The Quest for Immortality - Chapter 1158 (Patreon)

Chapter 1158: Wutu Tribe

The barbarian elder stood there like a stone statue, stunned on the spot. With all the experience of his lifetime, he still had no idea what had just happened.

In that blinding gold light, he seemed to see the fearless, invincible tribal god torn apart bare-handed by some… juvenile—he didn’t even know what to call that monster—then swallowed into its belly.

Even if Mount Wutu erupted, it wouldn’t be more shocking than this.

The elder began to tremble all over. With dread in his heart, he opened his clouded eyes wide, wanting to look upon that unknowable presence in the ball of gold.

But the moment the Savage God died, the dream shattered.

The stone temple and the altar around him began to twist.

When everything settled, the elder opened his eyes and found himself still kneeling in the cave, before that crude, rough offering table.

The blood lines under his knees hadn’t dried yet. In front of him was a bare stone wall.

The mountain’s heat, the low cries of birds and beasts, the cave’s musty chill—one by one they returned to his flesh and senses.

The elder only felt that he’d had a dream.

In the dream, he had mustered his courage and fought the Savage God with all his might, yet no matter what he used, he could not harm it.

Just then, the Divine Lord descended from the heavens and casually slew the Savage God.

Night after night in years past, he had hoped for this without cease; sometimes he even had dreams just like this.

But he knew it was illogical.

It was only his own delusion.

The fantasy of the powerless, longing for a god to deliver them from suffering and despair.

“So now… am I dreaming? Or is this real? If it’s real, then should I… still offer little Zatu to the revered Savage God…”

The elder could no longer tell dream from reality.

Just then, a sharp pain tore through his consciousness.

It was as if someone had ripped an arm from his mind and split open his chest; the agony of ten thousand needles drove deep into his sea of awareness.

He shivered, his back drenched in cold sweat.

He didn’t know what to do, when a clear, slightly magnetic voice sounded by his ear:

“Steady your mind and meditate. Curb yourself and guard your heart. All outward signs are but empty thoughts; all pain is only the heart’s delusion.”

The words were crisp and distinct—not the voice of a barbarian cultivator.

Yet within that voice there seemed to be a power, clear as spring water, that washed the mind clean.

By instinct, the elder followed the guidance, calmed himself, cast off the pain, and held firm to his core.

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

The split of spirit from depletion also halted.

He slowly raised his head—and at some unknown point, a mysterious youth was standing before him.

He found it hard to describe the feeling this youth gave him.

His robe was plain and dust-worn, yet his gaze was bright; in his eyes were compassionate kindness, a depth that saw through people, and a dignity that brooked no offense.

His features were fair as jade, bearing both a man’s resolve and a woman’s grace—elegant like one of the heavens.

He simply stood there naturally, yet seemed to echo the breath of the earth and connect with the fortune of the sky.

In the elder’s heart, an involuntary thought rose: “If the Divine Lord walked the mortal world, he would surely look like this…”

Startled, he then suddenly remembered.

The image of the Savage God being torn apart floated up again.

He didn’t know if the Savage God had truly died, or if it had anything to do with this mysterious youth.

But he knew that whether it was related or not, this unfathomable youth before him was not someone he could offend.

The elder immediately bowed his head and bent at the waist, giving Mo Hua a deep bow. “This old one, Zhamu, greets… Senior.”

He did not know how old Mo Hua was, but he dared not presume.

The Dao has no first or last; the accomplished are revered.

Between strangers without ties, when you meet a cultivator on a higher path, no matter their appearance, lowering yourself and addressing them as “Senior” is never wrong.

Mo Hua’s impression of the elder improved a little more.

Whether it was for his grandson or for his tribe, to risk his life against a “Savage God” with only a cultivator’s body showed his character and courage.

“Your name is Zhamu?” Mo Hua asked.

It was the clear voice of a youth, sounding very young.

But the elder dared not slacken in the least. He cupped his hands. “Yes.”

“Are you a clan elder?”

“Yes. This old one is an elder of Mount Wutu’s Wutu Tribe.”

Wutu?

