Chapter 1169: Lord Wuzhu

Of course, it is still too early to speak of establishing merit and glory.

Mo Hua turned his head and sized up these remnants of barbarian soldiers before him, shaking his head inwardly.

The Great Wilderness rebelled, and the Wang Ting conscripted troops, cutting down the elite barbarian cultivators from the three thousand tribes like ripe wheat.

What was left for him were nothing but inferior, underdeveloped "defective goods" with mediocre aptitude.

Moreover, these two hundred barbarian cultivators came from different tribes, each with distinct customs, beliefs, attire, and even varying heights, builds, and physiques—looking like nothing but a rabble.

He had forcibly gathered them through sheer martial intimidation; their hearts were not united, and they had virtually no capacity for coordinated combat.

As for weapons and armor, they were crude beyond measure.

The barbarian beast-tattoo arrays used in battle were similarly low-grade and scarce—altogether, the total number of barbarian array patterns did not exceed the fingers of Mo Hua's one hand.

There were only three or five Foundation Establishment cultivators, and all were at the early stage.

The rest were all Qi Refinement.

From the perspective of the small tribes of the Great Wilderness, they were somewhat decent—but in Mo Hua's eyes, they were nothing but shrimp soldiers and crab generals.

Yet, when starting a venture, one cannot demand too much.

Many things still needed preparation.

Training troops, forging armor, carving arrays—these would have to be done gradually, step by step.

Mo Hua's next plan was to attack the Wulu Tribe and completely unify the mountain territories of this region.

In the Great Wilderness, there was no concept of "state boundaries"; instead, there were "mountain territories."

Regions were demarcated by natural mountain boundaries to determine their rank.

Within the Nine Provinces, "state boundary" names were fixed and had been used since ancient times.

But in the Great Wilderness, "mountain territory" names could not be fixed.

Originally, whichever tribe was strongest within a mountain territory would lend its name to it.

Yet due to the chaos and turmoil of the Great Wilderness, tribes rose and fell, merged and split frequently, causing the names of "mountain territories" to shift endlessly.

It was even possible that within a few decades, a single mountain territory would change its name dozens of times, creating extreme confusion in reference.

Gradually, no tribe dared to name the "mountain territories" anymore.

The barbarians merely lived in conventionally accepted regions, seeking livelihood nearby, relatively isolated—unless forced by survival, tribes rarely traveled far.

Thus, the concept of "mountain territory" gradually faded.

It was said that previously, when the Dao Court took control of the Great Wilderness, it had attempted to redefine the "state boundaries" across the three thousand mountains to demarcate regions—but met fierce resistance from the barbarians.

Moreover, this effort faced immense difficulties in language, customs, boundary demarcation, and naming, making it utterly unfeasible.

Forcing it would only waste manpower with little benefit, and the barbarians themselves never recognized the Dao Court's divisions; eventually, the matter was abandoned.

All of this was told to Mo Hua by Elder Zhamu.

The Wulu Tribe was the strongest tribe within the mountain territory where Mo Hua now stood.

Mo Hua had previously gone to the Wulu Tribe to "hunt," stealing their barbarian deity, and had formed a deep impression of this tribe.

Warlike, bloodthirsty, cruel, and prone to indiscriminate slaughter.

Moreover, the tribe had a large population—nearly two thousand barbarian cultivators, including three at late Foundation Establishment, and another twenty at early and mid Foundation Establishment.

In this surrounding region, they were indeed a "giant" among powers.

And this was still only the remaining strength of the Wulu Tribe after being conscripted by the Great Wilderness Wang Ting.

Otherwise, the Wulu Tribe's power would have been even greater.

Thus, when Mo Hua revealed his intention to attack the Wulu Tribe, his subordinate barbarian elders naturally opposed him.

Although Mo Hua's status was noble and his cultivation unfathomable, the Wulu Tribe's strength was equally terrifying.

Moreover, the Wulu Tribe was too numerous and bloodthirsty and warlike.

To send these two hundred "rabble" against the Wulu Tribe was tantamount to suicide.

In actual combat, it was uncertain how many would even return alive.

Yet, intimidated by Mo Hua's authority, these subjugated tribal elders dared not openly oppose him—only murmured discouraging words, hoping to dispel this Lord Wuzhu's blind confidence.

Elder Zhamu shared the same concerns and also felt they should not provoke the terrifying Wulu Tribe.

He knew all too well the Wulu Tribe's bloodthirsty cruelty.

But as the first elder to submit to Mo Hua, he remained silent when the others voiced opposition.

