Chapter 452: Peaceful Defense Barrier

From the teleportation array, Monica and Unica felt as if they were dreaming.

Six-winged archangels—none had ever seen them, not even heard of them, or perhaps only in legends; now two appeared at once, no wonder some always claimed the true light dwells upon the earth—isn't this the true church of light?

The dispute between orthodoxy and heresy has always existed; many often accuse these clerics and priests raised in the Alchemists' Alliance as heretics, apostates who have turned to dark gods.

And they would retort: "You hide all day in gutters, never seeing the light—what right do you have to represent light?"

This argument has raged for over a thousand years; as the Undead Empire's control grew stronger, the earthly Church of Light gradually fell silent, and now both sides believe they alone are the true faith—after all, you on the surface have produced nothing to prove your orthodoxy.

But now…

Monica watched as Ang and the little angel retracted their wings into their bodies—the legendary six-winged archangel, the supreme holy spirit—if they cannot represent orthodoxy, then who can? Could it be that her own side truly represents heresy?

As if perceiving her inner confusion, a voice sounded beside her: "As long as you yearn for light, as long as your faith is firm, whether you dwell in hell or the abyss, we are all children of light—do you believe in light?"

Monica turned to see Anthony, clad in solemn robes and crown, gazing at her with a tender expression—this look seemed to carry an innate power of comfort, instantly calming Monica.

"I believe," Monica said firmly.

"Then may light bless you, my child," Anthony summoned holy light and gently pressed it to Monica's forehead.

Monica involuntarily knelt, clasping her hands in prayer, just as before a loving father.

This Pope Anthony radiated a power more reassuring than any cleric she had ever encountered, making her instinctively want to lay bare her entire soul.

Unica felt the same, drawn unconsciously to Anthony's side; Anthony extended his other hand, gazing at her with tenderness.

Unica grasped Anthony's hand and knelt devoutly.

Negril, projecting onto Ang, couldn't help muttering: "Old hypocrite."

In Ang's presence, Anthony could never display his mind-manipulating abilities—everyone knew his true nature.

But others were different, especially those raised on theological education; a single expression, a single word, a single gesture could evoke entirely different feelings, easily winning their trust.

"Light opposes the forces of darkness—pray to the God of Equality and the Scales. As long as your faith is firm, he will answer you. A thousand-year war has claimed the gods, but as long as light endures and faith remains, they will all return," Anthony said slowly.

The God of Equality and the Scales? She had always prayed to the God of Truth and the God of Light—could the God of Equality and the Scales answer her?

Half-skeptical, Monica switched her prayer target—but as always, received no response.

Ang tilted his head in confusion, his gaze falling on Unica; he 'heard' her inner voice: "Scales God, I regret it—I did something foolish. I shouldn't have impulsively run out—I nearly got Mother killed. I was wrong. She's my only family left. I don't want her in danger. I hope you bless her to live a hundred years."

At the same time, several soul-flames streamed from her toward Ang.

A hundred years? Ang tilted his head. Just a hundred? If he blessed her, she wouldn't die at a hundred—would he have to kill her precisely at that age? Ang pondered, troubled.

Whatever. Equivalence, equivalence—Ang always remembered the principle of equivalence.

Unica's body glowed as a force flowed into her.

"I—I—the Scales God—he answered me!" Unica cried in disbelief.

Anthony quickly glanced toward Ang, then smiled warmly: "The Scales God has sensed your devotion. What did the god say?"

Unica stared in shock at Monica, then at Anthony—as if unable to believe the god's message.

The old hypocrite was too experienced with such situations; he didn't even need to know what Ang had replied—only needed to speak vaguely: "Follow the god's command, with your most devout faith."

Unica stepped before Monica and knelt, hesitantly extending a finger—but dared not touch her mother's face.

Monica, though unaware of what instruction Unica received, nodded encouragingly to her daughter.

Unica bit her lip, pressed her finger to the birthmark on Monica's face—a thin red light flickered out.

Unica gasped, mouth wide open; perhaps too shocked, the red light cut off.