Mo Hua didn’t quite follow.

Then he recalled that the Great Wilderness used different script from the Dao Court’s; “Wutu” was probably a barbarian word that had been carried over by direct transliteration when the Dao Court unified the writing.

The elder’s name “Zhamu” likely was as well.

“Then let me ask you,” Mo Hua’s eyes sank slightly, “what place is this? Where in the Great Wilderness is it? How far from the Nine Provinces?”

The elder froze.

He hadn’t expected this mysterious youth to ask such “basic” questions.

Did he come here himself not knowing where this was? Or… had he really fallen from the sky?

After a moment’s thought, he did not dare to hide anything. “In reply to Senior, this is the Wutu Mountain Range, south of the vast Great Wilderness and west of the Endless Abyss, one of the three thousand territories of the Great Wilderness. As for how far from the Nine Provinces…”

He gave a bitter smile. “This old one has never left Mount Wutu his whole life, and knows not how wide the world beyond truly is.”

“I’ve only heard elders of the tribe say the Nine Provinces lie in the ‘extreme north.’ It’s unknown how many tens of thousands of li from here—deserts stretching on, seas of sand boundless—hard to cross in one lifetime…”

Mo Hua grew solemn.

He didn’t know exactly where Mount Wutu was, but he’d heard of the three thousand territories of the Great Wilderness.

This was in the southern reaches of the Wilderness, close to the barbarians’ heartland—truly the barbarian “home turf.”

He felt a flash of helplessness.

He, a Dao Soldier of the Dao Soldiers Bureau, had originally been marching with the army to quell a rebellion.

In the end, before the war even began and without earning a single merit, this big dumb tiger had muddle-headedly brought him to the barbarians’ rear lines.

That truly threw the plan into chaos.

Mo Hua frowned, lost in thought.

Head lowered, the elder stood respectfully, not daring to read Mo Hua’s face, not daring to move.

After a while, the child lying on the ground murmured, his face pale.

Anxious, the elder could no longer mind anything else and hurried to check his grandson’s condition.

He felt the boy’s forehead, took his pulse, even fed him a few pills, but nothing worked.

With no choice, he looked up at Mo Hua, pleading all over his face.

Mo Hua moved his divine sense, took out a pill, and handed it over.

The elder received it with both hands, hesitated, still uneasy; in the end he gritted his teeth and fed it into the child’s mouth.

Once the pill went down, the boy’s complexion genuinely improved.

Overjoyed, the elder bowed deeply to Mo Hua in thanks. “Many thanks, Senior, for bestowing this immortal medicine.”

Mo Hua sighed inwardly.

Immortal medicine? Hardly. It was just a common pill to steady the foundation, nourish qi and replenish blood—simply of better quality, being from the Great Void Sect.

The child had gone hungry too long, his blood and qi depleted, his body harmed.

His soul had just been hooked; after returning, his spirit and flesh were out of tune, which was why he couldn’t wake.

“Take him back and let him sleep awhile. Rest and nurse his spirit,” Mo Hua instructed.

“Yes, yes,” the elder replied at once.

He hefted the boy onto his back, glanced at Mo Hua, and seemed as if he wanted to speak but held back.

Mo Hua said, “Return to your tribe for now. I still have things to ask you later.”

The elder didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried. He saluted respectfully. “This old one awaits Senior’s honored visit at the Wutu Tribe.”

With that, he carried his grandson and slowly made his way down the mountain.

Watching the old figure go, Mo Hua recalled how the elder had said that in this life only this little grandson remained of his kin, and he couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotion.

Then Mo Hua turned to the stone wall.

This so-called “Savage God” hadn’t been much in strength, but its method of hiding was indeed exquisite—like a loach burrowing into mud, leaving no trace.

When there’s time, he really should study how to catch “loaches.”

On the road of divine sense, it’s best to be self-reliant; only then do you get a full meal.

A pity the “Savage God” had been too “skinny”—one bite and it was gone; he couldn’t even taste it.

Still, his divine sense had indeed strengthened a little.

That at least pleased Mo Hua.

