Chapter 1164

Mo Hua licked his lips and suddenly became interested.

After being hungry for so long, I've finally smelled something aromatic.

He remained silent, continuing to follow the grandfather and grandson ahead.

The barbarian grandfather and grandson were unaware they were being followed, walking silently forward; along the way, the old man still intermittently reminded the child:

"When we get there, you must be respectful."

"This is your fortune…"

"... Bring glory to the tribe; if your father knew, he would be proud of you…"

The child nodded dazedly, then after a while, he pressed his hand against his hollow stomach and said:

"Grandpa, I'm hungry."

The barbarian elder pulled out some coarse dried rations—made from some cheap grain, black and gray, dry and hard.

The child took the rations and put them in his mouth, chewing slowly.

The barbarian elder watched, heart aching, then carefully took a piece of dried meat from his worn storage bag and handed it to the child.

The child's eyes lit up at the sight of the dried meat, but then he grew uneasy. "Grandpa, I… I'm full, I don't need it…"

The barbarian elder patted his head, his voice hoarse: "It's fine. Eat more today… eat well."

The child, young and unaware, tried to restrain himself—but his empty stomach could not resist the temptation of the dried meat. He took it and carefully chewed it in his mouth.

Such a luxury came only a few times a year, so he ate it slowly.

After eating half, he handed the rest to the elder. "Grandpa, I'm full."

The barbarian elder shook his head. "It's fine. Eat it all. This is all for you."

The child could hardly believe it: "Really?"

The elder smiled and nodded, his wrinkles deep and dry.

Only then did the child relax, his face bright with surprise as he chewed the remaining meat, wearing a simple, pitiful smile.

The barbarian elder watched this scene, his gaze complex, hiding deep pain in his eyes.

Mo Hua watched all of this, his expression growing somber.

After finishing the dried meat, the barbarian elder led the child further up the mountain.

The mountains of Da Huang grew low, scrubby shrubs, but most of their surfaces were barren, glowing crimson.

The grandfather and grandson followed the steep mountain path until they reached the heart of the desolate mountain.

Deep in the mountain lay a cave, its entrance pitch-black, with two strange Shi Zhu standing before it.

At this moment, four barbarian cultivators stood guard at the cave entrance.

Seeing the elder, the four barbarian cultivators bowed in their clan's manner and respectfully said: "Elder."

The barbarian elder nodded slightly and asked: "Are all preparations ready?"

One of the barbarian cultivators replied: "Report, Elder: the demon blood, offerings, and altar are all prepared."

The barbarian elder nodded and waved his hand. "Return to your posts."

The four barbarian cultivators hesitated, glancing at the child, their faces filled with pity. "Elder, perhaps…"

The barbarian elder's expression was resolute. "There is no choice."

The barbarian cultivators sighed in unison. "Yes, Grand Elder."

After they withdrew, they descended the mountain directly.

Before the cave remained only the barbarian elder and the boy, about ten years old.

The elder asked the child: "Do you remember what I told you?"

The child nodded. "I will serve the Barbarian God with utmost reverence, wholeheartedly and respectfully."

The barbarian elder's gaze was deep. "Good. Then come with me."

The grandfather and grandson crossed the Shi Zhu and entered the cave.

Mo Hua thought for a moment, then followed them inside.

His spiritual sense far surpassed the elder's; even if he concealed himself and walked behind, the elder could not possibly sense him.

Mo Hua walked almost beside the elder as they stepped into the cave.

For a moment, his vision plunged into darkness; when he raised his head to survey the cave's interior, his expression turned slightly surprised.

This cave was too plain.

He had expected a Shi Dian, a shrine, stone altars—none existed.

It couldn't even be called a "cave"—at best, it was a shallow "recess" in the cliffside, its entrance so shallow that five or six steps would take you to the end.

Inside the cave stood only one stone altar, bearing several demonic beast skulls, and in one corner, a vat of beast blood—nothing else.

No statue. No object for worship.

At the back of the cave was only a stone wall.

A true stone wall—his spiritual sense passed through it and perceived nothing but stone.

Mo Hua's gaze flickered.

Earlier, when he heard the child say "Barbarian God," he had imagined some "big thing."

At least a shrine or a statue—but now, inside the cave, he found nothing.

Moreover, the divine aura was faint, almost nonexistent.

Mo Hua sensed nothing at all.

