Chapter 75

"The new grain variety from the Druid Spring Wind Cup planting competition has broken a thousand jin per mu." The Black Knight exclaimed excitedly, though his excitement was faked—mainly to liven the mood.

Who knew Ang tilted his head, and Negril also turned to glance at Ang, showing not a trace of excitement.

"What? Isn't this information about farming? A thousand jin per mu!"

Negril asked Ang for a handful of long-grain rice: "Our grain variety yields eight hundred jin per mu in this dump."

"Eight hundred? In this dump? Are you kidding? Can you even grow grain here?" The Black Knight nearly jumped out of his skin.

Negril swatted the Black Knight’s head with his short little hand: "Who are you calling a dump? Whose place is a dump?"

Since suspecting the Wind of Rest might be a dimensional defense laid by a Sovereign, Negril no longer thought this plane was a dump.

The Black Knight rubbed his head a few times after the blows, muttering under his breath.

"What?" Negril didn’t catch it.

"Nothing, nothing, nothing—how about this? The Elf race’s World Tree is sick, and they’re searching the whole world for someone to cure it. If successfully cured, the Elves will reward a seed from the World Tree." The Black Knight racked his brains and came up with another.

The Zombie and the Angelic Skeleton had no interest in their conversation and ran off.

Negril, however, was quite interested—in the way of mocking: "Tsk tsk tsk, these Elves are as stingy, arrogant, and self-important as ever. A World Tree seed? Who wants this trash? One fruit produces thousands of seeds, and they won’t sprout for centuries; even if they do, they’re nearly impossible to grow. If they truly cared, why not reward a few monthspring springs? Do they really think someone will be fooled by the name 'World Tree' to claim this reward?"

"Huh? Huh? Won’t sprout for centuries? Our boss… old boss… sent people to try." The Black Knight only realized after speaking that he had pledged his soul—now his boss was Ang.

"Hehe, got fooled, didn’t you? Did you cure it? Did those Elves really let you touch their precious World Tree? How did they verify your healing ability? Don’t tell me you killed the tree—that’d be serious." Negril’s tone dripped with glee.

"Easy. The Elves are desperate now, searching everywhere. Anyone who contacts them gets a diseased branch immediately—no need to go in person, just connect to their teleportation array. One array, one branch only." As he spoke, the Black Knight struggled to form a faint shape and began arranging the teleportation array.

Was he about to demonstrate how to ask the Elves for a sample?

Seeing his struggle, Ang generously sent him a "little" soul energy.

"Ooooh! So powerful soul energy—I’m full of strength!" The Black Knight’s soul burst into black smoke and rapidly reformed his original body.

Ang consumed two thousand soul flames daily for farming; to him, this "little" was enough to explode the Black Knight.

The Black Knight stared at his hands in disbelief, then at Ang, then at Negril, trembling as he spoke: "I… I broke through."

"What? What broke?" Negril froze at the words.

"Yes, I broke through to Count. I’ve been stuck at this bottleneck for over three hundred years. Just now, with the soul energy pushing me—I broke through." The Black Knight spoke numbly, his tone filled with disbelief.

"Oh, that kind of breakthrough? Not surprising. You’ve been stuck for three hundred years, suffered severe injuries, and now soul energy pushed you—of course you broke through. Lucky you." Negril dismissed it.

The Black Knight shook his head: "If it were that simple, fine. Duke, Marquis, Earl, Count, Viscount, Baron—I’ve been stuck at Viscount for three hundred years. I’ve been wounded near death many times, yet never broke through. Boss, you’re my lucky god."

The last sentence was directed at Ang, brimming with gratitude.

"Yes yes yes, he’s the illegitimate son of the God of Luck." Negril wholeheartedly agreed, then urged: "Hurry up."

The teleportation array beside the Rebirth Altar was fully functional: teleportation, beacon, and volume restriction—it couldn’t transmit anything larger than a set limit.

