The Quest for Immortality - Chapter 1161 (Patreon)

Chapter 1161: Establishing a Legacy

Night fell. Mo Hua returned to the depths of Wutu Mountain, pillowed his head on the big tiger’s furry belly, and began planning his next step.

How do you unify the Great Wilderness amid war?

Even if he couldn’t bring all three thousand mountain ranges and thousands of tribes under one banner, he had to try—unite most of the powers, change the fate of these impoverished barbarian cultivators, and lay a foundation for his own future path-seeking.

From today on, the three thousand wilds south of Li Prefecture would be his “turf.”

North of Li Prefecture, the Dahei Mountain Prefecture was his homeland.

Count it up that way, and from south to north across vast Li Prefecture, he would have bases to stand on.

It would be extremely difficult—especially when he himself was only at Foundation Establishment.

But in this world, what isn’t hard?

The key is whether one wishes to do it, dares to do it, and has the perseverance to overcome layer upon layer of obstacles.

Even at Foundation Establishment, the things that must be done still must be done.

A night wind blew, a little chilly.

Mo Hua burrowed closer into the big tiger’s chest for warmth. Once he felt snug again, he continued thinking.

If you prepare, you stand; if you don’t, you fall.

Since he had decided to act, he had to think it through thoroughly.

First, the warlord-princes of the Great Wilderness held sprawling territories and possessed formidable strength. Otherwise, they could not have raised the banners of revolt and set the beacons of rebellion blazing against the Dao Court.

The Dao Court, too, was eyeing the Great Wilderness. The Dao Soldiers Bureau’s armies would, sooner or later, march in to crush the uprising.

This land of barbarian tribes would inevitably become the focus of war.

And the region was chaotic to begin with.

Between tribe and tribe, customs differed, gods of worship differed; they were relatively savage, closed-off, and backward.

Some great tribes were local tigers. They would never allow others to sleep soundly beside their own couch.

Another point: Mo Hua hadn’t forgotten this was the old home of the “Lord of the Great Wilderness.”

By rights, remnants of that Evil God’s “divine traces” should still be here, or believers who still offered it worship.

It wasn’t impossible there were even a few split-off Divine Corpses, or existences on the level of a hatched Demon Fetus.

If so, he had to guard against the Great Wilderness Evil God as well.

Given all the “atrocities” he had committed against Evil Gods within the Qianxue Prefecture’s borders, calling himself the “number-one sinner” to that lineage wasn’t an exaggeration.

The Evil God of the Great Wilderness would dearly love to eat him alive…

Warlord-princes, rebel armies, the Dao Court, the great tribes, Evil Gods, Savage Gods—stir all that together and you got the present moment: complicated and perilous to the extreme.

Yet after careful analysis, Mo Hua felt it wasn’t without opportunity.

He wasn’t actually that afraid of the Evil God.

Lesser Divine Corpses—even Demon Fetuses—were merely his “rations.” If he ran into them, he’d be happy to oblige.

As for true high-grade divine embryos, he just had to stay alert and avoid them.

If it came to the worst, there was still the Pixiu.

That big Pixiu might be dopey, and stingy to boot, but it was powerful; if necessary, it could probably shield him once. Keeping his little life intact shouldn’t be a problem.

Meanwhile, the Great Wilderness warlord-princes and the Dao Court’s armies were locked in battle at the front, and that melee would last a good while.

That, in fact, was his opening.

The front line’s carve-up was a great matter, a top priority drawing everyone’s attention.

The karmic calculations of every patriarch and powerhouse were being tugged toward it.

If he bypassed the front and stirred up “little moves” in the rear, he would slip past heaven’s scrutiny and hide from prying eyes.

The local great tribes, though strong, posed no immediate threat so long as he didn’t provoke them.

And many tribes were relatively closed and isolated from each other. That, too, would give him ample chance to work in secret.

He contemplated these troubles one by one, pushed the lines of fate in silence, and unexpectedly found that—under the smoke of war, beneath heaven’s murk—this seemingly savage chaos of the Great Wilderness was, for him, a convergence of time, place, and human will.

A light sparked in Mo Hua’s eyes.

Perhaps life doesn’t lack opportunities.

It lacks eyes that can see them.

