Chapter 1165: Wu Tu Tribe

The barbarian elder stood like a stone statue, utterly bewildered—by all his life's experience, he had no idea what had just happened.

In the blinding Jin Guang, he seemed to see the tribe's invincible barbarian god torn apart barehanded by a juvenile—something unknown—and swallowed whole.

Even the eruption of Wu Tu Volcano would be less astonishing than this.

The barbarian elder's whole body began to tremble; with fear in his throat, he widened his cloudy eyes, trying to glimpse the unknowable entity within the Jin Guang.

But the moment the barbarian god died, the dream shattered.

The surrounding stone temples and altars began to twist.

When all settled, the barbarian elder opened his eyes and found himself still kneeling before the crude, humble altar inside the cave.

The blood patterns beneath his feet were still wet; before him stood only an empty stone wall.

The heat of the mountains, the low cries of birds and beasts, the stale odor and chill air of the cave—all gradually returned to his flesh.

The barbarian elder felt he had merely dreamed.

In the dream, he had mustered courage and fought fiercely against the barbarian god, yet exhausted every trick, he could not touch the god.

Then, a divine lord descended from heaven and casually crushed the barbarian god.

Day and night, he had always longed for this—sometimes, he even dreamed it.

But he knew it made no sense.

It was merely his delusion.

It was the fantasy of the powerless, yearning for a god to save them from misery and despair.

"Then am I—dreaming now? Or am I awake? If I am awake, do I still have to offer Xiao Zatu to the barbarian god?" The elder could not tell reality from illusion.

Just then, a searing pain pierced his spiritual sense.

As if his spiritual essence had had its arms torn off and its chest ripped open—a torment of ten thousand needles—

Pierced deep into the elder's spirit sea.

The barbarian elder trembled violently, his back soaked in cold sweat.

Just as he was at a loss, a clear, slightly resonant voice sounded beside his ear:

"Focus your spirit, meditate, restrain yourself, guard your heart. All external forms are illusory thoughts; all pain is but the mind's delusion."

The voice spoke with perfect clarity—not the voice of a barbarian cultivator.

Yet within it lay a magic, pure as spring water, cleansing his heart and soul.

The barbarian elder unconsciously followed the voice's guidance, calming his spirit, casting aside pain, and guarding his true heart.

After a long while, the wounds upon his spirit soul temporarily healed.

The tendency of his spirit soul to split from depletion also ceased.

The barbarian elder slowly raised his head and saw, at some point, a mysterious youth standing before him.

He could not describe the feeling this youth gave him.

His robes were plain, dust-covered, yet his gaze was extraordinarily bright, filled with compassionate kindness, profound insight into the heart, and an unyielding dignity.

His face was as white as jade, bearing both masculine resolve and feminine grace, elegant as a celestial being.

The youth stood there naturally, yet seemed to resonate with the earth's breath and connect with heaven's fortune.

An idea involuntarily rose in the barbarian elder's heart:

"Even if a divine lord walked among mortals, he would look no different than this—"

The elder's expression softened, but after a long while, he suddenly recoiled in shock.

The image of the barbarian god being torn apart flashed again in his mind.

He did not know whether the barbarian god was truly dead—or whether it had anything to do with this mysterious youth.

But he knew, regardless of any connection, this unfathomable youth before him was not to be trifled with.

The barbarian elder immediately bowed his head, bent his waist, and deeply bowed to Mo Hua:

"Old man Zhamu greets—? Elder."

He did not know Mo Hua's age, but he dared not presume.

The Dao knows no elder or younger; the one who attains is honored.

Meeting a cultivator of higher cultivation, even if strangers with no kinship, one must lower oneself and respectfully address them as "Elder"—it is never wrong.

Mo Hua's impression of the elder improved further.

Whether for his grandson or his tribe, a cultivator of mortal flesh daring to fight the "barbarian god" revealed his character and courage.

"You are Zhamu?" Mo Hua asked.

It was a clear, youthful voice, sounding very young.

Yet the elder dared not slacken; he clasped his hands and replied, "Yes."

"Are you the tribe's elder?"

The elder said, "Yes, I am the elder of the Wu Tu tribe, of Wu Tu Mountain."

Wu Tu?

Mo Hua was puzzled.

But he recalled that the barbarian script of the Great Wilderness differed from the Dao Court's characters—"Wu Tu" must be barbarian,

Translated directly by sound after the Dao Court unified writing.

Including this elder's "Zhamu," likely the same.

