The Quest for Immortality - Chapter 1160 (Patreon)

Chapter 1160: Fire

Only a hair’s breadth away—twenty-two-pattern divine sense. This pace was more than respectable.

It even exceeded Mo Hua’s expectations a little.

He had thought these “Savage Gods” were all just “little gods,” scarcely worthy of the word “divinity.” No divine marrow, true bodies nothing more than mountain fiends, ghosts, and minor demons of unimpressive rank.

Among them, the strongest were the Wulu clan’s gods—merely second-grade at the peak, short of third-grade.

Yet, despite their shallow cultivation, the “meat” of these Savage Gods turned out to be surprisingly plump.

After some thought, Mo Hua understood.

Though their bodies were only born of mountain spirits and oddities, they nevertheless carried a faint sliver of divine status. They had tasted incense offerings, enjoyed the worship of followers, and formed an embryonic path of godhood. Compared to common baleful beings, their quality was far superior.

Devouring them greatly nourished his divine sense.

Low cultivation, easy to hunt, and a potent tonic once eaten.

These Savage Gods of the Great Wilderness were, without question, “delicacies” among dishes for divine sense.

Mo Hua felt deeply that the Great Wilderness was a good place—his blessed land.

Only, he would, from time to time, get that “shallow waters breed many turtles—any chicken or cur dog can call itself a god” kind of feeling.

Then, thinking it over again, he decided that comparison wasn’t quite fair.

His situation was… special.

How could these native-born “Savage Gods” be compared to someone like him—a half-god forged through divine-sense attainment and divine-thought transformation; wielder of the God-Slaying Sword; walking the Heavenly Demon Dao; versed in heavenly mechanism calculation and eerie counter-calculation; one who had consumed divine marrow, endured the Wild Heaven Blood sacrifice, swallowed hordes of demons and fiends, and even captured the Divine Embryo of an evil god alive?

Whether in the foundation of divine sense, the cultivation of divine thought, the experience of slaughter, or the weight of inheritances, they were on entirely different levels.

If it weren’t him, switch in any other cultivator—even a Golden Core—once they entered the heart of these Three Thousand Mountains, faced with “Savage Gods” everywhere that were formless and insidious, they would likely fall into a god’s scheme without even knowing it and end up as bones on an altar.

“It isn’t that the Savage Gods of the Great Wilderness are too weak—it’s that I am too strong.”

“Can’t blame them…”

In his heart, Mo Hua silently restored some dignity to those gods.

Since he was only a thread away from twenty-two patterns, his motivation surged.

He accelerated the pace of his “barbarian-god hunt.”

All of it was done in the dark.

Many tribes never even realized the “divinity” they worshiped had already been slaughtered—and eaten—by Mo Hua.

But the more he killed, the fewer there were left to kill.

On Elder Zhamu’s list, most of the Savage Gods’ names were crossed out.

After all, no matter how many gods the Great Wilderness held, they could not withstand a “calamity star” like Mo Hua reaping them like wheat.

And Elder Zhamu was only an elder of a small tribe.

He seldom traveled far. The gods he knew were confined to the lands around Wutu Mountain, and their number was limited.

Those he could kill, should kill, and easily kill—Mo Hua killed them all and ate them.

The ones that remained weren’t exactly evil; they genuinely fulfilled a god’s duty—careful, conscientious guardians who sheltered their tribes with timely wind and rain.

Mo Hua felt embarrassed to eat such gods. He glanced once and moved on.

There were also some gods that were neither clearly good nor clearly bad, but very alert and quick to hide—buried so deep they were hard to kill.

Mo Hua squatted in their tribes for a long while without catching a single slip.

Later, eavesdropping on elders talking, he learned those gods had sent them dreams, warning them not to perform sacrifices.

Offerings were not to be set out, and worship was forbidden. From then on they were to act as if the tribe had no god at all—only thus could they dodge unseen disaster and avert an unknown calamity.

For these “frightened birds,” “turtles in their shells,” Mo Hua could do nothing.

Time was precious. He couldn’t give up a whole forest for one or two lone trees, so he let them be.

Heaven cherishes life.

Any god he could readily encounter was, by and large, one that deserved death—those who had already set their feet on the road to ruin.