"It's well hidden…"

After a moment's thought, Mo Hua's gaze turned deep as he looked at the barbarian elder.

The barbarian elder suddenly felt a chill in his heart, as if watched by some presence—but after scanning around, he sensed nothing.

The old barbarian pondered for a while, concluding there was only one explanation; he knelt on the ground and bowed his head to the empty stone wall behind the altar.

"Before the Great Lord of the Barbarians, this old man prepares without delay, daring not to hinder Your Ritual."

Having spoken, he bowed three times.

The child beside him followed his grandfather, kneeling on the ground and striking three loud bows.

Thereafter, the old barbarian did not dare delay; he reached into the blood basin beside him, dipped his finger in the red-black blood, and drew a primitive blood sigil beneath the altar.

The sigil's patterns resembled the Four Symbols' demonic markings.

Its image resembled a demon with a pointed beak and claws.

After completing the sigil, the old barbarian lit a candle upon the altar.

This candle, made from the fat of some unknown demonic beast, burned with pale green flames, emitting a pungent odor.

Once the candle burned, the old barbarian pulled his grandson and knelt within the blood sigil before the altar.

The elder offered devout prayers.

The child knelt reverently.

The forest-green candle continued to burn.

The candle's smoke grew thicker.

After an unknown length of time, the blood sigil on the ground began to twist; the blood-demon within it seemed to come alive.

The old barbarian and the child had absorbed too much candle smoke; their minds grew dazed, half-conscious, even hallucinating.

It seemed a deep voice called to them.

This voice was ancient and authoritative, leaving no room for defiance.

Unconsciously, their spiritual souls were drawn from their bodies. When they opened their eyes again, the cave before them was no longer the same cave.

The stone walls vanished; in their place stood a door.

Bronze panels formed its frame, forged iron locked it shut; where the edges met, fangs interlocked—both sinister and majestic.

The child looked frightened.

But the old barbarian, as if he had come here before, brushed his hand over his grandson's forehead and rasped:

"Do not fear. Come with me to pay homage to the Great Lord of the Barbarians."

The child nodded timidly.

The old barbarian bowed before the bronze door and devoutly intoned: "Great Lord of the Barbarians, forgive this believer; I come to pay homage."

After speaking, he remained in his bowing posture, waiting until a response came from the unseen—apparently, his homage had been accepted.

The forged iron chains at the door unlocked.

Only then did the elder rise, respectfully push open the bronze door, glance back at his grandson, and sigh:

"Come."

The child nodded.

The old barbarian took his grandson's hand and stepped into the bronze door.

Behind the bronze door lay a corridor of blue stone.

This corridor did not exist in the mortal world; it existed only in illusion.

The old barbarian, holding his grandson's hand, walked forward along the corridor with anxious expression, not knowing how long he walked, until finally entering a great hall.

The hall was entirely cast from blue stone.

In the center stood an altar.

Above, a strange, grotesque stone statue was enshrined.

The old barbarian dared not raise his head to look at the statue's form; instead, he trembled as he spoke to his grandson:

"You… lie upon the altar."

"Mm." The child obediently lay upon the altar.

The old barbarian carefully tied his grandson's hands and feet with rope.

His grandson did not resist.

After tying him, he asked: "Grandfather, am I going to die?"

The old barbarian shuddered, his eyes reddening, yet he rasped: "You're so young… why… say such a thing?"

The child's gaze grew desolate.

"Da, Li, Zhen'er, and Keda—all went to serve the Great Lord of the Barbarians, and none returned. Am I… too?"

The old barbarian, swallowing his pain, asked: "You… you don't want to serve the Great Lord of the Barbarians?"

But the child shook his head. "I will serve the Great Lord of the Barbarians."

His voice was low. "No one plays with me anymore. I'm hungry every day. My father is gone—I don't know where, or if he'll ever return. Living means nothing… but…"

The child looked at the old barbarian. "If I go, you'll be alone, Grandfather. You must take care of yourself."

The elder's cloudy eyes filled with tears.

He nodded gently, speaking softly: "Rest easy. The Great Lord of the Barbarians will bless us. He will care for you too. Sleep. When you wake, everything will be over."

"Mm…"

The child lay upon the altar, murmured softly, then suddenly felt his spiritual energy drain; he slowly closed his eyes.

