Chapter 1168

Night fell, and Mo Hua returned to the deep mountains of Wutu Mountain, resting his head on the fluffy belly of the giant tiger, beginning to ponder his next move:

How could he unify the Great Wilderness amid war?

Even if he could not fully conquer the three thousand mountain ranges and thousands of tribes of the Great Wilderness,

he must at least strive to unify most of its powers, thereby changing the fate of these impoverished savage cultivators and laying the foundation for his own future pursuit of the Dao.

From then on, the three thousand Great Wilderness south of Li Prefecture would become his "territory."

And the Great Heishan Prefecture north of Li Prefecture was his homeland.

Thus, across the entire Li Prefecture, this vast region from south to north, he would have bases in both.

At this moment, it would be extremely difficult, especially since he was only at the Foundation Establishment realm.

But what in this world isn't difficult?

The key lies only in whether one wants to do it, is willing to do it, and has the perseverance to overcome countless hardships.

Even if one is only at Foundation Establishment, the tasks that must be done still must be done.

A night breeze blew, bringing a chill.

Mo Hua snuggled closer into the giant tiger's embrace, felt warmth, and then continued his contemplation.

If you prepare, you succeed; if you don't, you fail.

Since he had decided to act, he must make thorough preparations.

First, the Wang Hou of the Great Wilderness wielded immense power and strength—otherwise, they could never have risen in rebellion, ignited the fires of revolt, and defied the Dao Court.

The Dao Court, too, watched the Great Wilderness with hungry eyes, and its Dao Army would eventually march in to suppress the rebellion.

The savage tribes of the Great Wilderness would inevitably become the focal point of war.

And the region itself was already chaotic.

Tribes differed vastly in customs, traditions, and deities, and were relatively savage, closed, and backward.

Even the large tribes were local tyrants who would never allow others to sleep peacefully beside their beds.

Moreover, Mo Hua had not forgotten that this was the homeland of the "Lord of the Great Wilderness."

Logically, there should still be lingering "divine traces" of the Great Wilderness Demonic God, or believers who worshiped him.

Even the presence of several fragmented divine corpses, or even demonic embryo-level entities, was not impossible.

If true, the Great Wilderness Demonic God could not be ignored.

After all, given his "crimes" against the Demonic God in Qianxue Prefecture, he might as well be called the "number one sinner" of the Great Wilderness lineage.

The Great Wilderness Demonic God surely longed to devour him alive…

The Great Wilderness Wang Hou, rebel forces, Dao Court, great tribes, demonic god, savage gods… together, they formed a tangled, perilously complex situation.

Yet after careful analysis, Mo Hua felt there was still an opportunity.

The Great Wilderness Demonic God—he wasn't truly afraid of him.

Low-grade divine corpses, even demonic embryos, were merely his "food." If he encountered them, Mo Hua would welcome it.

High-grade true embryos? As long as he stayed alert, remained cautious, and avoided them, he'd be fine.

If all else failed, there was the Great Pixiu.

Though the Great Pixiu was foolish, stingy, and miserly, its power was immense; when necessary, it might protect him—his life would surely be safe.

Meanwhile, the Great Wilderness Wang Hou's savage troops and the Dao Court's army were locked in battle on the front lines, and the fighting would last for a long while.

This was precisely the opportunity.

The front-line warfare and territorial struggles were the paramount matters, absorbing the attention of all sides.

The karmic calculations of the ancestral elders and great cultivators of every faction were fully entangled.

By bypassing the front lines and making small moves in the rear, he could evade heavenly fate and remain hidden from view.

The local great tribes, though powerful, posed no immediate threat as long as he didn't provoke them.

Moreover, many tribes were relatively isolated and cut off from one another—this too would provide ample opportunity for his covert actions.

Mo Hua carefully considered these troubles, silently deduced them once more, and unexpectedly realized: beneath the obscurity of heavenly fate and the raging war, the seemingly chaotic and savage Great Wilderness was, for him, a true convergence of heavenly timing, geographical advantage, and human harmony.

Mo Hua's gaze brightened slightly.

Life perhaps lacks no opportunities.

What it lacks is only a pair of eyes capable of spotting them.

This might well be the benefit of constantly studying, thinking, and comprehending the arts of heavenly fate and karmic causality.

But to accomplish all this, he needed to be even more concealed, even more cautious…

He needed a sufficiently secure, sufficiently inconspicuous, and sufficiently authoritative "identity" within the Great Wilderness.

…

The next day, Mo Hua went to find Elder Zhamu.

Elder Zhamu served Mo Hua tea.

The tea was mountain tea from Wutu Mountain—bitter, astringent, and scorching hot, burning the lips.

