineers were equally famous.

Silvercoin removed his ever-present shoulder chest box—a long, flat wooden case carved with intricate patterns, but wrapped in cloth, revealing only a corner or two.

He deliberately found a large flat patch of ground, spread the cloth on it, placed the wooden box atop, carefully wiped it, then channeled magic into his palm and gently pressed it against the box.

The box was clearly locked by magic runes—only someone with matching magical resonance could open it. Everyone’s magical resonance was unique; theoretically, rune-locked items could only be opened by their original owner.

Lan sneered: A broken wooden box locked with magic runes? Too extravagant.

With a clang, the box flipped open, its top and bottom halves spreading flat on the cloth—but it didn’t stop. The halves flipped again, then again—three times total—increasing the ground area sixfold. What had been the size of a single box now covered an area as large as a bed.

That wasn’t all—the total thickness of the opened layers was far greater than the original box’s depth.

“A space artifact?!” Lisa and the women perked up; Anna instinctively touched the ring on her hand.

She owned one too—a symbol of the Ice City governor, originally her brother’s—but her negligent brother had shoved it at her and vanished somewhere.

Phelin and Lisa each had a space ring as well, but they were small; in this world, only three space artifacts were known, and none existed in the Demon Valley—its scarcity was obvious.

A gnome merchant like Silvercoin possessed a space artifact? Was this world just that poor, or were gnome merchants truly as legendary as claimed?

The box had already expanded to bed-size, but it also extended upward two meters, becoming a tall cabinet with roughly seven shelves, each filled with strange and bizarre items.

Negril immediately spotted a golden scale—palm-sized, finger-thick, heavy as metal in the hand: “Mine… mine… my scale, my scale!!”

Seeing Ang’s interest in the scale, Silvercoin instinctively flashed his professional smile: “My lord, you have excellent taste—this is a scale from the legendary Brass Dragon. Legends say Brass Dragons grow fifty meters long, massive in size, terrifying in combat, and omniscient—nothing escapes their knowledge. It’s said that gaining a Brass Dragon’s favor and learning its divine name grants infinite knowledge.”

Ang tilted his head. Was Silvercoin talking about Negril? Probably not—Negril wasn’t this large, and he wasn’t omniscient; he didn’t even know where the King had gone.

Silvercoin continued boasting: “This Brass Dragon scale holds mysterious power to resolve any difficulty—whether for magical exams, rank promotions, scientific breakthroughs, or career advancement—wearing it ensures smooth success. If you bow to it morning and night…” “Oof!”

Before he finished, Lisa slapped him across the head: “Who are you telling to bow?!”

“Sorry, sorry! Habit—I slipped up,” Silvercoin instantly realized what he’d done—he’d just told a ‘god’ to bow to something else?

In serious terms, this was blasphemy; in the Church of Light, it would be labeled heresy. Lisa merely slapped him—she was being far too kind.

“You’ve been talking nonsense this whole time—does it have any real function? Is this the quality of your junk shop?”

Silvercoin grimaced: What do you mean “this quality”? This level is already high! Brass Dragon scales are rare beyond measure—they’d cause a frenzy in the human world.

But Lisa was right: Ang was a ‘god.’ Even a broken bone fragment of his was likely on the same level as a Brass Dragon scale—he naturally wouldn’t care about this.

It wasn’t his quality that had dropped—it was that his ‘customer’ was too high-tier.

“How much?” Just as Silvercoin thought he’d fail to sell it, Ang suddenly put on his hat and directly asked him—otherwise, Negril would scream his soul apart.

“Five hundred magic crystals.” Don’t be fooled by his big talk—he wasn’t even sure if this scale truly came from a Brass Dragon; unlike elemental dragons, such as red dragons whose scales radiated strong fire magic and could be instantly verified.

Brass Dragon scales couldn’t be authenticated—nor did they have tangible effects, unlike red dragon scales, which could be enchanted, used in potions, or added to fire-based magical items.

The so-called mysterious powers of Brass Dragon scales were entirely fabricated—passing exams, promotions, luck—nothing was this miraculous, not even the goddess of fortune’s underwear.

A red dragon scale cost thirty magic crystals—who’d pay five hundred for a Brass Dragon scale? To collect it? He couldn’t sell it for more, but it was too rare to sell cheaply, so it had sat unsold.

Ang cleanly pulled out a bag of magic crystals—he’d kept all the crystals from selling essence liquid, with nowhere to spend them.

He had no concept of money, but Lan and Lisa did—they immediately stopped him. Lisa even pulled out a vial of Holy Essence Liquid and asked: “Exchange for this?”

Silvercoin’s eyes sparkled—he nodded frantically, snatched the vial, and cried: “Deal!”

Lisa and Lan exchanged glances.

Lisa had suggested exchanging for this—but hadn’t specified how many vials. Based on their previous sales, five jin of essence liquid had fetched three thousand magic crystals—roughly 120 per vial. Five hundred magic crystals would require four vials plus a bit more.

But Silvercoin snatched it without asking how many—meaning in his mind, one vial of essence liquid was worth more than five hundred magic crystals.

Lisa leaned close and whispered: “Elder Silvercoin, how much can one vial of this essence liquid sell for in the human world?”

Silvercoin froze, glanced nervously at Lisa—and saw in her eyes a dangerous glint. Some people’s eyes shone like that when they saw money; such people were dangerous.

“One… one thousand.”

Lisa and Lan simultaneously wore expressions of utter despair: “Oh my god, we got ripped off!”

“Now I know why the Church of Light is after us—three thousand magic crystals turned into twenty-five thousand, nearly nine times profit!”

“Exactly! We sold it too cheap. If we’d priced it higher, there’d be no trouble—because the cost alone might justify it.”

Hearing their anguish, Silvercoin added fuel: “Those selling for a thousand are diluted. Yours are pure—you could sell them for fifteen hundred easily.”

“Diluted?! Crooks!”

As everyone united in condemning the crook, Lan’s face suddenly paled. She listened intently for a moment, then said, voice trembling: “I received a soul message—a Church of Light army has been teleported outside Ice City.”

Silvercoin’s face turned white as well: “Not my fault!”