The Quest for Immortality - Chapter 1163 (Patreon)

Chapter 1163: Infighting and Campaign

After unifying and naming the Wutu Mountain Realm, the mysterious shaman Mo Hua became lord over all the tribes within it.

The situation in the Wutu Mountain Realm calmed a little.

With his hands finally free, the first thing Mo Hua did was improve the livelihood of the barbarian cultivators.

He gathered the wealth and food of most tribes into a common store to distribute uniformly, ensuring that in these years of chaos, every barbarian cultivator—elderly, weak, women, and children—could at least have something to keep them alive.

Beyond that, Mo Hua split the barbarian cultivators into several demon-hunting parties.

Each team was led by a Foundation Establishment cultivator to hunt demon beasts in the mountains and stockpile meat.

The hunted meat was divided into two categories.

Meat from herbivorous demon beasts went to children and the elderly.

Only the adults received meat from carnivorous demon beasts.

Meat from carnivorous beasts, having devoured human flesh, was steeped in blood-reek, resentment, and baleful qi.

Eat too much of it and the side effects were severe—easy to unhinge the mind, shorten the lifespan, and derail one’s cultivation.

So children could not eat such meat, lest it impair their growth.

The elderly, being frail, could not eat it either—one wrong breath and their lives would be forfeit.

Only robust adults could handle it. As barbarians, they had eaten this kind of meat for years and had built up some resistance.

Thus the meat with side effects could only go to them.

In this desolate land, conditions were limited. Surviving was already hard enough—there was no room to be particular.

Mo Hua also improved the way demon meat was cooked.

Among the barbarians, artifact-crafting was backward, materials were scarce, and good stoves couldn’t be made.

So Mo Hua set up several great cauldrons, painted a Molten Fire Array at the base along with a few Pure Fire Arrays, using them to strip away some of the demonic taint, reduce the blood-reek, and preserve nutrients so the barbarians could eat with more peace of mind.

He foraged some spices from nearby as well.

It wasn’t exactly delicious, but it was far better than before.

Aside from meat, Mo Hua selected a patch of slightly more fertile land within a valley. With a Thick Earth Array, he communed with the earth’s dao to nourish the soil, and he laid several Little Cloud Rain Arrays to keep the ground moist.

He planted local millet and panic grass from the Wutu Mountain Realm.

That way, if disaster struck and the hunts failed, there would still be coarse grains to fill bellies so people wouldn’t starve.

These fields were a first attempt.

Mo Hua issued a strict order that they were to be guarded with lives; anyone who dared damage them would be executed without mercy.

As these measures took effect one by one, the livelihood of the vast majority of tribes improved.

Children who used to go hungry and elders who had been left to live or die on their own now had food in their stomachs and were grateful beyond words.

Many adults also ate more meat than before, and since the meat had been cooked and tempered by arrays, it stank less and tasted better. Their trust in the Shaman Lord grew.

Livelihood is the foundation of everything.

Thanks to Mo Hua’s overall planning, governance, and profound mastery of arrays, the entire Wutu Mountain Realm took on a new look.

But conflicts soon sprouted again.

There were still deep disagreements among the tribes over whether to submit to Mo Hua—the “Shaman Lord.”

These divisions would not disappear in a short time.

The cowardly had seen Mo Hua’s might and didn’t dare resist.

Most people just muddled along, wavering.

A few ambitious ones, seeing Mo Hua amassing wealth and food, couldn’t resist stealing—and even killed to rob.

The thieves were from the Wotai Tribe.

Those who killed to rob were from the Wulu Tribe.

Some barbarian cultivators even deserted for no reason.

All of this challenged Mo Hua’s authority as Shaman Lord.

Mo Hua was not gentle. With cold, ruthless methods he killed a batch, punished a batch, imprisoned a batch, and even mass-produced several “array punishment boards” he’d researched for a long time back in Qianxue Province, forcing those with rebellious hearts or guilty of theft and murder to kneel and receive punishment.

The effect was, predictably, remarkable.

Intimidated by Mo Hua’s iron methods and the excruciating torture of array instruments, the barbarians grew far more respectful.

Though not necessarily obedient at heart, none dared to openly oppose Mo Hua anymore—not even the most ferocious Wulu Tribe.

But since they wouldn’t confront Mo Hua, they began to turn on each other.