Mo Hua sipped it, then asked Elder Zhamu:

"Do you know my identity?"

Elder Zhamu, unsure why Mo Hua suddenly asked this, replied sincerely:

"You call yourself 'Master Wu,' so you must be a Lord Wuzhu of the Great Wilderness Wang Ting."

Mo Hua said nothing, merely maintained a tacit acceptance, then asked:

"Have you met other Lord Wuzhu?"

Elder Zhamu said: "In my youth, I traveled to great tribes to study, and had brief encounters with several Lord Wuzhu; I was fortunate enough to learn some Wu magic, and upon returning to the Wutu Tribe, I devoted myself to cultivation, eventually becoming a tribal elder."

Mo

Mo Hua gave a slight nod, then asked obliquely, "How much do you know about the matter of Lord Wuzhu?"

Elder Zhamu said, "This old fool is dull-witted and knows little."

Mo Hua said, "Let me test you—speak freely."

Elder Zhamu's expression shifted subtly; he thought for a moment, then said slowly:

"Lord Wuzhu is one of the noble 'divine offices' of our Great Wasteland. Only those of pure bloodline, born clever, whose spirit communes with the divine, are qualified to be chosen as Lord Wuzhu."

"Once one becomes Lord Wuzhu, one must cast off one's former birth, bloodline, name, and all worldly ties, and serve the Lord of the Great Wasteland with one's whole heart."

"All Lords Wuzhu, when addressing themselves to outsiders, are called only 'Mr. Wuzhu'."

"Only by steadfast faith, meritorious deeds, and being promoted to Upper Wuzhu will the Divine Lord bestow upon them an exclusive title."

Mo Hua's heart stirred slightly; in a calm tone he asked Elder Zhamu:

"You also know of the Divine Lord?"

"Yes," Elder Zhamu sighed devoutly, "the three thousand tribes of today only revere their own barbarian gods, and do not revere the Divine Lord, do not honor the Divine Lord, do not even know the Divine Lord. This is truly the sin of the Great Wasteland tribes, and the original sin of the ignorance and shallowness of the people of the Great Wasteland…"

Elder Zhamu hated the ignorance of the barbarian tribes, then said with an awed expression:

"The Divine Lord is the Lord of the three thousand Great Wastelands, born from the Endless Abyss, enthroned above the Wasteland Heaven, gazing down upon all living things—the most ancient and most powerful god of the Great Wasteland."

Elder Zhamu's expression grew sorrowful. "It's just that… since the Great Wasteland was defeated by the Dao Court back then, the imperial clan was wiped out, and fortune waned, the Divine Lord's miracles have long ceased to appear in the world, and the Divine Lord's mighty name has gradually faded from the Great Wasteland."

"Once the Divine Lord fell silent, the gods rose one after another. Every tribe gradually came to have its own 'divine,' and these are the three thousand barbarian gods of the Great Wasteland…"

Elder Zhamu recounted everything he knew truthfully.

Mo Hua's gaze sharpened slightly as he fell into thought.

What Elder Zhamu said differed somewhat from the parts he already knew about the origins of the Great Wasteland's Divine Lord.

But legends of the divine were always many and conflicting, with no single accepted truth.

Even among different believers, the image of the Divine Lord in their hearts varied greatly.

This point was not easy to probe further.

But at least one thing, Mo Hua was now more certain of.

That was that the Lord of the Great Wasteland had once been the ruling deity of the Great Wasteland, and afterward something must have happened to Him, causing Him to die, slumber, or fall silent.

Once the Divine Lord fell silent, the divine system of the Great Wasteland fell into complete chaos.

The Great Wasteland of today is an era of three thousand barbarian gods standing together, with parasitic tribes dividing up the faith.

This is a situation of great divine chaos.

Great chaos, and only then comes great order—such has been the case since ancient times.

For him, this was precisely a good opportunity.

Moreover, the "Lord Wuzhu" of the Great Wasteland was indeed a very noble and very useful identity.

Not to mention that a Lord Wuzhu was an apostle who maintained the relationship between man and god, and involved the divine domain—this suited him perfectly.

Mo Hua nodded, and said to Elder Zhamu with a solemn face:

"That's right, I am indeed a 'Lord Wuzhu'."

Elder Zhamu was not surprised; when Mo Hua called himself "Mr. Wuzhu," he had already had this guess in his heart.

And the fact that he could meddle in the affairs of the barbarian gods showed that this "Mr. Wuzhu" before him was no ordinary person.

He just hadn't expected that a Lord Wuzhu could actually grow to look like this.

Moreover, his Dao Court official speech was so standard, as if he had grown up in the nine provinces of the Dao Court from childhood.