Those he could not encounter meant their allotted fate had not yet run out; their karmic thread could not be severed by force.

In a sense, he was also moving with the Heavenly Dao, abiding by cause and effect.

Mo Hua’s thoughts on heavenly mechanism and karma grew more and more at ease.

But with fewer Savage Gods to supplement him, his advance in divine sense had to slow again.

Mo Hua could only consider enlarging his ambition—pushing beyond Wutu Mountain to hunt the gods outside.

Doing so, however, required careful preparation.

According to Elder Zhamu, beyond Wutu Mountain lay many “great tribes.”

In those, Golden Core cultivators were numerous. There might even exist, as the legends said, lords in the Yuhua (Ascension) realm, and dragon kings who stood above tens of thousands.

Those were existences Mo Hua could not provoke—at least for now.

Here in the Three Thousand Mountains of the Great Wilderness, his connections were even thinner than in Desert City.

In Desert City, he had at least the Dao Soldiers Office’s Yang family.

But in the heart of the Wilderness, he was truly alone—no backers, no mountain to lean on.

If anything went wrong, there would be no one to catch him.

He had no base, either.

In Immortal-Passage City, though there were no high-level cultivators, his reputation among the “common cultivators” was high. He was well-liked, popular, and widely supported.

The Dao Court Office of the city, the small clans and sects, the loose cultivators, monster hunters, artifact refiners, array masters… they were all of one mind with him.

Whatever he wanted to do, hands would rise in support.

But in the Great Wilderness, he truly had nothing.

The only thing he had was the “big tiger” he relied on.

Therefore, in all things he needed to be more cautious.

At the very least, he had to feel out the lay of the land—learn the situation of the gods beyond Wutu Mountain—before making a move.

Best would be to obtain another “Elder Zhamu’s list.” That would cut the work in half.

This matter had to be planned long and well.

Before preparations were complete, Mo Hua’s task was to sweep Wutu Mountain and the neighboring ranges once more—make a second pass through the tribes to see if any fish had slipped the net.

Thus, while he mapped and patched holes, he also worked on his plan to push outward and hunt gods.

Time trickled by; Mo Hua’s plan steadily advanced.

When he had time, he still visited the big tiger.

Now, the most beast-crowded, most dangerous peak deep within Wutu Mountain had become the big tiger’s “private domain.”

The several second-grade beasts that once occupied that peak were either torn apart by the big tiger or fled at the mere sight, never daring to step over that thunder ridge again.

Wutu Mountain now belonged to the big tiger.

It had truly become king of the mountain.

The big tiger also began hoarding beast meat—for Mo Hua to roast for it.

It had grown picky: unless circumstances left no choice, it would not eat any meat unless Mo Hua roasted it.

In the cave, Mo Hua arranged a Three-Nines Cold Ice Array for the big tiger.

Ice-type formations were one branch of the Eight Trigrams wondrous arrays. Their changes were intricate, inheritances rare, and few cultivators mastered them.

Fortunately, the Great Void Sect’s storehouse of formations was deep. Under Mr. Xun’s tutelage, when Mo Hua had studied various formations and read widely, he had learned some basic ice arrays.

The Three-Nines Cold Ice Array was one such—no lofty art, but more than enough.

When the big tiger felled beasts, it would lay the corpses on the array to keep them chilled and fresh, preventing the meat from spoiling.

Once Mo Hua returned from hunting gods, he would roast the meat.

While he roasted, the big tiger would sprawl to the side, eyes wide, watching.

When the meat was done, the tiger would give a “awoo,” open wide, and Mo Hua would toss the meat in. It would chew slowly, eating hot off the fire, face full of bliss.

…

Of the meat he roasted for the big tiger, Mo Hua saved a portion.

He brought it to the Wutu Tribe and gave it to little Zatu.

Zatu was Elder Zhamu’s grandson from the Wutu Tribe—the very child Elder Zhamu had once planned to sacrifice to their god.

Like other children of the tribes, Zatu’s skin was inked with beast-patterns.

Unlike them, he was skinny and small, lacking that fierce, headlong bravado.