The grievances among tribes ran deep.

Customs differed; tribal laws differed; they had killed and robbed one another, and blood feuds abounded.

Gathered together now, friction was inevitable.

The slightest spark could ignite a brawl.

More importantly, the tribes worshiped different Savage Gods.

Different gods had different creeds.

By practicing those creeds, a barbarian cultivator’s divine sense would, imperceptibly, be steeped in the god’s influence and gradually assimilated.

That meant their divine sense—its very shape—was fundamentally different.

Though the Savage Gods they worshiped had already been secretly “eaten” by Mo Hua…

The imprints within their divine sense were not so easily erased.

Divergent divine-sense forms became essential differences—contradictions that were practically irreconcilable.

So after a brief calm and a few days of full bellies, conflicts among the tribes flared again.

Deterred by Mo Hua’s prestige, they didn’t quite fight to the death, but mutual insults and private brawls were common.

There were even cases of bullying children and defiling women. The atmosphere turned foul.

Mo Hua had to spend more time working with the elders of each tribe to draft stricter laws.

Among them: no insults between tribes or allies; no theft; no private duels; and certainly no wanton killing.

Children must be protected; elders must be respected.

No one may casually violate the women of other tribes, and so on.

Violations would be punished according to severity, from death penalty, array punishment, and flogging to imprisonment.

Mo Hua issued this allied tribal code in the name of the shaman and enforced it strictly.

The crooked trends were halted for the moment.

But Mo Hua knew this was treating the branch, not the root.

At their core, barbarian cultivators were “amoral.”

There were those with character, but very few.

Elder Zhamu was one such exception—he had left his small tribe to study in a greater one, learned shamanic arts, and possessed an open mind. People like him were scarce.

Most barbarian cultivators were either Wotai thieves or Wulu butchers.

In their eyes there was nothing but eating, drinking, killing, and mating.

With such morals, they could never accomplish anything.

Mo Hua truly didn’t want to be the shaman of these moral degenerates—lest his own reputation be ruined.

For the first time in his life, he felt the importance of “education and transformation.”

Without it, many under his banner were merely “beasts who could speak.”

Even worse than beasts—more greedy, more selfish, more cruel.

In the name of the shaman, Mo Hua told them they must “unite as a tribe,” “be friendly as allies,” “cultivate the heart,” “cultivate the body,” “restrain the self,” “strive for strength,” and “seek the tribe’s survival and long-term future”…

It was about as effective as passing wind.

Many barbarians looked at Mo Hua as if he were an idiot; they simply couldn’t understand what he was talking about.

Even Mo Hua felt like an “idiot.”

He gave up and learned deeply a truth: “The ignorant cannot be taught.”

In that moment, he even doubted whether his plan to unify the Great Wilderness was correct.

A dog can’t stop eating filth. These barbarian cultivators’ bad roots ran too deep.

Could they truly seek the dao? Could they truly be used?

By helping them, was he acting in accordance with Heaven—or just raising “pigs” to become future scourges?

With his great enterprise barely begun, Mo Hua fell, despite himself, into the first bout of self-doubt.

But he was not one to give up easily.

Anything worth doing would meet difficulties—they must be overcome step by step.

If reorganizing the Great Wilderness were easy, someone would have done it already. It wouldn’t be his turn. Precisely because it was hard, it had value.

Mo Hua nodded slightly, firming his dao heart.

Yet the internal tribal conflicts still had to be resolved.

After long consideration, he realized that under present conditions, given the chaos of beliefs at the level of divine-sense forms and the moral decay, the tribes’ contradictions could not be reconciled.

Unless he killed them all to wipe out the problem completely.

Then he could “educate” the next generation—reshape their divine sense from youth—to truly change the situation.

But that was impossible.

After thinking for a long time, Mo Hua found only one method: Wage war outward and shift the contradictions.

Send these barbarian cultivators to other mountain realms to subdue other tribes.

With a common enemy and targets to fight, they wouldn’t keep tearing each other apart.

“External expansion” had always been part of Mo Hua’s plan.

Originally, he wanted to wait until the Wutu Mountain Realm was fully settled, internal contradictions managed, and the barbarian cultivators reorganized and retrained before expanding outward.

Pacify within before resisting without.

But now, the plan had to move ahead.