Elder Zhamu hesitated for a moment, then asked softly, "May I ask, my lord Lord Wuzhu, what is the purpose of your visit to our Wutu Tribe this time?"

A Lord Wuzhu's status was so noble; he could not possibly have come to their small tribe for no reason.

Since he had come, he must have some scheme in mind.

Mo Hua nodded, his face stern, "I bear upon my shoulders an extremely momentous mission…"

Elder Zhamu was startled.

Mo Hua spoke as if each word weighed a thousand pounds, saying word by word:

"I will… unify the divine path, and restore the glory of the Great Wasteland!"

As if heavenly thunder struck his ears, Elder Zhamu's eyes went wide.

Mo Hua placed his hand on Elder Zhamu's shoulder, "And all of this begins with your Wutu Tribe…"

Elder Zhamu's expression went somewhat blank; a chill crept up from the depths of his heart, and his back was drenched in cold sweat.

He felt that my lord Lord Wuzhu was joking with him.

But a Lord Wuzhu of such noble status and such great ability should not be joking with him.

Unify the divine path?

Restore the glory of the Great Wasteland?

Either one alone was a heaven-defying matter of great import.

Two such heaven-defying matters of great import—what could they possibly have to do with his tiny Wutu Tribe, poor to the point of near starvation?

The relationship between the Wang Hou of the Great Wasteland's upper echelons and his Wutu Tribe was limited to conscripting some young and able-bodied men as cannon fodder during wartime.

Was it the Wutu Tribe's place to take charge of restoring the Great Wasteland?

Not to mention "unifying the divine path."

The path of the divine—what realm of godlike being would one have to be to even consider such a thing?

"Mr… my lord… you…"

Elder Zhamu's voice trembled, tinged with fear.

Mo Hua, however, asked, "How much longer can your tribe endure?"

Elder Zhamu thought of the starving children and the gaunt elders, and his expression fell silent.

Mo Hua looked at Elder Zhamu, his gaze calm, and said slowly:

"Your meaning, Zhamu, is firewood: burning yourself to serve the tribe. You are now old,

indifferent even to your own life and death—what is there left to fear?"

"Obey me. Whatever I tell you to do, you will do."

"In this way, I can ensure the survival of your tribe."

"I also like this child, Xiao Zhatu. I will pass my Dao lineage to him, and give him a future."

"This is already the best outcome."

"Now that war has just begun, calamity will endure, no one knows how many years. Will you die of starvation while waiting endlessly? Or risk everything to fight for a future?"

"The choice is yours, Elder."

Elder Zhamu furrowed his brows, his heart churned with turmoil, unable to decide; after a moment, he raised his head and looked at Mo Hua.

Mo Hua's face was beautiful, unlike that of an ordinary man.

His eyes were calm and profound, filled with the compassion of a deity toward mortals.

Elder Zhamu's gaze trembled, a feeling stirred within him; slowly, he bowed his aged body, performing the great ritual of the Wutu tribe, and said respectfully:

"This old man, Zhamu, and all of Wutu tribe, submit entirely to Lord Wuzhu's command—even death shall not make us regret."

Mo Hua nodded in satisfaction.

He thought for a moment, then said: "Good. Prepare yourselves. We march tomorrow."

Upon hearing this, Elder Zhamu looked bewildered.

Tomorrow… march?

…

After spending a day preparing, the next day, Elder Zhamu assembled all remaining combat strength of the Wutu tribe.

He himself, a Foundation Establishment cultivator at the early stage.

Aside from him, all were Qi Condensation.

More than twenty young barbarian cultivators, with mediocre talent and weak cultivation.

These were originally the tribe's "defective ones."

After all, had they possessed even slightly better talent or higher cultivation, the Wang Ting of the Great Wilderness would have cut them down like chives and sent them to the frontlines as "cannon fodder," leaving none behind.

In addition, there were about ten older children.

And some elderly cultivators, though frail and weak, still possessed considerable experience.

Altogether, they numbered just over forty.

Under the devastation of war and famine, this was all the Wutu tribe could muster—their entire true force of barbarian cultivators capable of battle.

Xiao Zhatu followed behind Mo Hua as his attendant.

Elder Zhamu looked at all the living strength of the Wutu tribe before him, then at his young grandson, and could not help asking Mo Hua:

"Lord Wuzhu… you truly… intend to fight?"

Mo Hua nodded. "Of course we fight."

Elder Zhamu's heart was uneasy.

He himself, an old man, could die without regret—but every single one of these tribesmen who perished would break his heart.

Not to mention his little Zhatu.

But the arrow was already on the string; there was no turning back.