The Wutu Tribe was poor. Even as the elder’s grandson he enjoyed little privilege. Seeing the roasted meat Mo Hua brought, he was both delighted and nervous, timidly asking, “Mr. Wu, may I… eat this?”

Mo Hua nodded. “You’re hurt. You need to strengthen your body.”

Though Zatu was better than before, his foundation was weak—he needed meat to build him back up.

Among the tribes, “meat” was ordinarily the staple.

Perhaps because of war and famine, there was now no meat at all.

And the tribes’ “meat” wasn’t actually very good.

They had basically no cooking techniques, used few spices; it was fishy, stringy, and hard—like chewing dried ox tendons.

Worse, here in the Great Wilderness they drew no line between “carnivorous demonic beasts” and “herbivorous demonic beasts.”

To them, meat was meat.

Herbivores were one thing.

But carnivores were different. They killed people and ate them; their flesh carried traces of human blood and nutrients, and their demonic taint was stronger.

Thus, once a cultivator ate the meat of carnivorous demonic beasts, there were heavy side effects:

Irascibility. Bloodlust. Loss of reason. Blood-soaked hallucinations.

Their meridians would be polluted by demonic qi, lifespans cut short. Cultivation would go awry; one careless step could end in qi deviation.

Here in the Wilderness, though, none of this seemed to matter much.

The environment was harsh. Most tribal cultivators died young; they didn’t care about longevity.

With conditions so poor, having food at all was already good; who cared what meat it was?

Some savage tribes even kept the foul custom of “eating people.” They truly did.

In that light, eating carnivorous beasts—“indirectly eating people,” so to speak—might even seem “civilized.”

Such things were habits fixed by millennia. Mo Hua could not change them; he could only “respect” them for now.

But what he gave Zatu was strictly chosen herbivore meat.

He burned off the demonic taint with an array-flame, refined away the fishiness, and sprinkled spices. Clean and delicious.

Zatu took one bite and his eyes went wide. Then he couldn’t bear to eat more—he wanted to save it. Halfway through putting it away, his movements froze.

Mo Hua asked, “What is it?”

After a moment of silence, Zatu spoke in a low voice: “This meat is so good. I wanted to save some for Ada, Ali, and Nazhen… to let them try it, too… But I forgot—they’re gone. I’m the only one left…”

Zatu’s face went blank and still.

Mo Hua felt a pang.

Life and death partings in this world—the pain that cannot be undone. This child had tasted it far too young.

Mo Hua shifted the topic. “Your name is Zatu?”

The boy nodded.

“What does ‘Zatu’ mean in your tongue?”

“It means ‘when the flame catches.’”

Mo Hua paused. “And your grandpa is Zhamu—does that mean ‘wood’?”

Zatu nodded. “It means sturdy firewood…”

He explained, “Grandpa’s name is Zhamu, so he named me ‘Zatu’—meaning that with him as the firewood, he would feed me, this spark, until I blaze up and become the hope that will revive the Wutu Tribe.”

He sighed. “It’s a pity I’m useless. Grandpa has become the wood, but this fire of mine just won’t catch…”

Mo Hua’s gaze turned a little subtle.

Zatu’s spiritual root was actually quite good.

What’s more, the child had a kind heart—rare in this savage land.

Mo Hua asked again, “Where are your parents?”

Zatu drooped. “My mother is gone. My father was conscripted to fight the Dao Court.”

Mo Hua’s expression tightened.

So the great army of the Wilderness wasn’t made up solely of the lords’ tribes and their vassals.

From the look of it, many were conscripted young men from the middle and small tribes below.

And these, especially the small tribes’ cultivators, would not be treated well.

Most would be sent as “cannon fodder.”

It was even possible that on that night when the gate guards of the Wilderness mutinied and the savage army ambushed the Dao soldiers, among the common warriors who charged the front against the Dao soldiers was Zatu’s father.

On the battlefield, he might have been just another nameless soldier.

But in the tribe, he was the pillar of a home.

He was the only father of a child.

Zatu’s father had likely died that very night, fighting the Dao soldiers—never to return.

Mo Hua sighed softly and asked, “Were the adults of your tribe all taken to war?”

