Chapter 69: The Immortal's Legacy

“I can teach you, but why are you buying grain? You can grow two hundred mu a day—you could feed the whole world. Why buy grain?” Negril transmitted a wave of information via soul link: “Alright, lesson over.”

“Grow.” Ang replied.

“Buy grain to grow? Don’t you have your own seeds?” Negril was puzzled. Ang’s seeds had high yields—why buy others?

“Different seeds, planted together, don’t degenerate.” Ang said.

Negril thought for a long while before understanding Ang’s meaning, then suddenly widened his eyes: “You mean hybridization? To prevent seed degeneration? You thought this far?”

Ang tilted his head in confusion. Why wouldn’t he think this far? Growing vegetables—he was a professional.

Back in the Palace of Rest, he had experienced seed degeneration. He’d barely preserved the growth rate, but the yields, pest resistance, lodging resistance, and root systems were all poor. Now that conditions allowed, why not improve?

He sorted through the information Negril had transmitted. Done. Learned.

The advantage of undead was this: learning anything was direct soul transmission. Learning magic scripts, math, arcane arts—so much easier than memorizing.

“If you only receive transmissions, you don’t need to activate all functions of the teleportation array. Just enable the coordinates—it saves a lot of energy.” Though he’d already transmitted the knowledge, Negril still couldn’t stop himself from giving advice, fearing Ang would mess up.

Ang waved his hand and activated the coordinates.

As he continued familiarizing himself with other functions, a point on the coordinate map suddenly glowed yellow and began to pulse slowly.

“What’s that?” Ang asked, waving his hand as he spoke.

“Don’t! That’s a request…” Negril shouted, but it was too late—the yellow light had already moved to the center of the coordinate map, and the glow vanished.

After a long silence, a weak voice came through: “Y-you… hello? Can you hear me?”

Negril covered his face and spoke through soul: “That’s the communication request marker. By accepting, you’ve just told them the World Transit Station is active!”

“Can’t tell?” Ang tilted his head.

“Don’t move.” Negril sighed, refusing to let Ang operate again. He tapped the coordinate map with his tiny claw, and after a long while, exhaled: “Good, good—no marker, no exposure.”

Good heavens—the World Transit Station. If anyone discovered it had reopened, every plane would go mad. They’d scramble to find its location and rush here to seize it.

The World Transit Station! Control this, and you control the crossroads of countless planes. Just sit and collect tolls—you’d become rich beyond measure.

Ang tilted his head. Clearly, he didn’t understand.

Negril explained: “Space magic has no markers—you can’t connect to a teleportation point and see a giant sign saying ‘So-and-So Teleport Array,’ right? Only when it tells you who it is do you know. That’s a marker.”

“If you don’t activate the marker, even if someone connects, they won’t know this is the World Transit Station. Why is the coordinate map so valuable? Because even if they don’t tell you, you still know who they are.” Negril leaned closer to the light point: “Unknown coordinate? Uh… this is awkward.”

He’d just boasted about the coordinate map’s power—and now he didn’t even know who was on the other side.

“Only one possibility: this place is new. It’s never appeared on the coordinate map before.” Negril stated firmly.

“Oh.” Ang pulled his straw hat over his head, morphing into a human form, and asked: “Who are you?”

“Ah? Ah! Response! Response! Witch, come quick, come quick, there’s a response!” A loud, excited voice came from the other side. After a burst of commotion, silence fell, then a strange-accented female voice spoke:

“Y-you… hello, Great Lord of Purple Bones. We’ve finally received your reply. I am the Witch of the Purple Bones, the twenty-first generation of Purple Bones. I humbly pray to you—may your soul rest in peace.” As the witch spoke, a soul flame spontaneously appeared and flowed into Ang’s body.

A witch who randomly contacted him—was a follower of the undead.

But that wasn’t surprising. Back when the Undead Empire was at its height, it dominated countless planes. Which plane didn’t have undead followers? Perhaps if Ang used the teleportation array to visit other planes, he’d harvest a mountain of faith energy.