"Then tell me," Mo Hua's gaze darkened slightly, "where is this place? What direction in the Great Wilderness? How far from the Nine Provinces?"

The barbarian elder blinked.

He had not expected this mysterious youth to ask such a "basic" question.

Didn't he himself know where he was?

Or is he really fallen from the sky?

The elder

After thinking for a moment, he dared not conceal it, and said:

"Respected Elder, this is the Wutu Mountain Range, located south of the Cangmang Wilds and west of the Infinite Abyss,

one of the three thousand territories of the Wilds. As for how far it is from Jiuzhou—"

The elder smiled bitterly. "In my entire life, I have never left these Wutu Mountains, let alone know how vast the world beyond truly is."

"I've only heard from elders in our tribe that Jiuzhou lies within the 'Far North,' thousands upon thousands of miles away,

where deserts stretch endlessly and sandy seas stretch boundlessly—a lifetime cannot cross them—"

Mo Hua heard this and his heart grew solemn.

Though he did not know where the Wutu Mountains were, he had certainly heard of the three thousand territories of the Wilds.

This was south of the Wilds, deep within the barbarian heartland—the true "territory" of the Wilds.

Mo Hua felt helpless.

As a Dao Soldier of the Dao Soldier Bureau, he had originally been meant to accompany the army to quell the rebellion.

But he had barely fought any battles, gained no merit at all, and this idiot great tiger had, without warning, brought him to the barbarians' rear.

As a result, his plan was utterly ruined.

Mo Hua frowned in thought.

The barbarian elder bowed his head, respectfully, not daring to look at Mo Hua's face or make any other movement.

Yet after a while, the child lying on the ground suddenly murmured, his face pale.

The barbarian elder's heart leapt with panic—he no longer cared for anything else, and hurried over to check on his grandson.

He felt the child's forehead, pressed his pulse, and fed him several pills—but none of it helped.

The barbarian elder was forced to raise his head, looking at Mo Hua with a pleading expression.

Mo Hua stirred his divine sense slightly, withdrew a pill, and handed it to the elder.

The elder accepted it with both hands solemnly, hesitated for a moment, uncertain, but finally gritted his teeth and placed it into the child's mouth.

As soon as the pill entered the child's mouth, his complexion improved markedly.

The barbarian elder was overjoyed, immediately bowed deeply to Mo Hua, and thanked him endlessly:

"Thank you, Elder, for granting this immortal pill."

Mo Hua sighed softly inside.

It wasn't any immortal pill—it was merely an ordinary pill to solidify the foundation, benefit qi, and replenish blood, only of slightly better quality because it came from the Grand Void Gate.

This child had been starving far too long, his blood and qi severely depleted, his body weakened.

His soul had been snatched away earlier; after returning, his spiritual awareness and physical form were out of sync, which was why he could not awaken.

"Take him back, let him sleep, rest and nourish his spirit," Mo Hua instructed.

The barbarian elder hurriedly replied: "Yes, yes."

He carried the child, glanced at Mo Hua, opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped.

Mo Hua said: "Return to your tribe first. I will have more questions for you later."

The elder did not know whether he felt relieved,

or worried, and bowed to Mo Hua, respectfully saying:

"Your humble servant awaits your honored arrival at the Wutu Tribe."

After speaking, the elder turned and walked slowly down the mountain, carrying his grandson.

Mo Hua watched his aged back, thinking of how the elder had said his only remaining family was this little grandson, and he felt deeply moved.

Then Mo Hua turned his head toward the cliff wall.

This so-called "barbarian god" was insignificant in power, but his hiding technique was indeed exquisite—like an eel burrowing underground, leaving no trace.

I should study it sometime, learn how to track and catch an eel.

On the path of divine sense, only through self-reliance and self-sufficiency can one eat a full meal.

Unfortunately, this "barbarian god" was far too "thin"—swallowed in one bite, utterly flavorless.

Still, his spiritual awareness had indeed strengthened slightly.

This pleased Mo Hua greatly.

"I hope one day I can have a proper meal, a full one—"

Mo Hua silently wished in his heart.

Then he left Shenshan, retracing the path he had come, and found Sun Dahei.

Sun Dahei was still lying in place, his two front paws covering his storage bag, waiting listlessly for Mo Hua.

Only when Mo Hua appeared did Sun Dahei flick his tail, leap up happily, and let out several joyful "ao-ming" calls.