Mo Hua's expression remained calm; he deliberately waited until the others had voiced their objections, then asked Elder Zhamu, who had said nothing:

"Elder Zhamu, what is your opinion?"

Elder Zhamu looked at Mo Hua, pondered long, sighed inwardly, then bowed solemnly:

"My Wutu Tribe is willing to face fire and water for Lord Wuzhu, unafraid of death. As for attacking Wulu, it is entirely up to Lord Wuzhu's decision."

Once the bow is drawn, there is no turning back.

Having pledged allegiance to Lord Wuzhu, he must support all of Lord Wuzhu's intentions.

The more others opposed, the more he, as a "supporter," must step forward to back him.

Mo Hua nodded slightly. "Elder Zhamu speaks wisely. Then it is settled—we attack Wulu in three days."

Other tribal elders wished to object.

Mo Hua merely glanced at him indifferently.

These elders immediately trembled all over and dared not speak again.

All could only bow and say: "Yes, Lord Wuzhu."

"We humbly obey Lord Wuzhu's command."

Afterward, the elders dispersed.

Elder Zhamu stayed behind last, glanced at Mo Hua once—but ultimately asked nothing, only bowed respectfully, then turned and left.

That night, the order to attack the Wulu Tribe spread, immediately sparking unrest.

One minor tribe elder, along with a dozen or so barbarian cultivators, deserted as deserters.

They feared the Wulu Tribe.

They also did not wish to follow Mo Hua, this foolish, selfish, arrogant fool who called himself "Lord Wuzhu," to their deaths.

Mo Hua did not hesitate; he ordered Zhong Mingren to seize these deserters, behead them, and hang their heads outside the camp tents as a warning.

Mercy does not command an army.

If he were in the Nine Provinces, he might have been gentler.

But this was the Great Wasteland; barbarian cultivators were inherently savage, and he would not soften in the slightest.

And indeed, these deserters' heads served as a bloody warning; for now, no one dared desert again.

But this also served as a warning to Mo Hua.

Under conditions of divided hearts, leading a force was truly difficult.

Fighting alone, or cooperating with a few smart people and experts, was entirely different from leading a squad of "pig teammates" to accomplish a goal—its difficulty was incomparably greater.

They had only just begun to attack the humble Wulu Tribe, and even before fighting had begun, deserters had appeared.

What would happen if they later attacked larger, stronger tribes?

Would not a single spark of fire cause his entire force to flee in an instant?

Mo Hua frowned slightly.

Though the situation had not yet reached that point, he could not afford to wait until disaster struck.

He must establish authority.

He must consolidate the hearts of his men.

He must cultivate martial strength.

Meanwhile, his own power was still in its "beginning" stage; he must preserve his living forces—these "miscellaneous troops" could not be needlessly sacrificed.

Mo Hua gave further serious thought to the situation of the Wulu Tribe.

Objectively speaking, the Wulu Tribe's strength was indeed formidable, and not easy to confront.

The most difficult issue here was not "killing," but "subduing."

To kill the barbarian cultivators of the Wulu Tribe—even to slaughter the entire tribe—was, for Mo Hua, not difficult at all.

Whether by array techniques, mass slaughter.

Or by spending time, using spells to pick them off one by one—it would not be hard.

After all, the Wulu Tribe's highest-ranked elder was merely at the late Foundation Establishment stage; in Mo Hua's eyes, he was utterly insignificant.

But the problem was, he could not slaughter indiscriminately, or else he would incur the Curse of Fate and risk losing his memory, or being possessed by his Senior Uncle.

Moreover, if he killed everyone in the Wulu Tribe, he would have no manpower left.

This territory would be won in vain.

This would also violate his original intentions.

How to intimidate over two thousand barbarian cultivators without excessive killing became a very thorny problem.

If he failed to intimidate them, he himself would not be in danger, but the cultivators of the Wutu Tribe, Elder Zhamu, and the two hundred barbarian cultivators he had gathered from other minor tribes would surely be slaughtered to the last by the cruel Wulu barbarians.

But he could not leave these two hundred miscellaneous troops behind either.

If he did not take them into battle, if he did not build his authority and cultivate a sense of mutual loyalty, these miscellaneous troops would remain nothing but scattered sand and useless waste.

Without men he had cultivated, he could not build power; all his schemes would be mere empty talk.

After all, he was now a man with "ambition"—to change the status quo and achieve glory.

He was no longer the kind who cared only that he himself not starve, regardless of his family's fate.

Many things, he could not continue to shoulder alone.

