Chapter 53: Headless Little Zombie

Ang happily smeared holy light over the angel skeleton, which was just like planting vegetables—sow the seeds, watch them grow, lush and green, day by day maturing, and Ang felt immense joy.

Now it was the same: when holy light touched the bones, flesh grew back, the same joy as planting crops.

The angel skeleton also benefited from this process; though each flash of holy light left it weak, after recovery, both its soul and bones would grow slightly.

This was already the third time the angel skeleton had cast Holy Flash, from initially holding only sixty Purification spells, to seventy, now over eighty.

If this continued, its energy capacity would keep increasing; if Ang hadn’t upgraded his Purification, simply filling it with energy would be a hassle.

The only downside was that casting one Holy Flash consumed too much: eighty Purification spells only charged it; to restore the skeleton into an angel required seven thousand Purification spells, and the enhanced version still needed two thousand—taking one or two days.

That meant Ang had to work nonstop for one or two days to unleash a single Holy Flash. Such a time- and effort-intensive skill was destined not to be used lightly.

While Ang was pondering, a loud “Aoooo!” startled him—he turned to see a heavily armored warrior break through the encirclement and charge straight toward him.

Lan ’s fireballs rained down on the armored warrior, but strangely, each explosion immediately extinguished, without lingering flames as normal fireball spells usually did.

“There’s an elemental suppressor under his armor!” Lan immediately concluded, shouting a warning to the others.

Elemental suppression referred to natural elements—wind, fire, lightning, water, earth, light. The first solution was to switch to non-elemental magic: mental, arcane, or summoning spells.

The second was to choose elemental spells that emphasized physical damage, like Explosive Earth Spikes.

The most brutal method, of course, was overwhelming elemental bombardment—exceeding the suppression capacity. Could fireballs be suppressed? Could meteor rain be suppressed?

After warning them, Lan chose the second option: he swung his staff sideways, and fire elements surged wildly between his hands, twisting rapidly into a semi-transparent sphere.

As more fire elements poured in, the sphere ignited inside—but all combustion remained trapped within, compressed by the semi-transparent shell until it neared explosion, then Lan shoved it forward with force.

Under Lan ’s gaze, the Explosive Fire struck the armored swordsman and detonated violently.

This explosion, powerful enough to fling a normal person away, sent the armored swordsman staggering sideways, toppling him onto the ground. But before Lan could rejoice, the armored warrior rose as if nothing had happened and resumed his sprinting charge.

A barrage of Shadow Arrows and Death Breath Arrows struck the enemy—no damage at all.

On the armored warrior’s charge path, the ground bubbled with small bubbles—he stepped onto it, and his entire body suddenly sank into the earth—Quicksand Spell.

Against these iron cans, Quicksand Spell was the most effective restraint magic, but it required long preparation—it needed to soften the entire patch of ground.

The armored swordsman sank into the quicksand, struggling uselessly, sinking deeper with every movement.

At that moment, a second armored swordsman broke through the encirclement, stepped on his fallen comrade in the quicksand, and leapt over the pit.

No time to set another Quicksand Spell—Filin ordered the skeletons to charge forward. Of his thousand skeletons, eighty percent he’d deployed as the frontline assault force.

On the battlefield, zombies and skeletons leading the charge as cannon fodder was the most rational tactic—unafraid of death, unfeeling pain, able to drain enemy strength; even if Filin were a lich, he could never send humans to spearhead an assault.

But skeletons and zombies couldn’t stop these iron cans—their weapons bounced off the armor. One slash or sweep from the armored swordsman could cleave several zombies in half.

“Aoooo!” A roar echoed—the zombies scattered like they’d received a command.

That “Aoooo!” wasn’t Filin—it was the little zombie. As the skeletons parted, it sprinted from afar and slammed headfirst into the armored swordsman.

The little zombie was the fastest among all the liches and zombies Ang had ever seen; under equal mass, greater speed meant greater kinetic energy—its charge was truly like a cannonball.

The angel skeleton had been knocked apart by it multiple times, forced to scavenge half its bones to beg Ang to reassemble it.

The armored swordsman was knocked flat by the little zombie’s impact.

But now the little zombie lost momentum; as both fell, the armored swordsman rolled over and pinned it beneath him, dragging his sword across its neck.

Crack—the little zombie’s head rolled away, gurgling.

“Aoooo!” Ang roared at the sight, his soul flame bursting uncontrollably from his skull, engulfing his head in fire—more furious than when Tulus had burned his crops.

He clenched his hands, strode forward, wind elements pushing him like a cannonball, hurtling straight toward the armored swordsman.

The armored swordsman stood, ignoring all surrounding enemies, lifting his foot to crush the little zombie’s head—he clearly knew who truly threatened him.

His foot didn’t come down—he heard wind rushing, turned his head, and saw a skeleton leaping above him, dual-wielding a great scythe, swinging it full-force toward his neck.

The armored swordsman suddenly felt a dread omen—he yanked his neck back, trying to dodge the scythe. Normally he’d never bother dodging; few attacks could pierce his defense, and even if they did, they weren’t lethal—minor wounds didn’t even feel like a scratch.

But facing this skeleton’s scythe, his instincts screamed: DANGER!!!

Yet Ang merely twisted slightly—the scythe angled down by fifteen degrees, still slicing across his neck.

The scythe passed through his neck like a phantom, pulling out his soul—the armored swordsman remained unharmed, yet collapsed stiffly. No matter how thick his armor, Death’s Scythe wasn’t a physical attack.

Ang kicked aside the armored swordsman’s corpse, picked up the little zombie’s head, and let out a mournful “Aoooo!”

He rarely felt sadness—unless his crops withered—but the sorrow from the little zombie was many times stronger than any crop loss.

He’d barely cried out when the angel skeleton patted him and pointed aside—the little zombie’s headless body was rising, arms flailing, spinning like a drunkard.

Ang tilted his head, suddenly remembering: liches’ souls weren’t in their heads, but in their hearts—meaning the little zombie wasn’t dead.

All that mourning for nothing—Ang patted the little zombie’s head in his arms, then returned it.

Though liches’ souls weren’t in their heads, they still perceived the world through their eyes—without a head, they had to rely on their chest soul to see, needing time to re-adapt.

The little zombie picked up its own head and twisted it onto its neck—but forgot: the neck was cleanly severed, smooth, no grip—no matter how it twisted, it wouldn’t attach.

Ang scanned the area, grabbed a skeleton roughly the same size, twisted off its cervical vertebra joint, and replaced the little zombie’s neck with it—then screwed the head on.

The skeleton, now headless from losing its spine, silently opened and closed its jaw—as if accusing Ang of thievery.

With its head reattached, the little zombie stopped spinning, turned, pointed at the armored warrior trapped in the quicksand, and roared angrily at Ang: “Aoooo!”