Mo Hua smiled gently, unable to resist stroking Sun Dahei's head, and then suddenly thought of a question:

He couldn't keep calling it "Sun Dahei."

This great tiger had accompanied him so long—he deserved a proper name.

But what should he call it?

Mo Hua fell into deep thought.

"Sun Dahei?"

Not good—it doesn't have only black stripes, but white ones too—

"Sun Da Bai?"

No, that won't work—Sun Da Bai is the big white horse from Young Master An's household; can't reuse the name.

"Da Zhuang? A big, fierce tiger, strong and robust—"

No, too common.

"Da Hu?"

No, that's the same name too.

Mo Hua frowned deeply, pondered for a long time, but was ultimately unsatisfied with all options.

Names really are hard to choose.

Picking a name is more exhausting than drawing ten arrays.

Mo Hua could only set it aside for now and think of a suitable one later.

He placed the storage bag into the big tiger's paw and instructed:

"I have some business to attend to. Watch this storage bag for me until I return."

The big tiger was somewhat unhappy, but still took the storage bag, using its paw to

cover it.

Yet after a while, it pushed the storage bag back toward Mo Hua—perhaps it trusted Mo Hua now, or feared that without the bag, he might face danger.

After all, in its past experience, storage bags were matters of life and death for cultivators.

Mo Hua was slightly surprised.

This big tiger was quite "thoughtful."

Mo Hua smiled and said, "Alright then, I'll keep the storage bag. You stay here and play—catch a few demonic beasts, and I'll roast them for you when I return."

The big tiger was overjoyed, let out a "Ming!" and nodded its huge head repeatedly.

Mo Hua scratched its mane, then left.

The big tiger was too large and too fierce; it didn't matter in the wilds, but if it entered the territory of cultivators or barbarians, it would be far too conspicuous.

Mo Hua could only temporarily leave it to roam free in the mountains.

After leaving the big tiger, Mo Hua followed the human road to the "Wu Tu Tribe," where the barbarian elder lived.

The Wu Tu Tribe wasn't far—about twenty li away.

Following the elder's spiritual aura, Mo Hua soon arrived outside a tribe.

Outside the tribe hung a totem, brown-red in color, shaped like a combination of animal and flame forms, resembling a small flame.

Inside the tribe were tents of various sizes.

The tents were made from worn demonic beast pelts and coarse hemp.

All decorations and furnishings within the tribe followed the style of the Great Wilderness.

But rather than a tribe, it was practically no different from a small, impoverished village.

The tribe had few people—only five or six hundred—and most were elderly, weak, sick, or disabled; very few were young and strong.

Outside the tribe were some wooden fences.

On the fences were drawn crude array patterns to deter demonic beasts and external enemies.

But to Mo Hua, they were meaningless.

He concealed his presence and entered the tribal grounds, sensing the aura of the barbarian elder,

named Zhamu, inside the largest tent.

Mo Hua moved like a ghost, silently entering the tent.

The tent was fairly spacious but sparsely furnished.

The barbarian elder, Zhamu, was anxiously tending to his grandson.

"Rest for a while, and he'll recover," Mo Hua said coolly.

Elder Zhamu was startled, turned around, and saw the mysterious youth seated on a chair inside the tent, casually examining some barbarian script records on the table.

Elder Zhamu suppressed his unease and fear, bowed and said:

"Greetings, Senior."

Being called "Senior" by an elder older than himself made Mo Hua feel strange.

But while traveling, one must never reveal one's true identity.

The more others misunderstood him, the better.

The more they misunderstood, the farther they were from the truth.

Mo Hua's expression remained calm; he pointed to the stone stool opposite. "Sit."

Elder Zhamu sat down obediently, still looking nervous.

Mo Hua glanced at him and said, "Don't worry too much about your grandson. You, however, have suffered serious spiritual damage."

"Spiritual wounds differ from flesh wounds—they may not seem obvious daily, but they bring sudden, needle-like pain, invisible and intangible, nearly impossible to heal."

Elder Zhamu bowed and said, "Thank you, Senior, for the insight. But this old man is but rotten wood; whether I live or die, I have no regrets."

Mo Hua nodded, then asked: "What is the Barbarian God?"

Elder Zhamu's heart trembled slightly; after thinking, he slowly replied: "The Barbarian God is the deity our barbarian people worship."

Mo Hua asked: "Is it truly a deity?"

Elder Zhamu didn't know how to answer, so he said:

"It exists unseen, wielding divine and mysterious power, aiding our people in survival, reproduction, and defense against enemies—thus we call it 'God.' Since it is our barbarian people's deity, we call it the 'Barbarian God.'"