Especially if, in the later stages of the campaign, conflict and war with major tribes arose, his personal role would be limited—he would ultimately need his barbarian troops to charge into battle.

Mo Hua sighed softly, then settled his mind and began carefully considering all the matters he would face in the "campaign" against the Wulu Tribe, meticulously deducing possibilities and preparing a thorough plan.

Three days later, the two hundred barbarian cultivators began their march toward the cruel Wulu Tribe.

Every face was as grim as if mourning the death of a parent.

Some even had dull eyes, as if already resigned to death.

Even Elder Zhamu, the most "loyal" to Mo Hua, looked solemn.

Only little Zhatu, who followed behind Mo Hua, held high the Lord Wuzhu's banner, striding proudly with a look of pride.

Ten li from the Wulu Tribe, a thick stench of blood filled the air; along both sides of the road, human heads lay piled, smeared with flesh paste.

Some barbarian cultivators in the ranks collapsed, legs giving out, barely able to walk.

The rest all looked terrified, their faces pale with fear.

One barbarian cultivator, overcome by terror, still attempted to desert—he was seized by Elder Zhamu and speared through.

No one fled again, but the mood within the ranks tightened instantly.

At that moment, Mo Hua's calm, solemn voice echoed in every barbarian cultivator's ears:

"You have answered my summons as Lord Wuzhu, to fight for the Divine Master."

"Even if you die, you shall receive the Divine Master's blessing."

"But if you flee, you shall be deemed a traitor to the Divine Master—after death, you shall be cast into the Great Wasteland's Hell, eternally doomed." Mo Hua's voice carried a kind of magic, radiating an irresistible majesty.

Upon hearing these words, all hearts trembled; they bowed their heads to the ground, daring not to entertain thoughts of escape again.

Mo Hua nodded, then donned his black robe, his expression solemn, his steps firm as he walked ahead of them all.

Seeing this, the two hundred barbarian cultivators tightly followed behind Mo Hua.

Another ten li forward, they arrived before the Wulu Tribe.

Dozens of Ulu tribe barbarian cultivators had sensed the wind's stir and guarded the gate of the village.

Mo Hua pointed his hand, "Attack the gate."

Behind him, the two hundred barbarian cultivators hesitated a moment, then raised their bone knives and bone spears and charged toward the Ulu tribe's gate.

The two sides clashed in chaotic combat, roughly a hundred rounds.

Of the two hundred barbarians, two or three died or were wounded, then they breached the Ulu tribe's main gate and poured into the village.

Inside the village lay a vast square.

In the center stood a blood-red wolf god statue, majestic and terrifying, surrounded by scattered limbs, rotting flesh, and a stench so sharp it burned the nose.

At this moment, the vast majority of Ulu tribe cultivators had gathered in the square.

The three leaders at the front were the Ulu tribe's three strongest Foundation Establishment cultivators.

One was the chieftain; the other two were senior elders.

Behind Mo Hua, the gate of the Ulu village slowly closed.

Seven or eight hundred Ulu barbarians, wielding bloodied blades, surged forward and surrounded Mo Hua and his men on all sides.

Clearly, the Ulu tribe had long known Mo Hua was coming to punish them, so they deliberately let these men in to "close the door and beat the dog."

The atmosphere grew instantly solemn.

The Ulu barbarians wielding bloodied blades were numerous, their eyes glinting with bloodlust.

Yet behind Mo Hua, the barbarians from the other tribes had long lost their courage and loyalty; all wore anxious expressions, their gazes filled with dread.

Only Mo Hua remained as calm as ever.

The Ulu chieftain, tall and broad, his body covered in blood-red tattoos, his brown eyes like those of a beast, stared fixedly at Mo Hua for a moment, then spoke in a hoarse voice:

"You're that damn shaman?"

Mo Hua's expression was reverent. "I am sent by the Divine Master to subdue your Ulu tribe. Kneel and submit now, and spare yourself the torment of damnation."

The Ulu chieftain laughed. "You come to my door with lies and tricks—look at your infantile face, daring to call yourself a Lord Wuzhu, daring to speak the name of the Divine Master? Do you really think the Ulu tribe are fools?"

Mo Hua shook his head, pointing at the Ulu chieftain. "You are not devout."

The Ulu chieftain was about to sneer again when he saw a flicker of flame ignite at Mo Hua's fingertip.

Spiritual energy coalesced like liquid, forming a fireball like molten lava.

Twisting around the fireball were black malevolent energies, sending chills through the soul.