Without external campaigns, the internal contradictions could never be reconciled.

Better to have them expand outward and clash with enemies than to keep infighting until they killed each other.

If they must die, let them die on the road of conquest—as warriors—not in the tribe for petty thievery.

Ten days later, Mo Hua reorganized an eight-hundred-strong force of barbarian cultivators and set out in haste toward the mountain realm to the south.

Among the eight hundred, the vast majority were from the Wulu Tribe.

Within Mo Hua’s Wutu forces, the Wulu Tribe was still the strongest.

And its cultivators were the bloodthirstiest.

Mo Hua dared not leave the Wulu Tribe in Wutu Mountain, lest they stir up rebellion.

So for this campaign, he drew out the core of the Wulu Tribe.

That included the Wulu chieftain, two high elders, a dozen Foundation Establishment cultivators, and six hundred sturdy Qi Refining Wulu warriors.

Leaving Wutu Mountain, they traveled south, crossed perilous ranges, and entered a pitch-black forest.

The miasma in the woods was thick, the demonic qi intense.

Guided by divine sense, Mo Hua found a tribal settlement at the foot of a mountain spur.

It was a small tribe as well, numbering only five to six hundred cultivators.

What surprised Mo Hua was that these barbarians wore leather and bone armor—etched with beast patterns to enhance protection against blades and spears.

This tribe was called the Black Horn Tribe.

It was Mo Hua’s first time in the Three Thousand Great Wilderness seeing barbarian cultivators who looked like “soldiers.”

War broke out at once.

The Wulu side held the advantage in cultivation.

But the Black Horn Tribe had the edge in armor.

As both sides clashed, Mo Hua did not simply stand by; at the right moment he tossed out a few fireballs to suppress the Black Horn chieftain.

But the chieftain was a hard-boned man. No matter what Mo Hua said, he would rather die than submit.

The Wulu chieftain chopped off his head.

With the chieftain slain, the dust settled and the battle ended quickly.

The Wulu Tribe lost several dozen.

The Black Horn Tribe lost over a hundred; the rest had no choice but to surrender.

After defeat, the warriors of the Black Horn Tribe wore expressions of grief and fury.

Common folk looked sorrowful; fear twisted the children’s faces.

By the rules of the wilderness, the defeated became “barbarian slaves.”

Barbarian slaves were no different from livestock, subject to slaughter—life was miserable.

Such was the cruelty of the Great Wilderness.

Amid the stench of blood and taut silence—

Mo Hua, looking like a young man but draped in the shaman’s black, face solemn, stepped slowly onto the high platform in the Black Horn square, surrounded by the blood-drenched Wulu warriors.

The hall fell silent.

In that silence, Mo Hua declared that he was the “shaman chosen by the Divine Lord,” and that he had not come for slaughter, but to bring peace and prosperity to the tribes of the Great Wilderness.

He would not allow anyone to become a barbarian slave.

His voice was gentle and clear, carrying a calming power.

The terrified people of the Black Horn Tribe quieted, almost against their will.

Mo Hua then had grain and meat distributed to soothe them, after which he ordered the allied warriors of the Wulu, Wutu, and Wotai Tribes to garrison the Black Horn settlement and set up camp.

All wealth and food of the Black Horn Tribe were confiscated and redistributed by Mo Hua.

Things eased for the time being.

But trouble still came at night.

Several Wulu cultivators snuck into the Black Horn camp, hacked off a few men’s arms, and tried to take the Black Horn women for pleasure.

It was their habit.

Kill and mate.

First kill the men of other tribes, then seize the women to vent.

Most barbarian cultivators had always acted this way.

Sometimes, once the bloodshed aroused their lust, they lost all control.

Fortunately, Mo Hua’s divine sense was keen; he sensed it first and bound the Wulu offenders with the Water Prison Technique.

Even so, the damage was done.

The recently calmed Black Horn Tribe showed signs of resistance again.

Mo Hua’s gaze turned cold. He intended to kill a few to warn the rest.

But the Wulu chieftain came to plead in person, cupping his hands. “I beg the Shaman Lord to be lenient.”

Among the offenders was his nephew.

Mo Hua knew that, but didn’t care. He had no intention of being lenient. Not even the Wulu chieftain could break his rules.