That, too, is the benefit of constant study and thought—of comprehending Heavenly Mechanism and the arts of causality.

To achieve all this, he would have to be even more hidden, even more cautious…

He needed an “identity” within the Great Wilderness—one proper, one that hid him in plain sight, and one with sufficient weight.

…

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

Elder Zhamu served him tea.

The tea was wild Wutu camellia—bitter, astringent, and scorching hot on the tongue.

After a sip, Mo Hua asked, “Do you know who I am?”

Elder Zhamu didn’t know why Mo Hua suddenly asked this. He answered earnestly, “You call yourself ‘Mister Wu.’ You must be a shaman of our Great Wilderness royal court.”

Mo Hua said nothing, defaulting to the assumption, then asked, “Have you met other shamans?”

“When I was young,” Elder Zhamu said, “I studied in the great tribes and met several shamans. I was fortunate to learn a little witchcraft. After returning to the Wutu Tribe to cultivate in seclusion, I finally qualified to become an elder.”

Mo Hua nodded slightly, then probed from the side: “How much do you know about shamans?”

“I am dull of wit and know little,” Elder Zhamu said.

“I’ll test you,” Mo Hua replied. “Just say what you know.”

Elder Zhamu’s expression turned subtle. After a moment’s thought, he spoke slowly.

“Shamans are one of the honored ‘divine offices’ of our Great Wilderness. Only those of pure blood, born keen of mind, with spirits attuned to the divine, have the right to be chosen as shamans.

“Once one becomes a shaman, he must abandon his former status, bloodline, name, and all things of the mortal world, and devote himself wholeheartedly to the Lord of the Great Wilderness.

“All shamans call themselves only ‘Mister Wu’ to the outside world.

“Only by steadfast faith and meritorious service, receiving promotion to Upper Shaman, will the Divine Lord bestow upon him a personal title.”

Mo Hua’s heart stirred. He asked evenly, “You know the Divine Lord?”

“Yes,” Elder Zhamu sighed devoutly. “These days the three thousand tribes worship their respective Savage Gods, but not the Divine Lord—indeed they neither honor nor even know Him. That is the sin of our tribes, the original ignorance of the Great Wilderness…”

He loathed his people’s ignorance, then said in awe, “The Divine Lord is the Lord of the three thousand wilds, born from the fathomless abyss, dwelling above the desolate heavens, looking down on all beings—the most ancient and most mighty god of the Great Wilderness.”

A trace of sorrow crossed Elder Zhamu’s face. “It’s just that… after the Great Wilderness lost to the Dao Court that year, the royal clan was exterminated and the fortunes dwindled. The ‘Divine Lord’s’ miracles ceased to appear. His holy name, too, gradually faded from the Great Wilderness.

“With the Divine Lord fallen silent, the gods rose like clouds. Every tribe gradually had its own ‘god.’ And so came the three thousand Savage Gods…”

Elder Zhamu stated everything he knew.

Mo Hua’s gaze deepened in thought.

What he said differed in places from Mo Hua’s own understanding of the Divine Lord’s origin in the Great Wilderness.

But tales of gods are always many and conflicting.

Even believers imagine the Divine Lord in wildly different forms.

That wasn’t worth chasing down.

At the very least, Mo Hua grew more certain of one thing.

The Lord of the Great Wilderness had once been the sovereign god here. Later something happened—death, slumber, or silence.

With the Divine Lord silent, the divine hierarchy of the Great Wilderness fell into ruin.

Now was an age where three thousand Savage Gods stood side by side, parasitizing the tribes and feasting on faith.

This was an era of divine chaos.

Great chaos precedes great order—so it had always been.

For him, this was a fine opportunity.

And the identity of “shaman” was indeed exalted—and useful.

More than that, a shaman is the mediator between men and gods, a role touching upon the divine path; it suited him perfectly.

Mo Hua nodded and said solemnly to Elder Zhamu, “You’re right. I am indeed a shaman.”

Elder Zhamu wasn’t surprised. When Mo Hua had called himself “Mister Wu,” he’d guessed as much.

And anyone who could meddle in matters of Savage Gods could not be ordinary.

He simply hadn’t expected a shaman to look like this.