The Ulu chieftain's face darkened instantly. He roared, his blood markings writhing across his body as he transformed into a half-man, half-wolf beast, fangs jutting from his mouth, then lunged at Mo Hua with blinding speed.

His speed was astonishing—but Mo Hua's fireball was faster.

Before the Ulu chieftain could reach Mo Hua, the fireball laced with malevolence struck his shoulder.

The chieftain of the Wulu tribe's face darkened instantly; he roared in fury, his body's blood runes surging as he transformed into a half-man, half-wolf beast, fangs jutting from his mouth, then lunged at Mo Hua with blinding speed.

The Ulu chieftain was blasted back three steps, his shoulder charred black, the wound searing with pain, yet pierced by a cold, clinging dread that made his heart tremble.

The Ulu chieftain's expression turned solemn. He glared at Mo Hua and gritted his teeth. "You—what are you?"

Mo Hua remained calm. "I am the Lord Wuzhu, sent by the Divine Master to spread the Divine Dao, to proclaim Heaven's will and redeem the Great Wasteland."

The Ulu chieftain was shaken, unsure whether Mo Hua spoke truth or lie.

At that moment, another senior elder of Foundation Establishment rank spoke to the Ulu chieftain: "This boy falsely claims divine mandate—he deserves ten thousand deaths."

"If he were truly a Lord Wuzhu, he would be of noble status. How could he come with only these third-rate rabble?"

Another Ulu elder added: "Chieftain, kill them all. Chop their bones, peel their skin, grind them into paste, and offer them to Ulu God."

"Our Ulu tribe has its own god. We need no Divine Master."

The Ulu chieftain nodded, his eyes brimming with murderous intent.

Even his gaze at Mo Hua held a glint of hunger.

He had eaten men before. Seeing Mo Hua's pale, tender skin, he could not help but crave him, thinking:

I wonder what this self-proclaimed "Lord Wuzhu" would taste like.

Mo Hua's gaze turned icy.

At that very moment, the other Ulu barbarians, unable to contain themselves, surged forward and attacked the two hundred barbarians behind Mo Hua.

They were born killers, bloodthirsty by nature; once the killing urge rose, they could not hold back.

The Ulu chieftain and the two elders exchanged glances.

Then the Ulu chieftain, the two senior elders, and seven or eight other ordinary Foundation Establishment elders all charged toward Mo Hua.

Mo Hua fought them all with his swift Five Elements spells.

At the same time, he turned to see Elder Zhamu and the two hundred barbarians being overwhelmed by the vicious Ulu tribesmen, gasping for breath, likely to die soon—and then collapse entirely, slaughtered beneath Ulu's bloodied blades.

"Indeed, it still isn't enough—"

But this was within Mo Hua's expectations.

Letting these two hundred barbarians face mortal peril together, letting them feel the weight of fighting side by side—that was enough.

For now, he could ask for no more.

At the same time, he turned to look and saw Elder Zhamu and two hundred barbarian cultivators being viciously surrounded by Wulu tribesmen, beaten until they could barely breathe; it was clear that within moments, someone would die, and then they would collapse entirely, all slain beneath the Wulu tribe's bloodied blades.

Mo Hua no longer held back.

The Ulu chieftain and several elders, locked in combat with Mo Hua's spells, grew more and more alarmed with every strike.

Let these two hundred barbarian cultivators face a joint life-or-death crisis and experience fighting side by side—that's enough.

There's no solution for now; hope for more.

"For now, we still have to rely on ourselves—"

Mo Hua no longer held back.

The chieftain of the Wulu tribe and several elders were locked in combat with Mo Hua's spells, growing more alarmed with every strike.

With his own strength alone, he used magic to stand on equal footing with the chieftain and elders of the Wulu tribe, neither side superior to the other.

Such mastery of Daoist arts could not possibly come from an ordinary Da Huang tribe.

This boy who calls himself Lord Wuzhu is certainly no ordinary figure.

"Seize this little intruder, use the bone-scraping knife to extract his essence, and interrogate him about his origins. If he truly is Lord Wuzhu, seize his Horse-Bearing; if not, kill him and cook him for food," the Wulu chieftain barked.

"Yes!"

The three top-tier Foundation Establishment late-stage warriors of the Wulu tribe unleashed their full barbaric strength, rushing to surround and kill Mo Hua.

But in the next instant, as Mo Hua's gaze hardened, all spiritual energy around him erupted.

The Wulu chieftain and the two elders were instantly suppressed by magic that was faster, more precise, and far more violent.

Spells came in relentless succession, shifting endlessly, overwhelming them until they could barely breathe.