The old barbarian, watching his only grandson, was heartbroken, yet gritted his teeth, knelt on the ground, and silently prayed:

"This believer, trembling and fearful, begs the Great Lord of the Barbarians to grant our clan favorable winds and timely rains."

"Beg the Great Lord of the Barbarians to grant our people food to fill their bellies."

"Protect our people with clothing to shield them from cold."

"Safeguard our people from calamity;"

"Protect our tribe, may our warriors return safely from battle..."

After finishing his devout prayer, the barbarian elder gritted his teeth and said:

"We humbly invite... the Barbarian God, to partake of... our tribe's offering."

Upon speaking, the barbarian elder slammed his head hard against the ground, motionless as a devout statue.

After an unknown length of time, the sound of cracking stone echoed through the silent Shi Dian.

Stone chips fell in showers; the statue at the center of the hall slowly stirred, shedding its layer of stone and clay, revealing a towering, muscular body clad in golden divine robes, its form wreathed in swirling green and crimson energy.

This was the true form of the "Barbarian God" worshipped by the elder's tribe.

The Barbarian God revealed his true form.

The elder's expression grew even more solemn; he dared not even breathe.

The green-black Barbarian God stepped forward to stand before the child on the altar.

The scent of the fresh offering made saliva drip from its lips, yet it did not rush to "feed"—instead, it turned its head toward the barbarian elder, its voice cold and sharp:

"Your faith has grown unfaithful."

The barbarian elder slowly rose to his feet.

In his left hand he gripped a banner; in his right, a sacrificial knife. His cloudy eyes revealed both fear of the divine and a sharp, lethal intent.

The Barbarian God sneered: "I was just wondering why my heart felt uneasy today. So it's you, this lowly old servant, who has turned traitor—daring to defy the god?"

The elder's expression turned solemn; he involuntarily tightened his grip on the sacrificial knife.

On the Barbarian God's sharp face appeared mockery:

"What, you didn't rebel when I ate other children—now that I've chosen your own grandson, you finally think of rising up?"

The elder's face bore both shame and fury; finally, he laughed bitterly:

"There is no other path left. As elder of this tribe, no matter who the offering is, I must fight this greedy Barbarian God to the death."

"If I die, it is only the annihilation of my tribe."

"If I do not resist, and let you keep eating like this, when no newborn children remain, we will still be annihilated."

"And you're right... he is my last grandson, my only bloodline."

"His father marched with the barbarian troops..."

"A few days ago, I dreamed of him on the battlefield, drenched in blood, his head severed—I knew then that my son is surely dead."

The elder's face seemed to age suddenly, his posture slumped yet resolute.

He slowly raised his hand, pointing the sacrificial knife at the Barbarian God: "Therefore, this ends only with my life."

The Barbarian God's expression turned grim: "Daring to raise a blade against a god—you must have already embraced death."

"Good. Then let me devour you first, old servant, then eat your grandson—so your family may be reunited."

The Barbarian God's face twisted into a cruel grin, then swept its hand—tearing a vast, green-black claw mark through the air toward the elder.

The elder flicked his left hand; several hyena spirit souls flew from the banner, colliding with the Barbarian God's attack.

A shockwave surged; mental energy filled the air.

The Barbarian God was surprised: "You've learned witchcraft?"

The barbarian elder, face cold, continued waving the banner.

The banner was a strange, demonic artifact of the divine path—each wave consumed the elder's mental energy, using a portion of it as a catalyst to summon spirit souls for battle.

The spirit souls he summoned were no weaklings.

Against ordinary cultivators, they could devour the opponent's mental energy.

But unfortunately, he faced the Barbarian God, who fed on human souls.

Though these spirits could fight the Barbarian God, they were clearly no match—after a few rounds of combat, they were crushed and swallowed whole, their energy feeding back into the god.

The barbarian elder's expression grew solemn.

His only chance to defeat the Barbarian God was to use every trick at his disposal and end this swiftly.

A human's mental energy could not rival the Barbarian God's; prolonged battle would see him die first from mental exhaustion.

Once he died, his entire tribe would surely perish.

Here in the Great Wasteland, survival was already brutal—without him, a Foundation Establishment elder to guard them, even a second-rank beast could wipe out their small tribe.

Not to mention he had now utterly enraged the Barbarian God.

If he did not kill or severely wound the Barbarian God, his tribe would surely be obliterated in the god's wrath.

There was only one path: fight to the death. There was no other choice.

