Chapter 9: A Bold Idea

Phelin’s description left everyone chilled to the bone, yet this was precisely the most likely outcome—starving animals sometimes turn on each other, let alone different races that once fed on one another.

But such history was far too distant for them; only Phelin, an immortal lich, could recall events from over a thousand years ago.

“If you start turning on each other, the living liches will never believe in peaceful coexistence again—then it’ll become like Demon Valley, where humans are enslaved and slaughtered, or like Winter City, where minotaurs are fit only to pull carts, and succubi are locked up to service clients. If that’s the fate, better to unleash a catastrophe—thousands of souls could spawn a dozen or more liches or undead; at least we’d still have a dozen peaceful souls left.”

In the end, Phelin made his final decision: the food supply would last another six months. For those six months, no more talk of expelling the lower classes—everyone ate freely. If no solution was found by then, they would all die together, and silently pray they retained their memories in life, reborn as liches or undead.

Phelin laid out a brutally cruel timeline for everyone, but he himself refused to see things reach that point; after the meeting, he quietly sought out Ang.

Though Ang had come to such a remote place, Phelin could find him easily—every corner of the underground city was patrolled by his spies, spectral wraiths scattered throughout, an invaluable tool for maintaining order. Without this efficient system, Phelin could never have turned this multi-racial underground city into a place of harmony and prosperity.

The moment he saw Ang, Phelin’s face instantly lit up with a servile smile. He hurried forward in small steps and pleaded earnestly: “My lord, my lord, forgive the intrusion—I truly have no choice but to come to you for help. The World Transit Station has been shut down; we have no way to buy food. We’ve barely held on for nearly a thousand years, and we’re at our limit. I’ve come to buy grain—I beg you, my lord, sell us some food.”

Phelin bowed low, rubbing his hands nervously, pointing at Ang’s leather wristband—nowhere near the commanding presence he’d shown when issuing his ultimatum in the meeting room.

Yet he felt no reluctance in doing so. This man before him was the Warden, possibly a projection of the legendary Immortal King who ruled all worlds. What harm was there in being humble? Simply being able to speak with him was an honor beyond measure.

Ang tilted his head, staring at him in confusion.

Phelin suddenly remembered something and exclaimed: “Equivalent exchange, equivalent exchange! Here, here—ten soul crystals. The transit channel hasn’t opened in a thousand years—is the price still the same? It used to be one soul crystal for two hundred jin of grain.”

As he spoke, Phelin pulled ten black crystals from his robe and handed them to Ang.

Soul crystals? What were those? Like the crystals that powered the pillars? Ang wondered, reaching out to take them.

The moment the soul crystals touched his hand, Ang knew exactly what they were for.

Soul crystals: crystallized soul energy, the universal currency among undead.

Different beings used different equivalents: humans favored precious metals, mages preferred magic crystals, while undead favored soul crystals—because they were pure, condensed soul energy, usable not only as currency but also as nourishment to replenish soul energy upon consumption.

Of course, soul energy was only useful to undead, so soul crystals circulated only among them.

Ang knew instantly how to use them, just as a human instinctively knows water is drinkable. He glanced at the soul crystals in his hand, then at his leather wristband, and without hesitation, pressed the crystals against the band to absorb them.

The ten soul crystals dissolved into soul energy; the vast majority was absorbed by the wristband. Almost immediately after absorbing the energy, the band glowed—and Ang’s consciousness was yanked away to another place.

When he regained his bearings, he found himself at the arch near the Resting Palace farm—Ang had been teleported back.

But only his consciousness had returned, not his body. As he thought of the fields, his consciousness shot there instantly.

The fields were empty—no birds chirped, nothing stirred. Otherwise, it was unchanged from when he’d left.

Thinking of the granary, his consciousness flashed there. Seeing the granary overflowing with grain, he thought of Phelin—he’d traded soul crystals for food. How could he get this food out to him?

The moment the thought formed, bags of grain vanished one after another—one, two, three… until forty-five bags had disappeared, then resistance halted the transfer.

Where did they go? Ang’s consciousness withdrew. When he looked again, he stood inside a circle formed by the forty-five grain bags, encircling him—outside the circle stood Phelin, grinning so broadly his eyes were gone.

“Forty-five bags! Forty-five whole bags! Even though it’s five less than before, that’s normal—a thousand years passed, prices rose only ten percent. So reasonable! I’ll send someone to haul them away immediately.” Phelin feared delays. He summoned a squad of skeletons, each carrying one bag, and in one breath, all forty-five bags vanished with them.

As the surroundings settled, Ang remembered Phelin’s words: five bags less?

Most of the soul crystals’ energy had been absorbed by the wristband, but a small portion had entered Ang himself. Could that be why five bags were missing? He checked his soul—it had indeed grown slightly stronger.

Ang tilted his head, dismissed the question, and turned his consciousness back to the wristband. As he willed it, the band glowed again—and his consciousness was sucked in once more.

Could it be that the wristband’s absorption of soul crystal energy allowed him to return here at will?

Ang’s consciousness returned to the farm and granary, but now he could no longer make grain bags disappear—though stones could. After several attempts, he realized: the soul crystal energy infused into the wristband was tied to weight. Once the equivalent weight was transferred, no further transfer was possible.

But perhaps a tiny fraction remained—enough to shift stones slightly lighter than a grain bag.

The farm held only so much—over a thousand years, Ang had memorized every corner. He grew bored after a while and was about to withdraw when, out of habit, he glanced toward the Resting Palace.

The Resting Palace was solemn—even though its king had vanished over a thousand years ago, it remained a forbidden place Ang dared not enter. He’d been forced inside once before, searching for usable bones, but only dared to rummage at the edges, never venturing deep.

Now that he could move his consciousness freely, what if he dared to explore the inner depths of the Resting Palace? A bold idea stirred in Ang’s mind.