"What happened?" Monica asked.

"Mother, your birthmark…" Unica pulled out a mirror—the spot touched by the red light now had a chunk missing.

Monica grew excited: "Can you continue?"

Unica calmed herself, prayed devoutly, then released the red light again.

Monica held up the mirror, watching the red light slowly erase the birthmark from her face—her hands trembled involuntarily.

Heart pounding, hands shaking, until the birthmark vanished completely, Monica and Unica burst into tears, bowing in gratitude to divine grace.

Anthony subtly sneered—too easy to fool. Didn't they find it strange? A mere junior priest could sustain a divine spell for so long? How profound must this divine favor be?

Even if the Scales God was kind, there were countless believers—why pour so much power into you? Because you're beautiful?

Dream on… if the Scales God weren't standing right beside him, with negligible cost, there'd be no such power to spare.

Anthony grumbled inwardly, but didn't waste this perfect opportunity—he smiled warmly: "Unica possesses a fervent heart and unwavering faith—this is divine grace…"

With Anthony's deception and the miracle witnessed, it wouldn't take long before these two clerics were completely fooled.

Ang exhaled deeply, as if a heavy stone had lifted from his chest—he'd finally fulfilled equivalence.

Equivalence was the first rule Ang learned; back in the Palace of Rest, he was merely a vegetable-growing skeleton, all his behaviors and knowledge implanted by his lord.

Later, it was proven that lord was a manifestation of the King.

Equivalence was something he learned from Phyllin, and he had always upheld it—whenever someone offered soul-flame, he returned something in exchange.

Though failing to return equivalence brought no punishment or loss, it made Ang deeply uneasy—like planting a row of rice, yet one stalk crooked, making you want to yank it out and replant.

Now it was done—Ang's obsessive-compulsive need was satisfied, his soul at ease, and then he left.

Deceiving Monica and others didn't require Ang—he went to cultivate holy mushrooms. Not long after, he sensed Monica's offered soul-flame; clearly, under Anthony's persuasion, this senior cleric now devoutly worshipped the Scales God.

Monica and Unica stayed here for two full days; when they left, they radiated renewed vigor, eyes resolute, their entire demeanor transformed—as if preparing to march into battle as holy warriors.

Through the teleportation array, they contacted the Alchemists' Alliance, clutching the two large bags of holy essence fluid and holy mushroom face powder Anthony had given them, and departed with reluctance.

Negril couldn't help exclaiming: "What did you tell them? Why do they seem like different people? Did you erase their memories again?"

"Impossible. I, Saint Anthony, would use such crude methods?" Anthony scoffed disdainfully.

"Like you never have," Negril asked. "Then what did you say?"

"I told them we've infiltrated the Undead Temple, successfully destroyed it from within—the main temple was toppled decades ago; now few on the surface worship the Undead Temple. But because we've lain dormant so long, our followers have forgotten our glory—so we need them to awaken the people's yearning for light."

"..." Negril fell silent for a long while, grumbling: "I feel like your story might actually become reality. You're not seriously planning to swallow both the Undead Temple and the Church of Light, are you?"

"Heh. What is reality? What is falsehood? What's recorded in scripture is truth; what's erased is falsehood. In a few hundred years, what I say will be truth," Anthony smiled.

Clearly, he intended to repeat his historical revisionism from the main plane; Negril snapped: "I'll use Truth's Whisper to tell everyone what's real."

"You want a god war? Lord Negril, you might not be able to beat me," Anthony smiled meaningfully.

This left Negril furious—he couldn't fight, couldn't win an argument: Dammit, wait till I get fatter—I'll just sit on you and crush you.

"By the way, where's the boss? Where's Du Luo?" Anthony asked—he still needed to report to Ang.

"Dissecting corpses underground," Negril grumbled.

Arriving at the underground cavern, Anthony understood what "dissecting" meant—the dragon lich corpse Ang had reclaimed lay spread out on the ground.

Ang continuously cast Purifying Light to animate it; the once emaciated, skin-and-bone dragon had half its body revived, bloated like a water-filled balloon.