“What are Purple Bones?” Ang asked.

“Ah? Purple Bones? They’re purple bones.” The witch said.

Negril guessed: “Could it be the Mourning Skeletons? Probably some tiny plane encountered a Purple-Gold Skeleton and passed down the legend of the Lord of Purple Bones, forming primitive worship, building a teleportation array, and occasionally contacting the World Transit Station, hoping to find the Lord of Purple Bones—just like Felineisk and the others, who keep showing up here hoping to reach the Palace of Rest.”

Speaking of Purple-Gold Skeletons, Ang immediately recalled that purple-gold figure—the strongest skeleton under the Undead King, the Lord of Mourning… what was his name again?

Ang tilted his head. He couldn’t remember the Lord of Mourning’s name. He was just a vegetable-growing skeleton. Who would tell him the Lord of Mourning’s name? Ten levels apart. His creator hadn’t engraved such names into his soul. He turned to Negril.

“His name is Locke. Nickname: Hardbone. Full name: Hardbone Locke. These native undead? They name things randomly.” Negril sneered, slightly dismissive—but his eyes held a trace of fear.

There was no choice. Capturing it was the King’s order—but the one who actually did it was Locke. That was a humiliating experience with no resistance. The only place he could find superiority was in names.

He silently prayed the purple-gold bones had vanished completely with the King.

Ang thought of another question: “What’s the King’s name?” He’d never asked the King’s name before—calling him “King” was enough. But now that he was asking, he might as well ask one more.

“The King’s name… is… the King’s name…” Negril repeated several times, each time quieter, his expression growing more terrified: “I know the King’s name… but I can’t remember it. My memory—my memory is sealed!”

The horror of memory sealing was that you felt nothing abnormal—until suddenly, you couldn’t recall something. If Ang hadn’t asked, Negril would never have realized his memory had been sealed.

Ang tilted his head. “You’re sealed.”

Negril froze. Right—he was sealed. Sealed inside the Brass Book. His memory was partially sealed too. What was strange about that?

Realizing this, Negril relaxed: “Good, good—not memory sealing. Total sealing.”

Perhaps Ang had been silent too long—the light point flickered again, and the witch’s voice returned: “Lord of Purple Bones, are you still there?”

“Not Purple Bones. Lord of Mourning.” Ang corrected. Locke was the Lord of Mourning—not Lord of Purple Bones.

“Ah? Lord of Mourning? Is that your true name? Great Lord of Mourning, our Purple Bones clan has guarded your hand bone all this time. We named our tribe after you, seeking your protection. Lord of Mourning, please save our Purple Bones! We’re suffering from plague and famine. Please protect us.”

As the witch spoke, another large mass of soul flame surged forward. The other side seemed to be a Shenyuan plane, and so was Ang’s—both worlds without dimensional barriers, so energy loss was minimal.

This scale of soul flame couldn’t come from just one or two people. When it entered Ang’s soul, it carried images.

A clearing in a primeval forest. Around it, crude leather tents. A large group of people in leather clothes and skirts knelt in a circle, bowing repeatedly.

Two shamans, their bodies painted in wild patterns, danced strange rituals, waves of energy radiating from them.

A wheat-skinned witch knelt before the teleportation array, speaking to a purple-gold hand bone.

But the hand bone’s proportions were wrong—it was smaller than the witch and others. If the hand bone were normal size, these people would be 2.5 to 3 meters tall—tiny giants.

The soul flame formed a symbol within Ang’s soul. Now Ang’s soul held four symbols.

Four? Wasn’t it three? Confused, Ang counted again. Yes—four. Lisa’s, Ock’s, the Purple Bones witch’s—and one more: the silver coin’s. When had the silver coin formed a symbol?

Negril finally realized: “Hand bone? Purple-gold hand bone? Guarded? Locke’s hand bone is there?!”