The barbarian elder, ignoring the damage to his soul, began shaking the banner, using witchcraft to summon stronger spirit souls.

As the witchcraft activated, the elder's face grew paler by a shade.

Yet his witch banner, using mental energy as a catalyst, summoned a second-rank yellow evil wolf.

The yellow evil wolf, under the elder's command, immediately lunged forward, engaging the Barbarian God in battle.

But the elder's moves were not done—he drove the sacrificial knife into his own arm.

Blood patterns glowed on the knife's surface; then, a mysterious force flowed back into the barbarian elder.

His hunched posture straightened, his height increasing steadily.

His limbs thickened, muscles swelled, and he seemed to return to youth, transforming into a barbarian warrior.

The instant the sacrificial knife completed its life-debt ritual.

The elder charged forward, battling the Barbarian God directly.

One man, one wolf, and one Barbarian God clashed fiercely for a long time.

This battle of mental energy was extremely perilous.

Just as the aura of the Savage God gradually weakened, and a sliver of hope that he could defeat the Savage God rose in the old man's heart—

A flash of blue-black light, and the Savage God's figure suddenly vanished.

The old man froze, then a great premonition of danger surged in his heart. He had only just thought to turn around, but it was already too late.

His shoulder had already been pierced through by a sharp claw.

The vicious wolf at the side charged at the Savage God to fight.

But the Savage God seized it by the throat, twisted its neck clean off, then opened its bloody maw and swallowed it whole.

The old man's face fell.

He had learned some of Lord Wuzhu's arts and knew the Savage God was powerful, but only when they truly came to blows did he realize just how terrifying the Savage God actually was.

A being like this was simply not something human power could contend with.

The Savage God also looked at the old man and mocked: "I rarely have the time to play with you, and you actually took it seriously. How would I ever take such paltry witchcraft seriously?"

The old man gave a bitter smile, his face utterly wretched.

The Savage God slowly walked toward the old man, seemingly intending to finish him off.

Just then, the bitter smile vanished from the old man's face, replaced by a cold, blank look:

"I know. That's why from the very start, I never planned to win…"

The Savage God's expression changed.

In an instant, the old man drove the sacrificial blade violently into his own heart meridian.

The power of the sacrificial blade surged into his heart meridian, amplifying his divine-sense body as blood threads spread across his entire frame.

This was a kind of "detonation" art that used one's own divine sense as a medium—a forbidden art among witchcraft.

From the very beginning, the old man had been resolved to die, and so from the start, his plan had been one of "perishing together."

But before he could self-detonate, a blue-red arm suddenly plunged into his heart meridian, brutally ripping out his sacrificial blade along with his divine-sense flesh and blood.

The old man's face changed drastically; he still tried to struggle.

But his right arm was severed in an instant as well.

The agony of his divine sense struck him. Gritting his teeth, the old man endured the pain and looked, only to see that his right arm had already been swallowed into the Savage God's mouth.

And his sacrificial blade was being toyed with in the Savage God's hand.

At the same time, the blue-faced, fang-baring Savage God wore a face full of mockery:

"I told you—this Venerable One is a god. How would I not know those little schemes of yours? A mere mortal, and you still dream of slaying a god—what a joke. I was only amusing myself by playing with you."

The old Savage clansman's expression turned ash-gray.

Indeed, if the Savage God were not a "god," how could his clan have worshipped it for hundreds of years?

A Savage God worshipped for hundreds of years—how could he, a mere Savage cultivator with his paltry witchcraft, possibly get rid of it…

"This is… a 'god'…"

The old Savage clansman had a gaping hole in his chest, blood at the corner of his mouth, and looked at the utterly invincible Savage God with despair in his eyes.

But just at that moment, a resplendent golden light suddenly appeared on the chest of the towering Savage God.

Then a small golden fist punched straight through the Savage God's back and out its chest, the lingering golden light shredding a great swath of blue-black flesh and blood along the way.

A childish yet lazy, and rather bored, voice said:

"I really thought it was some kind of god. Turns out it's just a little mountain ghost wrapped in yellow skin to keep up appearances."

The Savage God's face went blank with shock.

The old man's pupils dilated.

In the next instant, the golden light exploded.

The mighty Savage God, utterly unable to resist, was instantly torn apart by a pair of small hands, then refined to ash by flames and sucked into a mouth.