This effectively prevented enemies from teleporting in for surprise attacks; if they forced it, they’d likely only teleport half their body through…

The small teleportation array in Ice City worked the same way. The only concern was someone like the Black Knight, who could curl into a ball, teleport, then unfold.

But when curled, the Black Knight was most vulnerable—if the enemy was prepared, it wasn’t a surprise attack, it was delivering vegetables.

Seeing the Black Knight voluntarily restrict the teleportation volume, Negril relaxed—he wasn’t up to any other mischief.

He had pledged his soul oath—he was one with Ang. If Ang died, he died too. He had no reason for ill intent; Negril was just being habitually cautious.

Activating the teleportation array, the Black Knight explained as he worked: "The Elves publicly announced one teleportation array location. Anyone who contacts them gets a diseased branch."

"A diseased World Tree branch must be valuable too. Aren’t they afraid someone will fraudulently claim one without healing ability?" Negril asked in surprise.

"Afraid of fraud? How many people have teleportation arrays these days? If you have one, you’re already assumed capable. What if? And a diseased branch—what would you even do with it? Grind it into powder and brew tea?" The Black Knight scoffed.

True enough—having a teleportation array was already a natural filter. If you had one, you were assumed capable.

The Black Knight activated the array’s communication function, spoke two sentences to the other side, and they checked this array’s registration. Finding it unlisted, they sent over a branch half a meter long and as thick as an arm—without charging any teleportation fee.

"That’s it?" Negril held the branch, stunned. The World Tree—the Elf race’s god—its branch was this easy to get? And free shipping?

But upon closer inspection, the branch’s condition was indeed poor. As the God of Knowledge, Negril had seen healthy World Trees—he’d even been served fruit by them: a fruit the size of a washbasin, filled with countless seeds and golden pulp, delicious and slightly extending lifespan.

The Bronze Dragon lived ten thousand years; Negril lived ten thousand and two before dying. Those extra two years were probably from the fruit.

Though the effect was subtle, the taste was excellent. But one fruit contained a heap of seeds—those were World Tree seeds. To reward only one seed after curing the tree? Was that meant to fool children?

Better to give several branches. If one healthy branch could be rooted and survive, it would grow faster than any seed.

"Farming information—pass. Ang…" Negril turned, but Ang was gone. The Skeleton had vanished too.

…

Not far away, Ang realized he couldn’t understand their conversation, so he stepped outside.

Seeing him, the Angelic Skeleton fluttered toward him, wings flapping, showing him its soles. This brat had been stomping on hot lava—his feet were roasted, skin charred yellow and fragrant…

The Zombie was smarter—he kept far away from anything steaming.

After casting a few Holy Lights to heal the feet, Ang let out an "Aow" at it. The Angel drooped its head and flew back dejectedly into the valley.

The bottom of the Great Rift was a scorching river of magma, flowing endlessly beyond sight. Along its banks rose steep slopes, cooler the higher up.

Many holes dotted the slopes, perpetually spewing black smoke. The smoke’s particles cooled, solidified, and accumulated beside the holes, forming small earthen mounds. Over time, these mounds grew larger and wider.

Just dig soil from outside the rift, mix it with the accumulated volcanic ash, and you get incredibly fertile planting soil. Combined with the magma river’s constant heat, the climate here was distinct—two harvests per year, plus cash crops or vegetables. Extremely fertile.

The entire Great Rift’s length was unknown. The five-thousand-strong Demon Valley could only use a short stretch. Ang picked a still-smoking hole, and transferred the accumulated ash-soil around it into the Palace of Rest.

Calculating one soul crystal equals one hundred jin, Ang spent two thousand soul crystals to transfer two hundred thousand jin of volcanic ash-soil inside.

The number sounded large, but it was only one hundred tons. Spread over three thousand mu, that’s sixty-six jin per mu. Whether this ratio was suitable as fertilizer remained unknown.

Ang had already begun preparing control groups: selecting ten mu, first finding the right ratio, then transferring sufficient amounts.

But lately, soul flame quantities had been dwindling. Negril said it was a period of faith fatigue—without new stimuli or new believers, this decline would continue.