"Hidden within formlessness, possessing a might beyond ghost and god's comprehension, it can aid our people in thriving and multiplying, repelling foreign enemies—thus it may be called a 'god.' Since it is the god of our barbarian tribe, it is called the 'Barbarian God.'"

These barbarians, in truth, knew nothing at all.

As long as some 'spiritual presence' helped them—whether demon, ghost, devil, or monster—they would worship it as a god.

As long as it exists on the level of divine perception and can aid them, whether it be a demon, ghost, devil, or monster, they will worship it as a deity.

As for whether they were truly "gods," they did not understand, or rather, they did not need to understand.

Even if such a "god" demanded to eat their children, it did not matter.

Of course, they had no way to stop it.

Even some cunning spirits, malevolent ghosts, evil demons, and monstrous fiends were beyond the capability of ordinary cultivators to handle.

Elder Zhamu had studied some shamanic arts and techniques of spiritual perception; frankly, his cultivation was quite strong. But if he truly faced that barbarian god, he had not the slightest chance of victory.

Even if that barbarian god was, in truth, merely an unknown spirit or ghost.

Elder Zhamu glanced at Mo Hua, hesitant to ask, yet his heart trembled and he could not refrain from asking; finally, he mustered his courage and spoke slowly:

"Elder, may I ask about the Utu God my lord—"

"What?" Mo Hua frowned slightly.

Elder Zhamu spoke with a barbarian accent, and Mo Hua had not understood at first.

Elder Zhamu repeated: "Utu God—"

He continued: "It is the barbarian god worshipped by my Utu clan—pointed face, sharp claws, towering form. The place where I met you was at the temple gate where we offered tribute to the Utu God—"

Mo Hua uttered an "oh."

So the "barbarian god" whom

he had killed with a single punch actually had a name.

He had not even known its name when he killed it.

Elder Zhamu's cloudy eyes held a hopeful, anxious gaze toward Mo Hua, as if longing to hear what he hoped for,

yet fearing to hear some other truth.

The tribe and the god were a contradictory unity.

If the god protected the tribe, the tribe could thrive and grow.

If the god was insatiable, the tribe would eventually decline and perish.

And now the Utu God had clearly become an "evil god." If his "dream" was false and the Utu God still existed, sooner or later it would unleash its wrath upon them—and the Utu tribe would have only death ahead.

He had to confirm this matter; otherwise, great disaster would come.

Mo Hua did not really want to speak.

Killing and eating a barbarian god was better kept quiet.

But seeing Elder Zhamu's furrowed brow and fearful expression, Mo Hua fell silent.

To him, it was merely a small matter.

But if Elder Zhamu did not learn the truth, he might spend the rest of his life in terror.

Mo Hua thought for a moment, then said simply:

"You no longer need to offer sacrifices to your Utu God."

Elder Zhamu froze.

"It can no longer consume offerings—" Mo Hua said.

Because I ate it.

Elder Zhamu trembled all over; in his aged eyes, a glimmer of hope shone forth.

He prostrated himself fully before Mo Hua:

"Elder, your great grace is beyond words. The Utu tribe will never forget it."

Mo Hua merely said coolly: "I did nothing."

Upon hearing this, Elder Zhamu's heart instantly sharpened; he solemnly said: "This old man understands."

Mo Hua nodded, quite satisfied with Elder Zhamu's composure, then suddenly remembered a question and asked:

"The Utu God—do all the barbarian gods here have their own names?"

Elder Zhamu nodded. "Generally, they are named after rivers and streams—most are named after the tribe's own name."

Mo Hua asked: "How many tribes are there in this Great Wasteland?"

Elder Zhamu replied: "According to ancient tradition, the Great Wasteland has thirty great clans and thirty lineages."

"Thirty!" Mo Hua's heart leapt; he hurriedly asked: "Then your barbarian gods number thirty as well?"

Elder Zhamu blinked; he did not understand why this elder, so calm and inscrutable, had suddenly become excited.

"These thirty are not exact numbers; as lineages rise and fall, the count sometimes increases, sometimes decreases—but generally,

it remains roughly constant," Elder Zhamu explained.

But before he could finish,

Mo Hua said: "Help me with something—"

He pulled out paper and ink, handing them to Elder Zhamu, who looked utterly bewildered:

"Write down for me the names, lineages, locations, and methods of worship of every barbarian god you know—"