Chapter 75

At dawn, the sky over the grassland still lay steeped in a mysterious blue-black hue, the sun yet unbroken from the horizon’s grasp. Suddenly, a rapid clatter of hooves shattered the silence, jolting the people of the Buluhui tribe from sleep. The tribe’s nak’er rode swift, sturdy horses, clanging gongs and drums while shouting with powerful voices: “The chief’s order: a shaman has arrived today. All herders must report to the chief’s tent tonight to meet the shaman.”

The forceful cries roused the still-sleeping herders; all who heard the news felt a mix of joy, dread, and confusion.

With the Buluhui tribe’s size, they could never afford a shaman. On this grassland, where superstition ran deep, the shaman’s words were the will of the gods—only with the shaman’s backing could the khan claim the throne of the tribal alliance in the gods’ name.

But weren’t shamans always chosen by the strongest tribes? Why choose theirs?

In truth, every nomadic tribe wished for a shaman among them; after all, a shaman who merely pretended to divine powers yet brought no tangible benefit could never hold such high status.

In a sense, shamans were the most learned among nomadic tribes—they could roughly predict weather during migrations and heal both people and livestock when illness struck.

But precisely because of this, the tribe had to offer the shaman heavy tributes—most tribes simply could not bear the cost.

Since the grassland was vast and households lay far from the main tent, and not every family owned a horse, by the time everyone arrived, night had fallen.

As darkness settled, torches across the tribe glowed like scattered stars, gradually converging into a brilliant sea of light. These flaming torches swayed in the night wind, illuminating the once-dark sky as bright as day.

Buluhui Wuge, stout and solemn, introduced Nie Huaishang and Guo Jing to the herders below: “My people, from today, these two are our tribe’s shamans. You all know shamans represent the will of Eternal Heaven—that their words are the gods’ own. Henceforth, none of you shall defy them, or the entire Buluhui tribe shall bear the gods’ wrath.”

No sooner had Buluhai Wuge finished than the entire tribe erupted in uproar. They could barely afford one shaman’s tribute—how could they possibly bear two? They’d have to be flayed and sold in pieces.

But could common herders dare refuse a shaman’s command? Dare they defy the will of Eternal Heaven?

Under the tense gaze of the crowd, Guo Jing stepped forward and spoke: “The chief has just introduced me. Let me say a few words and announce a few matters.”

Hearing this, everyone grew even more anxious. From past experience, shamans used the gods’ name to demand money, cattle, sheep, women, and slaves.

“Two days ago, Eternal Heaven appeared to me in a dream. He told me that human sacrifice harms his people, and slavery shames their dignity. Henceforth, human sacrifice is forbidden. All slaves in the tribe shall be freed and granted liberty.”

At these words, the herders stared at Guo Jing on the platform in disbelief. It was precisely because of the cruelty of human sacrifice that herders and slaves alike feared shamans, terrified of offending them with a wrong word or deed. Slaves were vital property to the herders.

Had the wolves on the grassland suddenly stopped eating meat and taken to grazing? Before they could recover from their shock, the exhausted slaves were led out from the dim horse pens by the nak’er. The air thickened with the heavy stench of horse dung and damp earth—but this did not slow their swift movements; they were long accustomed to such scenes.

The nak’er raised heavy stones and smashed them down upon the thick wooden shackles binding the slaves. Each blow rang with a crisp crack—the shackles shattered under the force, wood splinters flying as if cheering the slaves’ liberation.

As the shackles broke, the slaves’ burdens eased. Their faces, long hardened by oppression, now showed a long-forgotten ease and freedom. In that moment, they felt as if they had torn free from crushing chains, regaining the right to breathe and walk.

Countless slaves gazed up at Guo Jing on the platform. They knew this man had given them freedom. They knelt down, bowing their heads, pleading and thanking him.

“Thank you, Great Shaman! Thank you for freeing me from slavery!”

“Thank you, Great Shaman, for abolishing human sacrifice and saving our lives!”

“Great Shaman, you are a rare good man—may I become your slave? I work hard!”

Watching the crowd bowing and kneeling before him in gratitude, Guo Jing felt a fire of rage burning within him. He could not understand why anyone would feel joy, pride, or superiority when forcing others to kneel and bow before them.

We are all two arms and one head—why must we be ranked by rank and status? Why must one elevate oneself by trampling another’s dignity?

He had no time to ponder this now—he was utterly enraged.

“Stand up. Do not kneel.”

Guo Jing raised his palms toward the sky and unleashed three palm thunderbolts. The deafening thunder shook every inch of earth and sky; blinding lightning tore through the black night, like countless silver dragons dancing.

The slaves who had been bowing now stood perfectly upright. No—strictly speaking, every single herder in the tribe now stood perfectly upright.

Seeing the upright figures before him, Guo Jing nodded in satisfaction: “That’s better. From today, no one in this tribe shall kneel.”

Watching Guo Jing, satisfied, the herders whispered among themselves: “This new shaman is truly strange. But the fact he can summon lightning proves he truly speaks for the gods—and besides, he’s a good man. Following him won’t hurt us.”

Meanwhile, the nobles of the Buluhui Tatar tribe collapsed to the ground. Due to their status, they knew shamans were often frauds—charlatans who pretended to divine powers.

They might have real skills, but they certainly didn’t represent the gods’ will. Yet what they had just witnessed—the palm thunder—had shaken them to their core.

Could anyone control lightning—the punishment of Eternal Heaven? Only a true emissary of Eternal Heaven could wield such power. Had the gods sent this punishment because they had abused and slaughtered his people? Was this shaman sent to punish them, the slave-masters?

Their terror made them collapse involuntarily. In that moment, to the Buluhui family, Guo Jing was no longer a man—he was the emissary of Eternal Heaven, bearing divine mandate, wielding sacred authority, a god ruling over mortals.

His image in their hearts rose infinitely—mysterious, awe-inspiring—as if every step he took carried the will of heaven and earth, capable of shaping the fate of the world.