"This is bad—this little intruder's witchcraft is strange—"

One elder's face changed color.

"We can't hold out!"

"Quick! Use the Blood God Spell!" the Wulu chieftain decided instantly.

As soon as he spoke, he leapt back, creating distance, bit his finger, and drew a blood-wolf mark on his forehead.

The blood seeped into his soul sea; his eyes gradually turned blood-red, and a savage aura rose around him, as if only killing could quench his rage.

The other two elders did the same: their body hair grew longer, and blood-colored wolf shadows flickered faintly in their eyes.

After activating the Blood God Spell, the three roared in unison.

A ripple, invisible to the naked eye and existing only on the level of spiritual perception, instantly spread outward.

All Wulu cultivators seemed stirred by it; their foreheads were shrouded in blood-red hues, and murderous intent surged like wildfire.

Elder Zhamu and the others were engulfed by the Wulu tribe's bloody aura, feeling an overwhelming, despairing murderous intent that chilled their hearts.

Elder Zhamu's heart grew bitter: "Could it be… that I die before even achieving victory?"

Seeing this, Mo Hua's expression barely changed; he thought within:

"Using spiritual perception to stir up morale—no, to stir up murderous intent?"

"Interesting—"

But this made things simpler.

Mo Hua's eyes glowed with Jin Guang as he gazed at the Wulu chieftain, pointed with two fingers, and murmured:

"Break!"

A Shocking Spirit Sword shot forth immediately.

The Wulu chieftain was just about to amplify his blood qi with his inner murderous intent and slaughter all around him.

But in the next instant, as Mo Hua looked at him, a beam of golden light pierced his eyes, imprisoning his soul in a sword prison, filling him with terror.

His prized Blood God Spell, the moment it was cast, was instantly shattered.

And once the Blood God Spell broke, all Wulu cultivators were forced to exit the "Blood God's Blessing" state, suffering varying degrees of backlash, their faces turning pale.

The Wulu chieftain spat out a mouthful of blood, and a crack appeared on his forehead.

This had never happened before.

The blessing of the barbarian god could not be broken.

All Wulu barbarian cultivators were filled with panic.

The Wulu chieftain stared at Mo Hua in utter disbelief:

"You—who are you?"

Mo Hua's voice was cold: "Submit, or die."

The Wulu chieftain's face twisted; after a moment, he sneered:

"You may have broken my Blood God Spell—you have some ability. But you may not know that our Wulu tribe's barbarian god is a ferocious deity. As long as the barbarian god is present, our Wulu tribe—"

Mo Hua said calmly: "Can you guess why I was able to break your Blood God Spell?"

The Wulu chieftain seemed to realize something; his face changed slightly.

Mo Hua sneered, then pointed at the statue in the center of the square and ordered:

"Kneel!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the knees of the Wulu tribe's blood-wolf god statue shattered in unison.

The massive statue crashed down with a thunderous roar, as if kneeling, falling before Mo Hua.

Mo Hua stood atop the head of the Wulu barbarian god statue, looking down with solemn authority:

"I am sent by the Divine Master to proclaim the will of the Great Heaven, to civilize the Great Wilderness. Three thousand minor barbarian gods have all submitted. Your tribe is no exception. If you defy this, you shall be punished by divine retribution, never to be reborn!"

The divine statue fell; the barbarian god knelt.

This sight was horrifying, instantly shattering the Wulu barbarian cultivators' will to resist.

The Wulu chieftain, eyes filled with terror, slowly knelt, performing the great barbarian salute, and said:

"Your humble subject Wucha pays homage to Lord Wuzhu. May Lord Wuzhu's sacred body be ever well."

The other Wulu elders, and all cultivators, also slowly knelt before Mo Hua, crying out:

"We pay homage to Lord Wuzhu."

Even Elder Zhamu and the two hundred barbarian cultivators could not help but be shaken, involuntarily kneeling before Mo Hua and crying out:

"Lord Wuzhu."

Mo Hua stood atop the head of the Wulu barbarian god statue, expressionless, appearing from afar like a divine emissary, receiving the worship of the masses.

Thus, the entire mountain region from Wu Tu Mountain to Wulu Mountain was unified.

All surviving tribes were now brought under Mo Hua's command under the name of "Lord Wuzhu" of the Great Wilderness.

Mo Hua personally named this mountain realm "Wu Tu Mountain Realm."

This was the first mountain realm Mo Hua named.

It was also the first piece of the puzzle in Mo Hua's Great Wilderness map.