Ang nodded. He’d seen the hand bone in the soul flame’s images—purple-gold, intact from the elbow down.

“Send it over.” Ang said.

“Ah? Lord of Mourning, this is our only link to you. Can we keep it? Otherwise, we lose all contact with you.” The witch’s voice hesitated.

Her ancestors had built the teleportation array using residual information in the hand bone. If she sent it over, she’d lose the only object connecting her to the Lord of Mourning.

Lose contact? No. Ang touched the Purple Bones symbol and transmitted an idea: “Send it over.”

The kneeling witch jumped up in shock. Ang’s voice had spoken directly into her mind—not through the teleportation array.

Such a miracle—how could she hesitate? She quickly placed the hand bone on the array and activated it.

Negril pressed ‘Receive’ on the coordinate map. The entire control room trembled slightly.

The tremor wasn’t from the main chamber—it came from the teleportation array at the top. Between the two stone pillars, a flash of white light appeared—and a purple-gold hand bone materialized between them.

Ang noticed: this method of teleportation was different from how he’d arrived in this world.

Back then, a glowing membrane had formed between the pillars, and he’d passed through like stepping through a door. This time, it was pure teleportation light. Were the two methods different?

…

The hand bone was heavy—like metal—and carried a faint, familiar aura. Before his undead soul faded, Ang had felt this presence.

“It’s Locke’s hand bone. That’s the aura. How did his hand end up in this… Purple Bones plane? Did he die there?” Negril said.

Ang ignored him. He fetched a bucket, filled it with water, cast Purification, turned it into holy water, added a vial of essence, a packet of holy mushroom powder, and prepared to activate the teleportation array.

He didn’t need to return to the control room. His left hand could control the teleportation array anytime, anywhere. The control room was clearly built for those without skin bracers.

“Holy water? Don’t you ask first? What if their plague isn’t dysentery? Essence? That’s fifteen hundred magic crystals per vial! This much holy mushroom powder? Both are for external wounds—useless against plague! Too wasteful!” Negril rushed to stop him.

Ang tilted his head: “I know these.” Meaning—he didn’t know anything else.

Negril wanted to scream. Why not ask me?! He was about to say it—then stopped. If he didn’t teleport over, what other options did they have? They had no cure-all medicine.

He swallowed his words and stepped aside. A flash of white light between the pillars—everything placed on the array vanished.

Just after sending the items, when they returned to the control room, they heard the witch’s excited cry: “Lord of Mourning, I gave the holy water to the sick. Their plague symptoms eased immediately! This much holy water will last the whole tribe. Thank you, Lord of Mourning!”

Immediately, another massive wave of soul flame surged toward them.

“You actually got lucky.” What could Negril do? He could only shake his head, marveling at Ang’s sheer luck.

“By the way, Lord of Mourning, our ancestors also found a pair of wings from the moth you killed. We’ll send them to you immediately.” The witch added.

Negril checked and activated ‘Receive’ again. This time, the control room didn’t even tremble. The first teleportation had lubricated the thousand-year-dormant array—no vibration now.

Outside, they saw the pair of wing bones.

The witch poured out more gratitude, reverence, and prayers before reluctantly severing the connection.

Holding the wing bones, Negril sighed: “The Undead Empire’s legacy is too rich. Just some random Shenyuan —there’s a loyal tribe waiting. Even Locke’s lost hand became an object of worship. If you wanted, you could open the coordinate map, contact each point one by one—you’d harvest a mountain of rewards.”

“Oh.” Ang opened the coordinate map and selected a glowing point to press.

Negril dropped the bones and lunged to hug him, grinning nervously: “Don’t press randomly! Prepare first! Get ready!” Inside, he was slapping himself repeatedly: I told you not to talk nonsense, not to talk nonsense—this stupid skeleton takes everything literally!!!