“Hopefully one day I can have a real feast—eat my fill…”

He made a silent wish in his heart.

After that, he left the deep mountains, followed the same path down, and found the big tiger.

As expected, the big tiger was still sprawled where he’d left it, both forepaws covering the storage pouch, waiting listlessly for Mo Hua.

Only when Mo Hua appeared did the tiger swish its tail, stand up happily, and “awoo” at him a few times.

Mo Hua smiled gently and couldn’t help rubbing its head. Then a thought struck him:

He couldn’t keep calling it “big tiger.”

It had been with him for so long; it deserved a name.

But what should he call it?

He fell into contemplation.

“Big Black?”

Not great… its coat had black stripes and white ones…

“Big White?”

…No, “Big White” was the big white horse at First Senior Brother’s home—he couldn’t reuse that.

“Big Sturdy? A mighty tiger, strong and sturdy…”

No, a bit tacky…

“Big Tiger?”

Nope, already taken.

…

Mo Hua furrowed his brows, thought for a long time, and still wasn’t satisfied.

Names were really hard.

Picking a name was more exhausting than drafting ten array diagrams.

He could only give up for now and leave it for later when something fitting came to mind.

He put the storage pouch back under the big tiger’s paws and said,

“I’ve got something to do. Watch the pouch for me and wait till I get back.”

The tiger was a little unhappy, but still took the pouch and held it with its paws.

After a while, it pushed the pouch back to Mo Hua—whether because it trusted him now, or because it feared he’d be in danger without it.

In its experience, a storage pouch was a cultivator’s lifeline.

Mo Hua was a bit surprised.

This big tiger was quite “sensible.”

He laughed. “All right, I’ll keep the pouch. You play in the mountains, catch a few demonic beasts—I’ll roast them for you when I return.”

The tiger was overjoyed, gave an “awoo,” and bobbed its big head up and down.

Mo Hua scratched its mane and left.

The tiger was too big and too fierce. It didn’t matter out in the wilds, but entering a cultivator’s or barbarian’s territory would be far too conspicuous.

He could only leave it free-range in the mountains for now.

After leaving the tiger, Mo Hua followed the mountain path to the elder’s Wutu Tribe.

It wasn’t far—about twenty li.

Tracking the elder’s qi, he reached the outskirts of a tribe before long.

Outside the tribe hung a totem, earthy red, with the shapes of a mountain and of fire—together resembling a small volcano.

Inside were tents large and small.

The tents were patched from the hides of worn demonic beasts and coarse hemp.

Everything within bore the style of the Great Wilderness.

But rather than a tribe, it was more like a mountain hamlet—poor and destitute.

There weren’t many people—five or six hundred at most. Most were elderly, weak, sick, or disabled; few were in their prime.

Crude palisades ringed the tribe.

There were rough array patterns scrawled on the posts to ward off demonic beasts and enemies.

To Mo Hua, they were as good as not there.

Concealing himself, he slipped into the settlement and, in the largest tent, sensed the aura of the elder named Zhamu.

Like a ghost, he entered without a sound.

The tent was rather spacious but sparsely furnished.

Elder Zhamu was anxiously tending to his grandson.

“A few days of rest and he’ll be fine,” Mo Hua said lightly.

Startled, Elder Zhamu looked back and saw the mysterious youth already seated in a chair inside, leafing through some barbarian script on the table.

Suppressing his unease and fear, Zhamu bowed. “I greet Senior.”

Being called “Senior” by someone older than himself felt odd to Mo Hua.

But away from home, one mustn’t reveal too much.

The more “misunderstandings” others had about him, the better.

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

Expression calm, Mo Hua pointed at the stone stool opposite. “Sit.”

Zhamu sat obediently, still ill at ease.

Mo Hua glanced at him. “You needn’t worry too much about your grandson. It’s you whose divine sense is badly injured.”

“Injuries to divine sense aren’t like wounds of flesh. They may not show plainly day to day, but the stabbing pains will come and go, without shape or trace, and are nearly impossible to heal.”

Zhamu bowed. “Thank you for the warning, Senior. But I am already rotten wood—whether I live or die, I have few attachments left.”

