Chapter 66: Wraith Warriors

Ang got there faster than Lu Se, arriving at a pit entrance where guards were posted, and a crowd surrounded two workers.

Reports said they were dead, but they weren’t quite dead yet—both had slashes across their necks, blood gushing out, faces growing paler by the second, on the verge of dying.

Lisa stood helplessly aside; her Cleansing Art had some healing effect, but it was primarily for beauty, not treatment, and at only Level One, it was utterly powerless against such wounds.

This was probably why the report claimed they were dead—such injuries were unquestionably fatal in this world.

Ang walked over, and Lisa anxiously said: “They’ve hit a major vessel. The pressure’s too high—the wound will burst open before it can heal. You’d need at least a Level Four potent healing spell to close it immediately.”

“Don’t let it burst open,” Ang tilted his head.

“Huh?” Lisa was confused—what did the lord mean? If it can’t heal right away, it’ll burst open. If you stop it from bursting open, doesn’t that mean it heals?

Ang crouched down, focusing his will on the neck wound. The wound twitched slightly, the edges drawing inward, as if an invisible hand pulled them together—the bleeding slowly stopped.

He summoned holy light onto the wound, applying a reinforced version of the Cleansing Art, several times stronger than Lisa’s, which swiftly sealed the injury. Once fully healed, Ang released his will—the pressure inside could no longer rupture the wound.

With his will acting as an invisible tourniquet, stopping the bleeding before healing, he applied the same method to both wounded men, temporarily saving them—but with massive blood loss, survival remained uncertain.

“Is that all?” Lisa, surprised by Ang’s casualness, leaned close to Phelin and whispered: “Can your will make wounds contract like that?”

Phelin shook his head: “No. The lord’s soul is too strong.”

After treating the wounded, Ang summoned his great scythe and led everyone into the pit.

Inside was a long, pitch-black corridor, its walls adorned with intricate reliefs, and sculptures mounted at intervals along the walls.

Negril immediately warned: “Watch out for those sculptures—they’re gargoyle statues.”

“Aaaoh!” The zombie let out a roar, leaping and slamming into one of the sculptures, shattering it into fragments.

Negril roared in fury: “I told you to be careful, not to smash them! Aaaahhh!!!”

But the shattered statues revealed their condition—after a thousand years buried, these gargoyles had long lost vitality.

“Aaoh!” The zombie didn’t care about Negril—it shouted and charged at another sculpture.

During this time spent farming in the wild, the one who benefited most was the zombie. Every night, it imitated Ang, extending its hand into the Wind of Rest.

At first, it dared only to poke one finger out, touch it, then pull back—touch again, pull back again. Soon, it dared to hold its finger out continuously.

The chilling aura of the Wind of Rest refined its soul and strengthened its flesh. Though it still looked like a leathery zombie, its body’s durability had long reached the level of a bronze-skinned zombie—specifically, a dense, bone-dense bronze-skinned zombie without any osteoporosis.

Had Ang not demonstrated it himself, a zombie of its rank would never have dared expose its body to the Wind of Rest, for it didn’t know the benefits—only that the chilling aura made the soul ache.

But without enduring countless trials, how could one forge a mighty body? Only through bitter hardship does one become the ultimate zombie.

Another charge—the sculpture on the opposite wall shattered into pieces.

As it prepared to charge the third, that statue dissolved into smoke before it could be hit, vanishing—the zombie slammed straight into the wall.

“Everyone, watch out!” Negril had just warned when the angelic skeleton’s hands suddenly glowed with holy light, like glowing gauntlets, and it punched forward.

*Clang!* The space ahead was empty, but a clear *clang* rang out—the angelic skeleton’s glow flared from the impact, revealing a faint, blurred silhouette.

Before anyone could make out what it was, the angelic skeleton swung its other fist—*Clang!* Another collision.

Its fists struck like a rapid-fire cannon—*clang clang clang, clang clang clang*—blows merging into a continuous din.

Its usual roughhousing with the zombie wasn’t just play—many creatures developed combat and hunting skills through such play.

Continuous impacts, flashing light—barely visible in the glow, the angelic skeleton’s opponent was a humanoid wisp, wielding two shadowy daggers, striking with swift thrusts.

“It’s a wraith warrior!” Negril shouted upon recognizing it.

Ang tilted his head toward it.

Negril sighed: “You don’t know what a wraith warrior is?”

Ang nodded.

“Do you know what a wraith is? Remember that little pet of Phelin’s, Blackface? Do you know what a black knight is? A wraith warrior is like a black knight—a solidified spirit. The difference is, wraith warriors have no intellect, while black knights do—just like the difference between zombies and liches.”

“For guardians, it’s better they have no intellect. A sentient soul lingering here for a thousand years? It would’ve fled long ago.” Negril then grumbled: “I’m the God of Knowledge, not the God of Common Sense. Don’t keep asking me these basic questions.”

“Oh, where did the King go?” Ang immediately thought of the question he most wanted answered—and that wasn’t common sense.

“...” Had Negril not known Ang’s nature, he’d have thought he was deliberately stabbing him in the wound—how could anyone be so blunt?

While Ang and Negril spoke, the battle between the angelic skeleton and the wraith warrior reached its peak—the angelic skeleton’s holy light glowed like twin gauntlets, meeting the wraith warrior’s shadowy stabs blow for blow, forcing the enemy steadily backward.

The wraith warrior retreated step by step until it hit the wall—with nowhere left to flee, it dissolved into smoke.

The angelic skeleton’s punch missed, striking the wall with a thunderous *boom*, nearly cracking it—the zombie on the other side shuddered.

Suddenly spreading its wings, the angelic skeleton soared upward, snatching the smoke with its hand, and slammed it hard to the ground.

Ordinary angels might not see through a wraith warrior’s invisibility, but this one wasn’t an angel—it was a skeleton draped in angelic skin, and it perceived the world through soul.

Wraith warriors excelled at stealth and assassination, but they were no match for a battle-hungry combat angel in direct confrontation—once their movements were exposed, their fate was sealed.

The wraith warrior, slammed back to the ground, was pounded repeatedly by the angelic skeleton’s holy-light fists, exploding into fragments.

Having shattered its foe, the angelic skeleton dashed back, holding up its tiny fist for Ang to see—its surface was cracked, likely from hitting the wall.

Ang summoned holy light to heal it, while his other hand, the Reaper’s Scythe, swept forward and hooked back a soul flame.

The angelic skeleton had shattered the wraith warrior but hadn’t killed it—if it recovered, it would pose a grave threat to the ordinary people.

Further down the corridor, they encountered no more enemies. Time truly was the greatest enemy of all—even immortal souls sometimes couldn’t withstand its erosion.

But more likely, they vanished along with the King.

At the end of the corridor stood a thick wall—no levers, no switches visible, and even the soul could not penetrate it.

“How do we open this door?” Ang asked Negril—this wasn’t common sense.

“...”