Nor that his Dao Court speech would be so standard—like someone raised in the nine provinces of the Dao Court.

After a moment’s hesitation, Elder Zhamu asked softly, “May I ask, honored shaman, what brings you to our Wutu Tribe?”

A shaman’s status was too exalted to visit a small tribe for no reason.

If he’d come, he surely had designs.

Mo Hua nodded, face grave. “I bear a tremendously important mission.”

Elder Zhamu froze.

Mo Hua’s words fell like a thousand-jin weight, one by one:

“I intend… to unify the divine path, and restore the Great Wilderness.”

Like thunder in his ears, Elder Zhamu’s eyes went round.

Mo Hua set a hand on his shoulder. “And it all begins with your Wutu Tribe…”

Elder Zhamu went a little blank. Cold seeped from his heart, sweat soaking his back.

He thought the honored shaman was joking with him.

But a person this exalted and capable would not joke with him.

Unify the divine path? Restore the Great Wilderness?

Either one was an act against the heavens.

What did such heaven-defying matters have to do with a tiny Wutu Tribe on the verge of starving?

Even the warlord-princes of the Great Wilderness only bothered with his tribe when they needed cannon fodder.

As for restoring the Great Wilderness—how could Wutu have a say?

And “unify the divine path”?

Matters of gods—what godlike realm would one have to stand at to even consider them?

“Sh-shaman… honored shaman… you…”

Elder Zhamu’s voice trembled with fear.

Mo Hua asked, “How long can your tribe hold out?”

Elder Zhamu thought of hungry children and thin elders and fell silent.

Mo Hua looked at him, calm and gentle. “The name Zhamu means ‘firewood’—fuel that burns itself up for its people. You are old. You don’t even care about your own life and death. What is there to fear?

“Do as I say. Do what I tell you to do.

“In return, I will ensure your tribe’s survival.

“I’m also fond of the boy Zhamu calls Xiaozhatu. I will pass him a lineage and give him a future.”

“This is already the best outcome.

“The war has only just begun, and calamities will continue for who knows how long. Will you all slowly starve to death while you wait? Or take a risk and fight for a future?

“You, as elder, must choose.”

Elder Zhamu’s brows knit tight. Waves crashed in his heart. Unable to decide, he finally raised his head to look at Mo Hua.

Mo Hua’s features were strikingly handsome, beyond the common lot.

His eyes were tranquil and deep, carrying a god’s compassion for the people.

Elder Zhamu’s gaze jolted. Moved, he slowly bent his aged back and performed the Wutu Tribe’s great salute. “This old man Zhamu, and all under the Wutu Tribe, submit to the honored shaman’s command—unto death without regret.”

Mo Hua nodded with satisfaction.

He thought for a moment, then said, “Good. Make your preparations. Tomorrow, we march.”

Elder Zhamu blinked, dumbfounded.

Tomorrow… march?

…

After a day of preparations, Elder Zhamu mustered all the battle strength the Wutu Tribe still possessed.

Himself—an early-stage Foundation Establishment elder.

Beyond that, all were Qi Refining.

A little over twenty young barbarian cultivators of mediocre talent and lackluster cultivation.

They were originally the tribe’s “defectives.”

If they’d had better talent or higher cultivation, the royal court of the Great Wilderness would have harvested them like leeks and sent them to the front as “cannon fodder.” They would never have been left behind.

Besides them were a dozen older children.

And some elderly, frail cultivators whose experience was still useful.

All told, a little over forty people.

Under war and famine, this was truly the sum of the Wutu Tribe’s fighting force.

Little Zhatu trailed behind Mo Hua as his page.

Elder Zhamu looked at every bit of Wutu’s living strength, then at his little grandson, and couldn’t help asking Mo Hua, “Honored shaman… are we truly… going to fight?”

Mo Hua nodded. “Naturally.”

Elder Zhamu’s heart fluttered with anxiety.

He himself was just old bones; if he died, he died. But for each clansman who died, his heart would hurt.

All the more his little Zhatu.

But the arrow was nocked; there was no turning back.

He sighed inwardly. “So be it. Sooner or later, death comes—starving to death or dying in battle, it’s the same rope around the neck. Let this shaman toss us about, then. I only hope he keeps his word—lets the Wutu Tribe endure, and protects little Zhatu’s life…”

His heart hardened. He gritted his teeth. “Very well. Then we fight!”