Mo Hua nodded, then asked, “What is a Savage God?”

Zhamu’s heart shook. After a moment he answered slowly, “A Savage God… is the deity our barbarian clans worship.”

“A true deity?” Mo Hua asked.

Zhamu struggled for words. “Hidden and formless, with unfathomable might—if it can help our people multiply, survive, and resist foes, it can be called a ‘god.’ Since it is the god of our barbarians, we call it a ‘Savage God.’”

Mo Hua inclined his head slightly—he understood.

These clans didn’t really know anything.

So long as it was some existence of divine sense that could help them—be it demon, ghost, devil, or monster—they would enshrine it as a deity.

Whether it was truly a “god,” they didn’t understand—or need to understand.

Even if such a “god” demanded their children for food, it didn’t matter.

Of course, they also had no choice.

Even some mountain spirits, ghosts, and baleful fiends aren’t something ordinary cultivators can handle.

This Elder Zhamu had learned a bit of shamanic art and methods of the mind—he was, frankly, already quite strong. But if he truly faced that Savage God, he had no chance at all.

Even if that Savage God was merely a mountain spirit of unknown origin.

Zhamu glanced at Mo Hua. He didn’t dare ask, yet the worry in his heart forced him to. In the end, he gathered himself and said softly:

“Senior, about the honored Wutu God…”

“What?” Mo Hua blinked.

The elder spoke with the barbarian accent, and Mo Hua didn’t catch it at first.

Zhamu repeated, “The Wutu God…”

He added, “It is the Savage God our Wutu people worship—sharp-faced, clawed, a towering body. The place where we met was the temple gate where we offer tribute to the Wutu God…”

“Oh,” Mo Hua said.

So the “Savage God” he’d punched to death had a name.

He had killed it without even knowing what to call it.

Zhamu’s clouded eyes watched Mo Hua with a hidden hope, longing to hear what he wished to hear—but also fearing a different truth.

The tribe and its god are a unity of opposites.

If a god shelters the tribe, it thrives.

If a god is greedy without end, the tribe must decline.

The Wutu God by now was clearly an “evil god.” If his “dream” was false and the Wutu God still existed, one day it would descend wrath upon them, and the Wutu Tribe would have only a dead end.

He had to make sure, or calamity would surely come.

Mo Hua didn’t really want to say it.

Killing and eating a Savage God was the sort of thing best kept low-key.

But seeing the elder’s furrowed brow and the fear gnawing at him, Mo Hua fell silent.

To him, it was a small matter.

If the elder didn’t get an answer, he might live the rest of his years in dread.

After a moment’s thought, Mo Hua said simply:

“You needn’t offer sacrifices to your Wutu God anymore.”

Zhamu stared.

“It can’t eat offerings now,” Mo Hua added.

Because I ate it.

Zhamu’s whole body shook; hope lit his aged eyes.

He prostrated to Mo Hua. “The Wutu Tribe will never forget Senior’s great kindness.”

“I did nothing,” Mo Hua said evenly.

At that, Zhamu stiffened inwardly and replied solemnly, “This old one understands.”

Mo Hua nodded, satisfied with the elder’s tact. Then a question occurred to him. “The Wutu God… Do the Savage Gods here all have their own names?”

Zhamu nodded. “Usually named after mountains and rivers… In most cases, after the tribe itself.”

“How many tribes are there in your Great Wilderness?” Mo Hua asked.

“By ancient telling, the Great Wilderness has three thousand great mountains and three thousand clans.”

“Three thousand!” Mo Hua was startled. “Then wouldn’t there also be three thousand Savage Gods?”

Zhamu faltered, not understanding why this calm, unfathomable “Senior” suddenly grew excited.

“The three thousand is not an exact count,” he explained. “It waxes and wanes with the clans’ fortunes—sometimes more, sometimes fewer—but roughly about that…”

Before he finished, Mo Hua said, “Do me a favor…”

He took out brush and paper and handed them to the bewildered elder. “Write down the Savage Gods you know—their names, families, addresses, and how they’re worshiped…”

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