Chapter 944

After Negril finished asking about the Black Dagger Mercenary Guild, Anthony sighed and said, “If His Majesty knew you were spreading tales of his deeds everywhere, he’d sew your mouth shut.”

“What? I’m gathering intel on his enemies—this Black Dagger Mercenary Guild isn’t simple; they’ve got two Chaotic Sword Saints, oh, they call themselves the Silent Heat Swords, stronger than the Mourning Undead Soldiers. Last time Old Undead ran into one of them.”

Old Undead really would sew his mouth shut—he’d be forced to speak only through his soul then.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. If Your Majesty restores his primordial power, whether it’s Silent Heat Swords or Heat Death Swords, it’s meaningless. If he can’t restore his primordial power, we can’t help him avenge himself—collecting this intel is pointless,” Anthony said, shrugging.

“Huh? Why can’t we help him avenge himself? I was thinking we’d gather the intel, then quietly wipe out the Black Dagger Mercenary Guild, and when Old Undead wakes up, we’d drop those souls at his feet as a surprise.”

Anthony rolled his eyes. “You think you’re giving Your Majesty a surprise? You’re trying to erase his enemies so he has no one left to hate and dies of frustration? Don’t pretend. Your Majesty’s grudges must be settled by his own hands—and quickly. Otherwise, when these enemies die of old age, vengeance won’t feel satisfying.”

Negril pouted. His secret plan was exposed, but he wasn’t angry—he could indeed sense the King’s impatience. The biggest obstacle to vengeance was the enemies’ lifespan; if too much time passed and they died naturally, it wouldn’t be satisfying.

The notion that living longer than your enemy counts as vengeance doesn’t exist in the soul of any Undead King in the Void. So when the King devoured two Mourning Souls, it was the first time in a long while he’d done such a thing.

But that was Anthony’s concern, not Negril’s. If Old Undead can’t handle it, why not let Ang help him avenge himself? Once the vengeance is done, just drop the souls at his feet and then mock him. Hmph.

While they talked, Ziola had finished negotiating with Roland. Ziola had surrendered. Roland now had only two choices: surrender or die.

Roland walked over, his expression grave. “How do you plan to treat the residents of High City? Enslave them or kill them? If you only want them as slaves, we the Violet Rose can hand High City over to you. But if you only want their corpses, we’ll die here. The mercenary code forbids us from abandoning them.”

Anthony and Negril exchanged glances. “Why would you think I’d kill them?”

“Your undead army—you brought only people from the eastern settlements. You killed them all, didn’t you? For their corpses?” Roland said.

“Not at all,” Anthony replied. “I brought over three thousand undead. More than half were killed by them. The other half were killed by me—that’s punishment for what they did to the other half.”

Roland blinked, then sighed deeply. He understood Anthony’s meaning—in this time of war, killing wasn’t necessarily a great sin.

“If you’re only enslaving them, please treat them well. Don’t abandon the women and children, okay?” Roland pleaded.

Anthony could tell Roland was sincere—not putting on a false show of virtue. They’d already seen Ang nearly crush Ziola with a single blow. To pretend otherwise would be suicide. If Anthony truly meant to “help him be kind,” Roland would be crying too late.

To make such a request under this pressure made Anthony curious. “What’s your connection to High City?”

Roland shook his head. “None. We were just passing through, staying at an inn. Then chaos broke out—people started slashing, looting, burning. We captured those criminals, and soon the civilians surrounded us, begging us to restore order. That’s how we got stuck here.”

“Do you still have food? Clean water? Many injured? Any plague?” Anthony asked one by one.

“Food’s nearly gone. We’ve rationed it—one meal a day. Those doing heavy labor get two. Clean water’s insufficient—we fetch it from outside daily, just enough to drink. Many injured, no medicine or mages. There’s plague—some have fevers. I quarantined them.”

Anthony nodded approvingly. Clear answers, orderly responses—a competent subordinate. What a waste, being a guild leader.

“What if I told you we came here to deliver food, heal the wounded, and cure the plague—with no expectation of reward? Would you believe me?”

“Pfft… uh…” Roland and his mercenaries burst out laughing—but quickly fell silent.

Anthony pulled out sack after sack of food, piling them up to shoulder height. Then a dirigible flew in, and a squad of undead began unloading more. Two white dragons descended slowly, dragging massive nets full of grain.

Roland was stunned by the sheer volume of food. Anthony ordered him to lead the way to the infirmary, and Roland obeyed automatically.

The infirmary was in High City’s granary—the best building in the city, dry and airy. The grain had been removed; now it housed dozens of wounded.

Anthony pulled out his staff, donned his robe and crown, and stepped forward, radiating holy light—Mass Healing: Bathed in Holy Light.

The lightly wounded felt their wounds itch. They lifted their bandages—wounds that had refused to heal from malnutrition were visibly closing. By the time Anthony passed, they were scabbed over.

For the severely wounded who couldn’t heal themselves, Anthony paused, smiled, and bathed their wounds in holy light. “Our Lord Ang protects you.”

Anthony’s face was too young to look truly benevolent—otherwise, a kind, gentle appearance would’ve been more effective here.

Under the holy light, leg-breakers threw away their crutches and stood. Comatose patients opened their eyes and rose. Those with fever and delirium cooled down, scabbed over, and sat up strong.

For those with severed limbs or blindness, Anthony patted their shoulders and comforted them: “Pray faithfully. Repent your sins. Divine grace will favor you.”

Though such injuries could be healed with Essence Fluid and Rebirth Spells, Anthony had no intention of making them whole so easily. Light wounds healed, heavy ones still screamed—comparison creates happiness.

Anthony walked through the infirmary; most injuries were resolved. Then he went to the plague zone. He checked—mostly dysentery, caused by eating spoiled food. Much easier to treat than wounds.

Still, Anthony had Roland bring a bucket of water. He cast Purification, then dipped a young branch of the World Tree into it and sprinkled it over the sick, his body glowing with holy radiance—Mass Purification.

When you’re writhing in diarrhea, near collapse, suddenly a glowing figure walks up, splashes water on you, and your diarrhea stops—you regain strength. He chants: “Our Lord Ang purifies filth, protects the faithful. Let holy light shine upon the earth, blah blah blah…”

Wouldn’t you wonder—who is this ‘Ang’?

Ang quickly gained a large number of followers.

Roland and his men were sent scurrying by Anthony, forgetting their plan to leave. By the time he remembered, it was payday.

Seeing each man holding pay that was several times higher than their usual blood-money wages, Roland blinked—and forgot about leaving.

They weren’t elite Black Dagger mercenaries. Most of their jobs were simple escorts or guards, with low pay and miserable lives. That’s the norm for most mercenaries—why else would anyone endure the cold, the hunger, the fighting for money?

But then came an even bigger shock—Du Luo had forged a batch of equipment, issued to everyone. Each melee fighter received a longsword with dragon-patterned steel core—just that sword was worth years of their mercenary pay. Plus a full set of armor.

Du Luo reported excitedly: “The materials here have incredible properties. Even my casual forging outperforms my old work. I’ll see if I can shrink the Starburst Array and mount it on our dirigibles. Then whoever dares provoke us—we’ll just blast them with the Starburst Array.”