Chapter 93

No one knew what Nagelis said to the World Tree during its second return, but whenever it was alone afterward, it would suddenly burst into laughter.

Of course, it had talked to Ang about the negotiations, but Ang only heard “plant trees,” and oh, got it.

Trees were being planted nonstop; to grow more crops on the surface, everyone in the Resting Abyss was mobilized, their enthusiasm soaring as they endlessly experimented with optimal arrangements—using the fewest trees to block the most wind and protect the most land.

The World Tree was moved back and forth; any ordinary sapling would have died from the treatment, but the World Tree was stubbornly hardy—it just wouldn’t die no matter how much it was tossed around.

If Ang were present, a Death Aura would kill off a crop cycle, and the World Tree would firmly root itself, thriving vigorously—after that, normal planting would suffice.

If Ang wasn’t around, everyone got sneaky: they’d scrape up patches of turf in the morning, plant them by afternoon, and by night the plants would be luxuriantly grown.

Besides that, some tender vine crops were planted; after a few days, they’d tightly coil around the World Tree. Other trees might be strangled to death, but the World Tree loved it—the tighter the coils, the more it enjoyed them.

It wasn’t afraid of little water, nor of other crops stealing its nutrients; the more vigorously other plants grew, the more vigorously it grew. Its many violations of logic made ordinary farmers struggle to cultivate it, while those who’d never farmed before accepted these traits far faster.

Soon, patches of green oasis-like farmland appeared around the Demon Valley; as the World Tree grew, its protective range expanded, gradually merging into one continuous expanse.

The elves, who carefully tended their delicate saplings only to see them wilt and wither, would surely feel heartbroken if they saw the World Tree thriving under brutal neglect.

The elves naturally asked Nagelis how to care for the World Tree. Nagelis, having already extracted great benefits from the World Tree, didn’t hesitate to advise them: Just plant it anywhere.

Just plant it anywhere? Isn’t that precisely why we came to you—we couldn’t get it to grow at all? Just plant it anywhere? I, Kaelandael, am a grand druid—am I someone who just plants anywhere?

The elves thought Nagelis was mocking them, so they became even more meticulous: weeding, watering, catching insects, even placing one tree inside a dust-proof barrier for strict protection.

Their approach was wrong, so naturally it had no effect—they came back to Nagelis again.

Nagelis was baffled: “Just plant it anywhere! How could you possibly kill it?”

Angered, the elves became even more cautious—and the tree inside the dust-proof barrier died.

Now the elves were utterly panicked, because Nagelis had already sold them all five World Saplings—if they killed this one too, they’d never get another.

They hurried back to Nagelis again, their tone noticeably gentler, but their words carried the unmistakable air of demanding accountability after a faulty purchase.

Nagelis laughed bitterly: “I told you—plant it anywhere! Don’t water or fertilize it. Just scatter some grass seeds on its roots. When the grass grows, the tree will live.”

“Impossible! We tended it with such care and it still died—now you want us to scatter grass seeds to steal its nutrients? Won’t that kill it faster?” Most elves opposed Nagelis’s suggestion.

Finally, Gellard said: “We’ve tried every method. Just pick one tree and do it. I’m exhausted.”

Reluctantly, they followed the advice. Though they called it “anywhere,” the elves still watched the tree obsessively—when a bird landed and pecked at the bark, their hearts jumped; when insect eggs drifted by, their hearts jumped; when wild grass surged upward and a vine sprouted, their hearts nearly stopped.

Amid this terror, all the other World Trees died—only this one survived.

“It’s alive? Good, good. If it hadn’t lived, I’d have refunded your money—I’m too tired. You people can kill a tree even when you try to save it. I give up.” Nagelis let out a long sigh.

…

Anthony exited the Church’s office through a long secret passage and walked along the familiar path toward the hidden chamber.

Anthony had walked this path for many years; since becoming Archbishop, he had secretly built several outposts to conduct affairs too sensitive for the Church itself.

The outposts had to be far enough from the Church to avoid scrutiny, but not so far that travel consumed too much time.

Still, the safest method was using teleportation arrays—except the Church’s main array was overused and inconvenient.

Anthony was currently constructing a private teleportation array inside his office; if successful, travel would become far easier, and once the array was shut down, no one would know where he’d gone.

But this raised serious security concerns, drawing fierce opposition. Success rates were low, since the Church of Light wasn’t his alone to command—he had many enemies, two of whom constantly meddled in his diocese’s affairs even when they had no right to.