It asked Ang whether he wanted to perform a miracle to harvest a wave of faith. But miracles had thresholds—they had to grow more shocking each time, or their effect would weaken.

Yet miracles were less effective than wonders. Miracles were one-time events; wonders could shock souls continuously over time, sustaining stimulation.

But the wonder was already being dug—the World Transit Station was a wonder. When it was fully restored, it would shake the souls of everyone in this world.

Besides miracles and wonders, there was a more brutal method to harvest faith on a massive scale: Holy War.

Launch a war of faith, drag everyone in, and all faith would become firm and fanatical.

Negril listed three ways to increase soul flame. Ang listened, tilted his head, muttered "Troublesome," and ran off.

The next day, Ang didn’t use the most soul-flame-consuming Death Aura for farming. Instead, he reached into the Palace of Rest and tidied the fields, as if loosening the compacted soil.

At that moment, Negril finally understood what Ang meant by "troublesome." He farmed for fun, not for yield. If he had to go through all this just to use the Death Aura, he wouldn’t bother.

Thus, soul flame remained at fifteen hundred to two thousand per day, continuing to decline. Occasionally, he had to save up just to use the Death Aura once.

This made Negril sigh at Ang’s ridiculous luck. He was right to stop the human collaborative farming process—otherwise, soul flame would never be enough.

"Ang, look at this branch. Can you find a way to revive it?" Negril flew over holding the branch.

As the God of Knowledge, Negril knew hundreds of ways to revive a dead branch. But he was the God of Knowledge, not the God of Plants. His knowledge came from others—Elves, Druids, human farmers.

He couldn’t invent planting knowledge himself, nor had he ever planted anything firsthand. So he didn’t believe his own methods hadn’t already been tried by the Elves? They’d surely tried everything before seeking outside help.

Rather than rely on his own knowledge, Negril felt Ang—creator of four planting magics—was more reliable.

Ang glanced at the branch and shook his head: "Natural aging. Life exhausted. Unfixable."

"Huh? Natural aging? You mean the World Tree is about to die?" Negril asked.

Ang nodded.

"The World Tree is dying? But it said it could live a hundred thousand years! How could it die so soon?" Negril murmured, stunned.

Long ago, on his path to godhood, the World Tree had given him much guidance, telling him: "A god’s life lies in the hearts of believers. My life lies in my rings—a hundred thousand years."

Now, hearing it was about to die, Negril felt a sudden sadness and loss. He had ignited his divine flame, yet his life wasn’t in believers’ hearts—it was in the hands of the Undying Sovereign. He was sealed, theoretically immortal.

Yet the World Tree, which once guided him, was dying…

With a sorrowful sigh, he looked up—and saw Ang pull out a large bottle of essence, a full liter, plunge the branch into it, then touch the branch with his finger and activate the Death Aura.

The part of the branch submerged in the bottle rapidly sprouted roots. The nutrient solution inside, like a straw sucking liquid, visibly decreased. The once-withered World Tree branch suddenly glowed with vitality—its bark turned green, tender leaves sprouted, flowers bloomed, and fruit formed.

Ang swiftly cut off all extra buds, leaving only the main stem’s single one. All nutrients concentrated there, producing a fruit the size of a washbasin, then the leaves and branches rapidly withered.

Ang cut off the Death Aura and, regardless of ripeness, plucked the fruit immediately.

The branch continued to wither, blacken, then crumble to ash, vanishing completely—leaving only the massive fruit in Ang’s hand.

Negril stared at the fruit, identical to the one the World Tree had once served him—only greener.

"There. No need for the Elves’ reward—we have seeds now. Every seed inside this fruit is a World Tree seed." Negril spoke in a tone caught between laughter and tears. This Ang—always surprising (terrifying).

But the more terrifying part came next: Ang smashed the fruit, picked out all the seeds, and scattered some onto the volcanic ash pile beneath his feet.

Negril screamed: "What are you doing! Are you going to grow the World Tree like a vegetable?!"