Elder Zhamu sighed inwardly:

"Enough. Either way, death awaits. Starvation is death, battle is death—our fates are tied to one rope. Let this Lord Wuzhu do as he pleases. I only pray he keeps his word, that he truly ensures the survival of Wutu tribe, and protects little Zhatu's life…"

Elder Zhamu hardened his heart, gritted his teeth, and said: "Very well. Then let us fight!"

Seeing his resolute, death-defying expression, Mo Hua sighed slightly and comforted him:

"Don't be nervous. This is only the beginning—it's simple."

And indeed, as Mo Hua had said, it was simple.

The first tribe Mo Hua targeted was the Wotai tribe, which stole food, wealth, people, and even lovers.

This tribe's morals were utterly corrupt.

And it was the closest, so Mo Hua chose it as his first target.

The entire process took little time.

As soon as the three Wotai elders—each at early Foundation Establishment—stepped forward, Mo Hua struck each with a single fireball, crippling one leg.

One of them resisted, so Mo Hua crippled his other leg as well.

Then Elder Zhamu personally delivered the final blow, ending his life.

As a warning to others, the other two Wotai elders immediately knelt and pledged submission.

The rest of the Wotai barbarian cultivators also submitted.

And their barbarian god offered no protection.

For the Wotai tribe's "god" had already been "eaten" by Mo Hua beforehand.

Thus, the neighboring Wotai tribe fell to Mo Hua without the slightest effort.

Elder Zhamu and the others of the Wutu tribe were all stunned.

Especially when they saw Mo Hua's black-red fireballs—unimaginable, swift, brutal, terrifyingly powerful, wreathed in black demonic energy, like the flames of a demon god—that had crippled the three Wotai elders in an instant, they were filled with dread.

"Could this Lord Wuzhu truly be this powerful?"

"His face is so young, yet his strength is so immense—is he a prodigy blessed by the gods, or an ancient demon who has reversed aging?"

Not only Elder Zhamu, but all others of the Wutu tribe held Mo Hua in profound awe.

After taking the Wotai Tribe, Mo Hua did not slaughter indiscriminately.

He merely selected several barbarian cultivators with vile natures who could not be tamed—even if they outwardly submitted, their hearts still churned with malice—and had Elder Zhamu execute them, hanging their corpses on the walls as a warning to all.

Afterwards, Mo Hua drew a portion of the Wotai Tribe's able-bodied barbarian cultivators and continued marching toward the next tribe.

Upon reaching the next tribe, Mo Hua employed the same method.

He used the Fireball Technique to cripple the elder, then

intimidated the other tribe's cultivators.

Fearing Mo Hua's "tyrannical might," they had no choice but to submit.

As usual, he selected a few troublemakers, killed them as an example to others, and distributed meat to soothe their resentment.

After completing all this, Mo Hua drew more men and continued marching toward the next tribe.

Thus, relying on his terrifying Fireball Technique and a combination of mercy and might, wherever Mo Hua went, the many tribes all submitted without resistance, declaring their willingness to pledge allegiance.

In just two days, he conquered six small tribes surrounding Wutu Mountain.

In his spare time, Elder Zhamu, with a hint of doubt, asked Mo Hua:

"Lord Wuzhu, why do you only cripple people with fireballs, yet never kill them?"

With your power, you could have obliterated them outright with a single fireball—why go through the trouble of making this old bone of mine go finish them off?

Mo Hua wore a look of compassion and said:

"I am the Lord Wuzhu of the Great Wilderness, and you are all its subjects. Unless absolutely necessary, I truly do not wish to take lives."

Elder Zhamu froze, deeply shaken, and from that moment, genuine respect and reverence for Mo Hua arose within him.

He possessed the power to kill—and the compassion to spare.

This was truly the character and bearing befitting a noble Lord Wuzhu.

……

After another five days, all tribes within reach around Wutu Mountain had been subdued by Mo Hua in the name of the "Lord Wuzhu."

The only one remaining was the strongest among them: the Wulu Tribe.

At this point, Mo Hua was accompanied by two hundred able-bodied barbarian cultivators drawn from the smaller tribes.

Looking at the territory he had "conquered" and the motley, makeshift "army" of barbarian cultivators behind him,

Mo Hua's face bore solemn authority, yet inwardly he couldn't help but mutter to himself.

He had originally intended to infiltrate the Dao Soldier Office, join the Dao Soldiers marching south into the Great Wilderness, quell the rebellion, earn merit, and secure a future.

But because he saved the great tiger, he had accidentally wandered deep into the Great Wilderness—and all his plans had fallen apart.

Yet what he was doing now—wasn't this also, in another form…

Achieving glory and establishing merit?

(End of Chapter)