Chapter 970

The Grand Councilor looked Anthony up and down and said, “The Lord of Life is also skilled in healing; His Hymn of Life and Wind of Revival are quite powerful, but these Light Plagues are strange—neither the Lord of Life nor the Lord of Radiance may be able to cure them.”

“Heh, as long as he’s still alive, if I can’t heal him, I’ll die—but taking such a risk might drain much of Our Lord’s power.” Anthony chuckled, silently adding: Even if he’s dead, it’s not impossible.

“Bold words,” said the Grand Councilor. “Come with me. If you can heal my Magistrate, I’ll grant you the title of Ally’s Friend.”

A commoner hearing this would likely sneer—offering nothing but a mere “Friend’s Title” as reward? But Anthony was not so shallow; he asked, “With this title, can I kill people without breaking the law?”

“Of course it’s illegal,” the Grand Councilor snapped. “But don’t touch my people—I won’t have them hunt you down.”

Anthony nodded in understanding. This title was probably something like the “Elven Friendship Badge”—holding it meant the Grand Councilor would protect you, as long as you didn’t go too far.

Such a title meant nothing to ordinary people; a few tons of magic crystals were far more practical. But for any faction seeking to establish itself within the Radiant Alliance, it was equivalent to a political license.

As long as you didn’t go too far, the Grand Councilor would protect you. If you did, you’d bear the consequences alone—the Grand Councilor’s forces would not intervene.

It was a clever reward. Clearly, the Grand Councilor was not as “simple” as he appeared.

Anthony rubbed his hands together happily. Healing just one person for such a reward? He’d struck gold. Clearly, this Magistrate held great weight in the Grand Councilor’s eyes.

After walking a long distance, they arrived behind the Magistracy, where officials rested. Thick curtains had been drawn, blocking all light.

Just as they reached the door, a firm voice rang out: “Say no more. I refuse the Transmigration Offering. Let me rot.”

The Grand Councilor blinked, frozen at the door. Anthony, seeing this, held his breath and stopped, listening closely. The tone of authority—this must be the Magistrate.

Another female voice pleaded anxiously: “But you won’t just rot—you’ll die!”

“Will transmigration spare me death? Even transmigration ends in death! Not only will I die, I’ll become a hideous, walking mummy, forever. I’d rather die than become that. Let me die.”

The woman’s voice grew frantic: “But… but…”

“Aire, I know you don’t want me to die. But everyone views life differently. You’re only twenty—you’ve seen few of life’s beauties, and still hold many dreams and illusions. I’m seven hundred years old. I’ve seen too much beauty and endured countless sufferings. I know what kind of life I want.”

“To become a hideous mummy, hiding in dark, damp depths, afraid to show my face—that’s not the life I want. Better to die quietly, returning to the Lord of Life’s embrace. That is nature’s true way.”

Seven hundred years? Lord of Life? Nature’s way? Could the Magistrate be an elf?

The woman named Aire cried out urgently: “But isn’t the Grand Councilor also an undead? Yet he isn’t ugly!”

“Hmph. Who knows what dark arts he uses? He vanishes periodically, then returns looking fresh—probably sustaining himself with some vile ritual. I heard he soaks himself in the blood of pure maidens to stay youthful. So evil.”

Anthony leaned close to the Grand Councilor and whispered, “Looks like your Magistrate has quite a few misconceptions about you.”

The Grand Councilor laughed helplessly. “I never imagined she saw me this way. I raised her from childhood—and now she thinks I’m evil?”

“Don’t you two communicate enough? Too little interaction breeds misunderstanding. Have you ever told her how you stay fresh?”

“She doesn’t need to stay fresh. Why would I tell her that?” the Grand Councilor grumbled.

Anthony smiled. “Let me give an example. A man comes out of the toilet every day, satisfied, wiping his mouth. What do you think he’s doing in there?”

“Ew…” the Grand Councilor recoiled in disgust.

Anthony chuckled. “Of course he’s rinsing his mouth with the sink. Where did your mind go?”

The Grand Councilor nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point. She can’t see how I stay fresh, so she guesses wildly.”

“Exactly. In any team, communication is vital. Lack of it breeds suspicion. Countless teams have collapsed simply because upper and lower levels stopped talking.”

A thousand-year-old con artist who mastered the manipulation of hearts had seen too much of this.

The Grand Councilor sighed. “She’s just a seven-hundred-year-old child—how can she be so complicated? She guesses without even asking me.”

“Shall I explain for you?” Anthony asked.

“How? Do you have Essence Fluid?” the Grand Councilor asked.

Once suspicion took root, explanation became difficult—unless you could demonstrate it. But the Grand Councilor’s Essence Fluid was already gone.

“Watch me,” Anthony said, then coughed loudly. After a brief pause, he pushed open the door and declared, “Would you accept becoming a beautiful lich instead?”

Anthony’s cough gave the room time to prepare. As he entered, they saw a girl clutching a vase, and a figure wrapped in blankets. The girl cried out, “Who are you… Grand Councilor?”

“Yes, it’s me,” the Grand Councilor said, hands behind his back, following Anthony inside.

The Magistrate, wrapped in blankets, instinctively stepped back. The girl clutched the vase, flustered and embarrassed—they realized their earlier words had been heard.

Silence fell. Until Anthony spoke: “I am the Apostle of the Lord of Radiance, summoned by the Grand Councilor to treat you. We don’t just heal the living—we heal the dead. For example…”

Here, Anthony lifted the Grand Councilor’s hand. Though the Grand Councilor had used Essence Fluid, its effect paled beside the Purifying Art—his skin remained wrinkled, only slightly smoother than an elderly man’s.

After casting the Purifying Art, Anthony held up the now-fresh hand and said, “The Lord of Radiance’s power requires no pure maiden’s blood. You vastly underestimate us. The Grand Councilor is a long-term client. If you need similar service, we offer a twenty percent discount.”

The Magistrate threw off the blanket, stepped forward, and knelt before the Grand Councilor. “Forgive me, my lord. I misunderstood you.”

Both the Grand Councilor and Anthony involuntarily drew in a breath at the sight of her face.

The Grand Councilor was pained by how badly his child had been injured; Anthony was stunned: “Forgive me, Grand Councilor—this isn’t ordinary trauma. I cannot treat it. I need Our Lord’s personal presence.”