Chapter 967

The airship descended slowly toward the location where the Grand Councilor was to land; after piercing through the clouds, a vast plain stretched before everyone, entirely covered in large fields of farmland, with a great river winding through it all the way to the horizon’s end.

Bad! Nagelis’s heart lurched; he turned to look at Ang, and sure enough, Ang’s eyes gleamed with an urge to rush out.

Ang hadn’t touched such ideal farmland in a long time; since crossing over, every place he’d grown things had been either barren, desolate, or scattered—this endless plain was exactly the kind of paradise every farmer dreamed of.

When Ang first built his dimensional world, he manifested precisely this vast, boundless plain, with the great river flowing through it; if managed well, planting high-yield crops could feed beings across several planes.

But now, the crops on the plain hung their heads in despair—leaves yellowed and withered, stalks bent, ears drooping to the ground, some even marred by patches of black, as if scorched by fire.

“This… this is too severe!” Nagelis said, clutching Ang.

Anthony also frowned: “This condition won’t last three days—we have no time to operate, and many crops aren’t ripe yet; even if harvested, they’re inedible.”

Ang reached out and tapped the sapling.

The sapling groggily lifted its head: “Ah—”

“Ow,” Ang said.

The sapling nodded, understanding; Ang shoved Nagelis aside and leapt out of the airship.

“Damn skeleton,” Nagelis muttered—he knew this would happen. Ang couldn’t walk away from farmland; how could he stand idly by as so many crops withered before his eyes?

Anthony smiled wryly, then immediately rallied: “Fine, I’ll just lose a few avatars—it’s actually better this way. If we wait too long, this season’s harvest is lost, and more people will die. I’ll go find the Grand Councilor now.”

In truth, Ang doing this was better—even if it exposed his identity, losing a few avatars was a small price to pay to save the entire plane.

Before the Little Wraith arrived, if Ang’s body was damaged, his consciousness would retreat to the Chaotic Plane, and re-projecting here would be extremely difficult due to the lack of a fixed location.

But now that the Little Wraith was here, he could simply retreat and re-project using the Little Wraith as a pivot—even his true body could potentially be launched over.

When Anthony made plans, he always prioritized Ang’s safety above all else: if Ang didn’t want to take risks, Anthony would devise the safest possible plan; if Ang wanted to take risks, Anthony would boldly go all out.

Anthony was the kind of man who dared split the church and steal the Pope’s hat—his courage was never lacking. But Ang only liked growing things and had no ambition, so Anthony naturally kept a low profile.

Seeing Ang land, Anthony immediately flew out of the airship and headed toward the distant Grand Councilor on the horizon.

Arriving before the Grand Councilor, Anthony shouted: “Grand Councilor, I have a way to save these crops—will you try it?”

Around the Grand Councilor, many high-level undead were already busy—gold-tier skeletons at least, plus numerous Mourning Undead Soldiers, and five or six Mourning Skeletons, including the previous Brict.

Brict’s main task was hauling; the harvested rice had been bundled into a small mountain, which Brict clutched and vanished with a swift whoosh.

But it was heartbreaking—the rice hadn’t ripened; most grains were still green. Harvesting now meant almost no sugar content inside.

In another seven or eight days, the rice would ripen; if they could just hold out that long, they’d have a bountiful harvest—but now everything was ruined, and the Grand Councilor’s heart bled.

Why had this Light Catastrophe suddenly occurred? He had lived countless eons and had never encountered such a situation—what had happened?

This plane was one of the main grain-producing regions of the Divine Light Alliance and one of the planes the Grand Councilor actually controlled. Though he was undead, he knew what kept society stable: control grain, and even if the Divine Light Alliance descended into chaos, it wouldn’t spiral out of control.

What troubled the Grand Councilor even more was that this phenomenon might not be limited to just this plane—if other planes suffered the same fate, what then? What if forests and grasslands were affected too?

If all plants across the plane withered and the ecosystem collapsed, every animal would die along with them—that would be the greatest disaster.

Should they turn everyone into undead?

As he fretted, suddenly he heard: “I have a way to save these crops.” The Grand Councilor nearly leapt up, looked up, and saw Anthony—he urgently asked: “What way?”

“It’s complicated—I can’t explain it in a moment. Will you try it? If you’re willing, we’ll begin.” Anthony asked.

“Huh? Now? Is it free?” The Grand Councilor stared in shock.

He’d suspected Anthony might have some scheme, but the man wasn’t even asking for anything—his readiness to act didn’t seem like a trap. Could any scheme’s consequences be worse than total crop failure and the death of all plants?

Anthony, feigning impatience, snapped back: “Are you annoying? Will you try it? One: yes. Two: no. Choose.”

Anthony was indeed in a hurry—if the Grand Councilor delayed any longer, Ang might already act, and he’d miss out on any benefit.

“Y-y-y-y-y—choose one!” The Grand Councilor, flustered by Anthony’s tone, feared missing the chance if he hesitated.

Anthony landed, grabbed the air before him, pulled out his staff, and slammed it into the ground, muttering incantations under his breath.

First, he set up the performance—no matter when Ang acted, he could keep up the charade. Pretending to be divine? That was his specialty.

Luckily, Anthony was quick to deceive; just seconds after he planted his staff, a “wind” arose.

No—it wasn’t wind. The rice stalks were swaying. The once drooping, bent-over stalks now rustled softly, as if dancing in a breeze.

Each sway straightened the stalks a little more; each sway improved the rice’s condition. Swinging, swinging, all stalks stood upright.

Seeing this, the Grand Councilor, Brict, and all nearby undead turned their gazes toward Anthony—but he pretended to be deep in prayer, eyes closed, murmuring softly, a slow glow of holy light emanating from his body, his expression solemn.

The “wind” didn’t stop. The once green ears continued swaying—each sway made them grow a little larger, each sway turned them a little more golden.

Finally, the golden ears, heavy with grain, bowed the stalks to the ground once more—but this time, their droop was the weight of harvest.

The rustling ceased. Anthony opened his eyes, smiled, and said: “There. Is this result satisfactory?”