Zatu nodded. “Most uncles and elders—the ones with higher cultivation and greater strength—were conscripted.”

“Much of our supplies—food and drink—were requisitioned too.”

“So now the Wutu are weaker than ever.”

“We can’t hold back the beasts in the mountains; we had to abandon our old camp and come here to scrape a living.”

“Our supplies are gone. Without adults to hunt, there’s little to eat.”

“And this year there was an anomaly—fire fell from the sky; it’s hotter than usual. The little millet and wild grain in the hills all dried up. There’s even less to eat.”

“People of the Wutu Tribe have already starved to death.”

“So Grandpa had no choice—he had to think of a way to pray to the god, to give our tribe a little luck so the grains in the hills won’t wither and our hunting will find prey—at least enough to get us through these years, to hold on until…”

Zatu’s voice sank lower. “Until… my father and the uncles come back from war.”

He knew in his heart that this was probably impossible.

His father and the uncles likely would not return.

Even if they did, the old, the sick, and the weak might starve to death first.

Mo Hua’s expression grew grave. “Are the other tribes the same?”

“Mm.” Zatu said, “About the same. Some are even worse than us—whole tribes starved to death. Some got so hungry they ate each other.”

“Near here there used to be some small tribes. They’re gone now—the whole tribe, all dead…”

Mo Hua’s brows knit. “In such distress, can’t you leave the tribe—go out and seek a living?”

“We cannot leave the tribe…” Zatu said solemnly. “Leaving the tribe means losing the totem. Then we’re ‘barbarian slaves.’ Barbarian slaves aren’t people. If caught, we’re livestock. The end is worse…”

Mo Hua breathed out a long sigh.

This was the other face of war—its cruelty laid bare.

Front line or rear, all were bled by “war.”

The poverty and calamity of the Wilderness tribes was not something he had expected.

It seemed that everywhere he went, the cultivators at the bottom suffered the same.

And this—right now—was still beyond his strength to change.

He sighed again and looked at Zatu.

The boy ate the roasted meat very slowly, cherishing every bite, as if afraid that once it was gone he would never taste it again.

Mo Hua watched, a little heartsore. Suddenly his heart jolted; he couldn’t help but wonder—how many times had he seen scenes like this?

How many times had he sighed, “I am powerless,” just like now?

Was he to go on being “powerless” forever?

Moreover—was he truly powerless?

Was it truly beyond his ability, or was he merely making excuses for not wishing to act?

Why had he learned this whole body of cultivation, this mighty divine sense, and these myriad arts?

Mo Hua froze, mind surging like a stormy sea.

A cultivator seeks the Dao—and should also enact the Dao.

No matter how grand the “Dao,” it starts with “small things,” and sooner or later, one must practice it.

If it must be done someday, why not begin now? Why not start with what can be done at hand?

To defy heaven and alter fate—his own fate, and the fate of all cultivators at the bottom under the sky…

Let it begin here, in the Great Wilderness.

Change one person’s fate, then one tribe’s, then many tribes’, then the entire Wilderness—all three thousand tribes.

Thus overturn the situation of the whole Great Wilderness.

In this troubled age—amid these lands scarred by war, savage and poor—lay the foundation and roots of his path to enlightenment, and reverse the lot of all living beings!

Mo Hua’s chest heaved; his blood roared.

Beside him, Zatu still nibbled at the meat. Seeing Mo Hua’s spirit surge and his expressions shift, those deep eyes reflecting a vast, unfathomable fortune like heaven and earth, the boy didn’t understand, yet he couldn’t help but feel awe and longing. He whispered: “Mr. Wu?”

Mo Hua started, slowly drawing back his gaze. He gathered away all those grand ambitions and severed the threads of cause and effect.

Then he turned to Zatu, glanced over, and couldn’t help reaching out to touch the boy’s forehead, smiling gently.

“You have a good name.”

Thanks for reading—this quiet, ember-bright chapter means a lot to me. If you’re enjoying the journey, please consider supporting on Patreon; even a small pledge keeps the fire going and helps me devote more time to clean, careful translations. And if you’ve got a moment, dropping a rating or review on NovelUpdates really helps more readers find this series. Your encouragement keeps this little flame alive!

Next Chapter >