The Crystal Lotus, also known as the Longevity Lotus or the Resurrection Flower, is a supreme-grade magical medicine with only one effect:
It extends the user's lifespan.
Life born from death grants another life a chance to defy fate—even when that person is already at the end of their natural span.
For this reason, it is a treasure coveted even by Saint-tier experts.
And among the Three Great Empires, only one person was capable of cultivating such a magical medicine:
Spur.
The young man also knew a secret.
To make a Crystal Lotus bloom from a seed, at least nine lives possessing legendary bloodlines had to be sacrificed—and even then, success was not guaranteed.
That was why it was also called the Nine-Deaths Resurrection Flower.
And the unfortunate little princess of the Windmill Kingdom was the final sacrifice for this precious plant.
For a better world—and for greater benefit—I can't miss this opportunity.
The young man clenched his teeth in secret.
The Geddes family had already joined the great cause of that "Being."
And the Nine-Deaths Resurrection Flower was their bargaining chip for gaining a higher position within the organization.
Once they used it to extend the life of the "Pioneer," what would it matter even if Saint-tier experts sought revenge?
The future would belong to them.
Under the tide of capital, even Saint-tier experts would be nothing more than ants to be crushed at will.
The young man had complete faith in his organization.
Although he had never personally witnessed a Saint-tier expert in action, he had seen the might of the "Pioneer."
With a mere gesture, mountains were moved and seas were filled—power far beyond what any mortal should possess.
And so, he felt no uncertainty about the future of the organization, his family, or himself.
The Three Great Empires would inevitably belong to them.
As for whether he felt any guilt about betraying Spur—
That was impossible.
To Spur, his disciples were nothing more than expendable materials.
Those who were useful were kept to serve him.
Those who were not were mercilessly turned into fertilizer for his plants.
The young man had personally witnessed senior brothers and sisters being buried alive, left to die slowly in the soil.
So there was no such thing as betrayal.
This was simply self-preservation.
Meanwhile, Rowan III and the others descended the spiral marble staircase to the entrance of the Witch's Underground Palace.
It was called an underground palace because it truly was one.
At the base of the stairs, they entered a long corridor.
Dim, glowing night pearls barely pushed back the darkness.
After passing through the corridor, they arrived in a vast hall.
The interior was filled with endless, strange flowers.
A narrow dirt path stretched from the entrance and vanished into the darkness.
Floating luminous spores hovered in midair like jellyfish drifting through the deep sea, bringing faint light to the pitch-black space.
This scene was not unfamiliar to the three of them.
Aside from Rowan III, who visited every five years, the other two had also been here more than once.
So when the thorny vines on the ceiling lashed down toward them, none of them panicked.
Rowan III calmly sliced his palm and allowed the vines to absorb some of his blood.
Upon tasting it, the thorns instantly became like a loyal dog meeting its master.
The vines quickly retreated and gently brushed against Rowan III's wounded hand in a gesture of submission.
These were the Pain Thorns cultivated by the first ancestor of the Gordon family—a Saint-tier plant-type magical beast.
They were the Gordon royal family's inherited safeguard for protecting the Witch.
They would attack any intruder without discrimination—except members of the Gordon bloodline.
When facing royal descendants, they naturally withdrew.
After passing through the thorn-guarded area, the group reached the central chamber of the underground palace.
There was a wide clearing, and at its center stood an altar woven from vines.
Suddenly, Spur spoke:
"Interesting. That little mouse has finally lost patience and made a move. But…"
He flashed a sinister grin, revealing his pale white teeth.
"Only mice that taste hope before falling back into despair make the richest fertilizer. Heh heh heh…"
Spur's eerie laughter sent chills down Rowan III's spine.
Though he didn't know what had happened, it strengthened his resolve to leave as soon as he collected the Witch's creations.
He quickened his movements.
Soon, a rotating teleportation gate appeared before him.
Without hesitation, he stepped through.
The high-ranking bishop glanced at Spur.
After receiving a nod, he took out his staff and followed.
Spur, however, did not enter immediately.
He stared in the direction they had come from, his tone playful.
"Recently, there have been far too many bugs in Gordon City.
So I started wondering—are these bugs being controlled by someone?
And what is that person's goal?"
He slowly walked forward, taking out a slender thorn-crafted wand from his spatial ring.
"Sure enough, it didn't take long for you to bare your fangs, trying to manipulate the King of Gordon into opening the Flower Witch's sealing site."
He stroked the wand as if caressing a lover, wearing a twisted smile.
"The only ones who would seek the Witch—aside from the two major Churches—are other Witches."
With that, Spur swung his wand.
An invisible wave of magic surged outward from him.
The surrounding flowers came alive, swaying wildly as if welcoming their king.
Even the Despair Thorns overhead responded.
Then—
From the distant flowerbeds, an overwhelming aura of death suddenly erupted.
Wherever it spread, flowers and thorns alike withered instantly, crumbling into dust.
A tall, elegant woman in a black dress stepped out from the darkness, her pace slow and composed.
"You're quite perceptive.
But today, you are destined to sleep here forever."