There were two Archbishops in the Human Diocese: Anthony and Nicolas, plus one from the Abyssal Diocese—all three were top candidates for the next Pope.

As the current Pope grew older, his death could come at any moment, and the competition among the three Archbishops had reached a fever pitch.

But the real rivalry was between the other two; Anthony desperately wanted to distance himself from the whole thing. He’d once nearly become Pope, and had to fake his death to escape—now, decades later, he faced the same situation again.

Anthony truly wanted to grab those two by the ears and scream: I don’t want to be Pope!

Too bad, even if he did scream it, no one would believe him—if you didn’t want to be Pope, why is your diocese thriving so well?

Why are your people living in peace and prosperity? Why do you maintain such excellent relations with rulers of every nation? Why is the moral integrity of your clergy so high? Aren’t you trying to impress everyone to become the next Pope?

Anthony had no way to explain.

On the surface, he was a vigorous middle-aged Archbishop under sixty—but in truth, he was an undead elder who had lived for countless millennia, having been reborn as a Black Knight, then again and again as a living human. In governance experience, he was ten times better than the other two even with his eyes closed.

No matter the situation, he had a solution—ruthless, cunning, sharp-eyed. Lie-detection magic was useless compared to his gaze.

For example, during disasters, other dioceses loudly called on believers to donate goods, parading supplies to the disaster zones with drums and gongs, losing seventy to eighty percent along the way before handing out the scraps to victims—harvesting waves of faith and filling their own pockets, while no one cared how many died.

Anthony did not do this. He called on believers to donate, then used the donations to commission mercenary guilds and merchant associations to transport supplies to the disaster zones.

He organized the victims to rescue themselves and restore production, then used the output from restored production to repay the donated funds, printing thank-you letters and medals to distribute among the donors.

The donations themselves were distributed as stipends to the priests and clerics who organized the relief efforts—meaning the money cycled back from believers into the clergy’s pockets, yet everyone benefited: victims received aid.

Donors received praise and gratitude, deeply satisfied; the mercenary guilds and merchant associations completed their tasks, earned rewards, and lowered transport costs; victims received food and supplies, survived, rebuilt homes, and restored production.

Clergy received stipends and the victims’ gratitude, suddenly feeling their work was both sacred and meaningful.

The only downside: it couldn’t harvest faith on a large scale in a short time.

But that was exactly Anthony’s intent—he had no intention of letting the Church of Light harvest faith. In every other matter, he followed this same principle: if it could be done quietly, he never made a sound.

Yet after decades of consistent practice, he noticed a problem: because he handled things so well, his diocese’s population kept growing.

With no wars or famines for years, believers lived in peace, nations coexisted harmoniously, and races were treated equally—for instance, a bull-headed aunt handing out religious flyers on the street was unthinkable in any other diocese.

Thus, a strange situation emerged: though he didn’t aggressively harvest faith, his diocese’s believers steadily increased, their faith firm and unwavering, and their total offerings the highest.

Unintentionally, his reputation soared, and calls for him to become the next Pope grew louder—leaving Anthony utterly exasperated.

He wasn’t the type to let disasters, wars, and famines spread unchecked. Next time such a crisis came, he’d still act swiftly—so the better he did his job, the higher his reputation rose? Would he have to fake his death again?

Sigh. Is there really no way to do good without anyone knowing?

Back at the secret outpost, as his hand touched the doorknob, Anthony instantly sensed something wrong—every hair on his body stood on end.

The thick wooden door exploded outward, shards of wood spraying everywhere, while a solid blade of light burst through, slicing straight for Anthony’s head.

“High-rank Sword Saint?!” Anthony gasped in shock.

High-rank Sword Saints were rare—each one a renowned powerhouse on the continent. Now one was trying to assassinate him?

As a Cardinal Archbishop, Anthony was a magic-user; facing a swordsman at close range was disadvantageous, let alone a High-rank Sword Saint who could manifest aura as a blade—even an Arcane Master caught off-guard at this distance would likely die.

Yet Anthony showed no fear. He raised his arms before him, his long sleeves tearing apart to reveal his wrist armor.

It was a pair of thick wrist guards, fully encasing his forearms. The blade struck them with a loud clang and was deflected.

“The Lord says: My fists are invincible.” Anthony spoke slowly, each word deliberate, then punched forward.

The assassin, a High-rank Sword Saint, widened his eyes in utter disbelief: “Holy aura?! Divine Word? You’re an Archbishop—why do you use aura?!”