Sensing the chill in Mo Hua’s indifference, the chieftain stiffened and pleaded, “Shaman Lord, this isn’t for private gain—it’s to steady the people’s hearts.”

Mo Hua raised a brow. “Explain.”

The Wulu chieftain, Wusha, said, “Shaman Lord, in the Great Wilderness, when tribes win a war, they take spirit stones, food, and women. That’s the norm. Now our Wulu followed you to war, clearly won, and got nothing.”

“Worse, for breaking a rule, they face beheading.”

“Even I, as chieftain, dare not do this. If it continues, my Wulu clansmen will… likely revolt.”

Mo Hua’s eyes were icy as he looked at Wusha. “Do you think I care?”

Wusha’s heart lurched.

Mo Hua’s voice dropped. “Do you really think I can’t wipe out your Wulu Tribe? That I must rely on you?”

“If the Wulu obey, I’ll give you a chance.”

“If you don’t, I’ll replace you.”

“There are three thousand tribes in this land. If your Wulu won’t submit, others will.”

Cold sweat ran down Wusha’s back.

Seeing that he understood fear, Mo Hua softened his tone. “Still, you came to speak with me. That at least shows loyalty. For your sake, those clansmen can be spared death.”

“But though the death penalty is waived, punishment is not.”

“You will personally give each of them forty lashes as a warning, and we’ll close the matter.”

“But do not repeat this. If it happens again, I won’t spare their lives.”

Wusha bowed at once. “Your great kindness, Shaman Lord—Wusha will remember it.”

Mo Hua nodded. “Go.”

Wusha took his leave, but before going, he glanced at Mo Hua, as if harboring a small doubt.

Mo Hua’s gaze shifted. “You… have something you want to ask?”

Startled, Wusha felt that although this Shaman Lord looked young, his eyes were deep enough to see straight through a man.

Under that gaze, Wusha dared not hide it. He asked in a low voice, “Shaman Lord… are you not of the Great Wilderness?”

Mo Hua’s heart tightened, but his face did not change. “What makes you say that?”

Wusha said, “The way you act isn’t like someone from the Great Wilderness. And your water and fire spells don’t look like wilderness shaman arts—they look more like… the spell arts of Jiuzhou cultivators.”

He lowered his head.

Mo Hua neither admitted nor denied it. “Everything I have is bestowed by the Divine Lord. All is arranged by the Divine Lord.”

Wusha placed a fist over his chest and bowed. “Yes. I spoke out of turn. Please forgive me, Shaman Lord.”

Mo Hua waved. “It’s fine. Go.”

Wusha answered respectfully, “At once. I’ll go flog those offenders to establish authority.”

Wusha departed.

Mo Hua sank into thought.

For all his scheming, Wusha had given him a timely reminder.

He couldn’t use spells so casually anymore.

In fact, he should act as little as possible going forward.

The more he struck, the more traces he left, and the easier it would be for others to see clues and expose him.

Not only would his identity as shaman be questioned.

He might even invite execution.

Most importantly, what he was doing in the Great Wilderness could not stand the light of day. If he acted too often and left a “black history,” others might follow those traces and dig out his identity—and then he’d be finished.

A cultivator of the Dao Court coming to the wilderness to “build merit and a career”?

He’d earn the hatred of the Great Wilderness royal court.

And the Dao Court would brand him a wanted “traitor and rebel,” recorded forever.

So he had to keep a low profile—hide in the shadows and be a symbolic, hands-off “Shaman Lord.” If he could avoid acting, he would.

All the blood and killing would be left to those below.

Resolved, Mo Hua nodded to himself.

Under cover of night, he went to the Black Horn altar. Using the sacrificial rite he pried from the tribe’s elders, he entered the Savage God’s dream and met the Black Horn god.

The Black Horn Savage God was a black ox with one horn broken.

The thing stank of evil—it was no good deity.

What surprised Mo Hua was its strength. Its cultivation exceeded even the Wulu Tribe’s blood-red wolf god by a small margin.

Mo Hua killed it with a single punch.

Then he used arrays to refine the remains and drew the creature’s will into himself.

A moment later, his divine will surged like a great river in flood, rolling without end.

Mo Hua blinked in surprise. By swallowing the Black Horn god, he had unexpectedly broken through the bottleneck in his divine sense.

His divine sense had reached twenty-two patterns.

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