He quickly shut off the coordinate map and the teleportation array. Then he turned—and saw Ang doing something that made his blood boil: he was dismantling the purple-gold Locke’s hand.

“What are you doing!” Negril roared.

Good heavens—a complete hand bone, dismantled by Ang into fragments: finger bones, palm bones, ulna, radius. How many bones in a hand? He’d split them all. This was the Lord of Mourning’s hand!

“Swap.” Ang said, as he detached his own right hand.

In the Palace of Rest, Ang used to search the palace’s edges for bones to replace his damaged ones. Once, he’d found a Silver Skeleton’s skeleton—but his soul then couldn’t drive a bone of that rank. He’d been forced to abandon it.

Even now, his bones remained gray—only denser from the Resting Wind’s refining. But no matter how hard gray bones were, could they match purple-gold bones?

Ang knew he couldn’t drive a full Lord of Mourning’s hand, so he dismantled it into fragments and used soul fire to reassemble them.

When his elbow touched the purple-gold bones, an indescribable weight crushed down on him—nearly pinning him to the ground.

No. Impossible to control. Removed finger bones—still no. Removed palm bones—only ulna and radius remained. Only then did smooth control return.

He reattached his original palm. His right hand was now the Lord of Mourning’s hand, replaced with ulna and radius.

The difference between purple-gold and gray bones was slight. The replacement wasn’t obvious—only under light did the subtle purple-gold shimmer become visible.

“Damn it, this works? What about the leftover finger bones? Replace them on my feet? Let me taste the feeling of trampling Locke’s hand.” Negril said, then turned—and saw another sight that made his blood boil.

The little zombie was gripping the angel skeleton’s wings, stepping on its back, and tearing them off—feathers scattered everywhere.

“What are you doing!!” Negril roared.

The little zombie and the angel skeleton turned their heads in unison, then ignored it and went back to tearing off the second wing.

After tearing it off, they picked up the pair of so-called “moths’ wings” that Nagelis had dragged back and jammed them forcefully against their shoulder blades.

Hehehe, they actually stuck! Those weren’t moth wings at all—they were a pair of angel wings. Probably the mural had exaggerated them so much that over generations of retelling, they became mistaken for moths.

So does that mean the one who fought Lord Loke of the Dead was actually a six-winged archangel? These are the wings of a six-winged archangel?

They looked significantly larger than the angel skeleton’s original wings, and the bones were thicker by a full circle, giving the impression of a chicken wing turned into an ostrich wing.

It flapped twice, found them comfortable, then dashed up to Ang, turned its back, and spread its wing bones wide open for Ang to see.

Nagelis could already imagine what the angel skeleton wanted to say: Look, no feathers…

It was envious: “When will someone drop some gear for me too? I want to level up as well.”

The little zombie chimed in beside it: “Aow! Aow aow!”

Who could have imagined that activating a teleportation array would yield gear? The legacy of the undead was truly overflowing.

…

At the end of the Demon Valley, in a dead-end cave beneath the sheer cliff, a flash of teleportation light appeared, and two fist-sized black blobs materialized within the white glow.

Black smoke oozed from the black blobs, quickly unfolding into two humanoid shadows. If Silver Coin had seen them, he would have recognized them as the two black knights who had killed him.

One of the black knights passed through the sealed cave entrance and returned shortly after: “Correct, this is it—the World Transit Station. How did that fool Leonhard get the coordinates here?”

“It seems someone sold them grain and provided some particularly valuable specialty goods—he got greedy and wanted to keep them all for himself…” replied the other black knight.

“This kind of exposure is… crude. We might as well just kill every living thing in this world.”

“No need for us to lift a finger. Hide first.” The black knight spoke, then plunged his left hand into his chest, pulling out a scroll. He unrolled it, and the scroll ignited on its own, turning to ash.

The two black knights retreated far away, sinking deeply into the rock of the cliff wall.

Not long after, the teleportation light flared again, and within the glow appeared a holy figure.

Two and a half chapters