Mo Hua saw his die-on-your-feet resolve and couldn’t help a wry smile. He comforted him, “No need to be tense. This is only the opening. It’s simple.”

And as Mo Hua said, it really was simple.

The first tribe he moved against was the Wotai Tribe—their thieves of food and goods, thieves of people and of affections.

Their conduct was rotten.

They were also closest; thus Mo Hua chose them as his first target.

The whole process didn’t take long.

When the Wotai Tribe’s three early-stage Foundation Establishment elders came out, Mo Hua crippled one leg of each with a single Fireball Technique.

One of them refused to submit. Mo Hua blasted his other leg as well.

Afterward, Elder Zhamu personally finished him off.

Kill a chicken to warn the monkeys. The other two Wotai elders immediately knocked their heads to the ground and surrendered.

The rest of the Wotai cultivators followed suit.

Their Savage God did not protect them.

Because their “god” had already been “eaten” by Mo Hua beforehand.

Just like that, the neighboring Wotai Tribe fell without a puff of effort.

Elder Zhamu and the others were shaken.

Especially when they saw Mo Hua’s uncanny, swift, and ruthless black-sha-wreathed Fireballs—like “the flames of a ferocious god”—that crippled the three Wotai elders almost in an instant. Their hearts quailed.

“This shaman is actually this powerful?”

“So young a face, yet such strength—was he blessed by the gods, or an old monster turned young again?”

Not just Elder Zhamu; all the Wutu people held Mo Hua in awe.

And after taking Wotai, Mo Hua did not slaughter wantonly.

He merely picked out a few whose bad roots were unchangeable—men who, though kneeling in surrender, still seethed with venom—and had Elder Zhamu kill them and hang their bodies from the walls as a warning.

Then Mo Hua drafted a portion of Wotai’s able-bodied cultivators and set out for the next tribe.

At the next tribe, Mo Hua used the same method.

Cripple the elders with the Fireball Technique, then cow the rest.

Under Mo Hua’s “might,” the tribes bent and submitted.

Then he’d select a few thorns to kill as an object lesson, and hand out some meat to soothe grievances.

Once that was done, he’d draw off another batch of men and march to the next tribe.

Thus, with terrifying Fireballs and the balance of grace and awe, wherever Mo Hua went the tribes collapsed at first sight and declared their allegiance.

In just two days, he took six small tribes around Wutu Mountain.

In a lull, Elder Zhamu, still puzzled, asked Mo Hua, “Honored shaman, why cripple with fire instead of killing?”

With his strength, a single Fireball could have ended lives many times over. Why make the old bones climb up to deliver the coup de grâce?

Mo Hua’s face was compassionate. “I am a shaman of the Great Wilderness, and you are all children of the Great Wilderness. If it is not absolutely necessary, I am loath to take lives.”

Elder Zhamu started, deeply moved. From the bottom of his heart he grew to respect and admire Mo Hua.

To have the power to kill and the heart for mercy—this was indeed the bearing an honored shaman should have.

…

Five more days passed. Around Wutu Mountain, every tribe that could be subdued had been brought under Mo Hua’s name as “Mister Wu.”

Only one remained: the strongest nearby—the Wulu Tribe.

By now, Mo Hua had two hundred able-bodied barbarian cultivators at his back, drawn from the tribes he’d taken.

He looked over the ground he had “won” and the ragtag “army” behind him like a roadside troupe.

His face was stern, but in his heart he couldn’t help a small doubt.

At first, he wanted to slip into the Dao Soldiers Bureau, march south with them to pacify the Great Wilderness, earn merit, and carve himself a place.

Because he saved a big tiger and blundered into the heart of the Great Wilderness, all that fell through.

But what he was doing now—didn’t it count as another way of…

Building merit and establishing a legacy?

Thanks for reading! If you’re enjoying the ride, please consider supporting me on Patreon—your help genuinely keeps this translation going and lets me keep up the pace. I’d be super grateful. Also, if you have a moment, drop a rating or review on NovelUpdates; it really helps more readers find the series and motivates me to polish each chapter.

Next Chapter >