After asking the question, Mo Fan didn't actually hold much hope for an answer.
Based on months of accumulated experience, the System was a complete mute outside of three situations: tallying experience, issuing warnings, and dropping those dog-shit trap quests.
The rest of the time it played dead without exception.
Mo Fan was already about to give up and go test the skills himself.
Then—
His vision blurred. A line of pale blue System text materialized—rare enough to be almost unprecedented:
[ Tier-2 Unlocked: Upon each level-up, Host automatically gains 1 SP. SP may be used to learn a new skill, or upgrade an existing skill to LV. 2. ]
[ Note: Current Soul Tier only supports skill upgrades up to a maximum of LV. 2. ]
"SP? Skill Points?"
Mo Fan's mind moved fast. The pieces clicked into place immediately.
I see! I killed Wu Feng, completed the breakthrough objective, and jumped straight to LV. 11. Which means in that exact moment, I didn't just unlock the Tier-2 realm—I also automatically received one precious Skill Point! And in that 0.1 second before Venerable Miasma Dust's annihilating blood-force storm hit...
Mo Fan rubbed his chin, recalling the state he'd been in—mind completely blank, running on nothing but pure survival instinct.
My subconscious made the call. Took that one sole SP and slammed it straight into [ Bone Armament ]. Pushed it to Tier-2!
Once he'd worked it out, Mo Fan pressed a hand against his faintly aching chest and let out a long breath, equal parts lingering dread and genuine relief.
"Turns out when it's actually life or death, the lizard brain is a hell of a lot smarter than the one doing the thinking."
With the skill upgrade mechanic sorted, Mo Fan's thoughts drifted back to conduct an After-Action Review of the most bizarre turning point in that brutal fight.
The Wraith.
Thinking about that dark purple abomination—floating in the air, three human faces stitched across its head, dragging a Foundation Establishment old monster into a mental abyss and killing him from the inside...
A fierce, hungry gleam flickered in Mo Fan's eyes.
You had to know whose remnant souls those were.
Fang Tong. Wu Feng. San Niang. Just the obsessions of three Qi Condensation cultivators. Their combined physical strength couldn't have scratched Miasma Dust's finger.
But twisted together under the laws of death into an unspeakable Wraith—something that struck directly at the soul, warped perception, and was immune to the vast majority of physical and low-tier Spiritual Qi attacks—they had crossed a major realm gap and delivered an instakill!
If something like that could be mass-produced...
Mo Fan's brain instantly flooded with evil ideas that would have made any cultivation world "ultimate villain" proud.
I've already got 004 for physical defense, and Mo Yan and 003 for physical DPS. What I'm missing is a dedicated soul-layer weapon!
I could go to the mass graves and ancient battlefields of this world—collect souls soaked in extreme resentment, souls that died refusing to let go—stitch them together, refine them...
And forge an exclusive [ Summon No. 005 · Wraith ]. A trump card. Something I pull out when I need to flip the board or gank someone who never saw it coming!
The idea of this highly tempting "Nuke" was intoxicating.
But Mo Fan's cold rationality shelved it immediately.
He knew very well the terrifying price of a monster like the Wraith.
A stitched-together, high-tier Wraith wasn't anything like a skeleton. It was something you encountered by luck, not manufactured on demand. It was a soul-load devouring monster.
Just summoning it for a few minutes earlier had nearly sucked him dry.
"With my current Load cap, I can barely sustain one ordinary Wraith at most."
"One step at a time. Have to eat your meals bite by bite."
He finished his deductions, drew a slow breath, and closed his eyes to run a proper check on his body after the Tier-2 breakthrough.
What he found gave him quite a surprise.
Crossing into Tier-2—Undead Scholar—seemed to have triggered a profound qualitative shift.
Mo Fan extended his hand. A thread of Necromantic Mana coalesced at his fingertip.
He noticed it immediately.
The grayish mist that originally accompanied the casting of [ Death Vision ], condensing [ Bone Armament ], or buffing skeletons with [ Death Frenzy ]—had deepened.
And threaded through it now, barely visible, was something else: a sliver of pure black Qi, refined to the point of near-solidity, roaming through the mist.
It was cold. Domineering. Exuding a death-intent that living creatures would instinctively loathe.
To Mo Fan, though, the mellow richness of this power gave him an inexplicable, grounded sense of security.
So this is the true essence of death...
He watched the black gas swirl at his fingertips, and felt the corner of his mouth lift.
Something was awakening in his cognition—a sense that he was getting closer and closer to what it truly meant to be a Necromancer.
After a long while, he let the death-qi disperse.
Body and mind had recovered somewhat. The post-battle review was done. Time to get to work.
"First, loot old monster Miasma Dust's corpse. He's been entrenched here for so long, he definitely has a lot of good stuff on him. Then clean up the blood in these ruins so it doesn't attract unnecessary trouble."
Mo Fan stood up, dusted off his backside, and started walking toward Miasma Dust's body.
"Gotta clear the field first."
Out of habit, he glanced over at his summons not far away—Summon No. 004, severely battered and shedding bone armor, and Mo Yan, half-kneeling on the ground, leaning on that chipped cold-iron sword.
His hand moved naturally toward his waist.
"Mo Yan, 004, come back and res—"
Just as this thought of having his undead underlings return flashed through his mind, his outstretched fingers hadn't even had time to touch the edge of his Storage Bag.
Something happened.
An extremely bizarre, almost horrifying scene played out right under his eyelids without warning!
Swish!
No broad spatial fluctuation like when he usually opened the Storage Bag. No spell light-and-shadow, no permeating death-qi from skill casting.
One second, 004—massive as a small hill—and Mo Yan were standing solid in the scorch-marked ruins.
The next second, right in front of Mo Fan's eyes—
They were gone.
Not collapsed. Not dispersed. Gone.
Like a drawing instantly wiped away by an eraser—not a speck of dust disturbed, not a fragment of bone left behind. They simply ceased to exist.
"..."
Mo Fan maintained the posture of reaching out to touch the Storage Bag, turning into stone.
A cold night wind blew across the empty ruins.
His hand hung in the air. He blinked hard. Vigorously rubbed his eyes with the back of his blood-stained hand.
Looked again at the spot where 004 and Mo Yan had just been standing.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a bone fragment remained.
"WHAT IS GOING ON—!"
Mo Fan panicked. That was his entire net worth, painstakingly accumulated through blood and suffering!
He yanked the Storage Bag off his waist.
Like dumping trash, he turned the bag upside down and shook it violently with all his might. The two massive bone frames did not fall out.
He grew frantic, shoving his consciousness into the Storage Bag's interior space, sweeping it like radar multiple times.
Empty!
"Holy shit?!"
Mo Fan stood there blankly dangling the Storage Bag, staring at the empty ruins in front of him, and let out the most desperate, most bewildered shout of the entire night:
"WHERE DID MY TWO GIANT SKELETONS GO?!"