Du Luo held a saw, laboriously cutting the dragon corpse, prying open the incisions with rods to create a large opening into the chest cavity.

"Lord Du Luo, what are you doing?" Anthony asked, puzzled.

"Can't you see? Dissecting. You're just in time—take over. Cut it open to the heart." Du Luo raised the large saw, gesturing to Anthony.

Anthony glanced at his own pristine, noble papal robes and felt an urge to flee.

He tucked away his robes, changed into a "farming outfit," rolled up his pant legs, and grabbed the saw.

Negril mocked: "Damn, he even has farming clothes—professional."

Using his black knight emperor instincts, Anthony familiarized himself with the saw, then pulled hard—only then did he understand why Du Luo looked so "strained"—this dragon corpse was incredibly tough.

Toughskin zombies had thin flesh, but this dragon's body was like hundreds of layers of skin and muscle stacked together, interwoven with metalized tendons and membranes; each pull made Anthony feel the saw's teeth wearing down.

"Between toughskin and copperskin—such a massive body, no wonder it's so hard. What are you cutting it for?" Anthony asked.

"Soul-phylactery replacement. See if we can revive it," Du Luo said, already crafting a soul-phylactery.

With everyone working together, progress accelerated; soon, after replacing three saws, Anthony cut open the chest skin and exposed the massive, shriveled heart.

"Why revive it? Driving it requires a powerful soul-heart—we'd gain nothing from reviving a corpse dragon, and it'd draw the Lich Council's attention," Anthony said.

"I'm not reviving a corpse dragon—I'm reviving the lich," Du Luo said.

Anthony blinked in confusion: "Its soul has scattered—how can you revive it as a lich?"

Liches are sentient undead; the sole distinction between zombies and liches is intelligence—but intelligence arises randomly; there's no guarantee every reanimated corpse becomes a lich.

"Of course. But I most hope to preserve its memories—you must have many questions you want to ask the dragon lich," Du Luo said.

Anthony's spirits lifted: "Any chance?"

He had so many questions—if he could capture a high-ranking Undead Empire official, he'd interrogate him until he wept.

All his knowledge of the Undead Empire came from fragmented, inferred information—he lacked critical data.

This led to a serious consequence: without clear understanding of the Undead Empire's strength, he couldn't determine whether the Lich Council could attack the Alchemists' Ladder. Fortunately, this attack targeted the Dongnai Peninsula's ladder—if it had targeted Beifeng City, they'd be in grave danger.

That's the importance of accurate knowledge.

Lately, he and Silver Coin had been gathering data on the Undead Empire and the Alchemists' Alliance—but no amount of data could match what a single dragon lich knew.

"Maybe," Du Luo shrugged, offering no guarantee: "I managed it. It should be possible too—depends on what the boss does."

Du Luo had been revived through a damaged soul-phylactery—that was Ang's miracle. He merely had the idea; whether it would succeed was uncertain.

As he spoke, Du Luo placed the crafted soul-phylactery over the shriveled heart; since the heart was enormous, the phylactery was oversized, requiring several adjustments to fit snugly.

Ang poured in worm-ash fluid, cast Purifying Light and Rebirth—after much effort, nothing happened.

"Could it have failed?" Du Luo said. "Where did we go wrong? Even if we can't preserve memories, we can still revive it—worst case, it becomes a corpse dragon."

As he pondered, Du Luo suddenly sensed something, turned—and saw the dragon corpse's eyes half-open, staring at him, then snapping wide, lunging like a viper to bite him.

A dragon's neck was incredibly flexible, its lunge swift as a snake bursting from its burrow.

Du Luo's heart leapt—he whipped his cloak around himself, turning into mist—but clearly too late; the gaping maw swallowed the mist.

A beam of light struck the mist—Ang's form flashed instantly before Du Luo, raising the Peaceful Defense Barrier.

Negril gasped: "No sword?"

No sword—Ang summoned the Peaceful Defense Barrier with bare hands.

The bloodied maw clamped onto the rampart, snapping over a dozen teeth.