Chapter 1158: Wutu Tribe
The barbarian elder stood frozen like a stone statue, utterly stunned. With all his life experience, he had no idea what had just happened.
In that blinding golden light, he seemed to witness the mighty and invincible tribal Barbarian God being torn apart barehanded—by some kind of… creature, still in its juvenile form—and then swallowed whole.
Even the eruption of Mount Wutu would pale in comparison to this horror.
The elder began to tremble uncontrollably. Eyes wide with terror, he tried to peer into that golden radiance, to glimpse the existence hidden within it—an existence beyond mortal comprehension.
But the moment the Barbarian God died, the dream shattered.
The surrounding stone shrine and altar began to distort.
When everything calmed down again, the elder opened his eyes to find himself still kneeling inside the mountain cave, in front of that crude and simple offering table.
The blood markings at his feet hadn't dried, and in front of him was nothing but a blank stone wall.
The heat of the mountain air, the distant cries of birds and beasts, the musty scent and the cool dampness of the cave—all gradually returned to his physical senses.
The barbarian elder could only feel as if he'd just had a dream.
In the dream, he'd summoned all his courage to battle the Barbarian God with all his might. But no matter how hard he fought, he couldn't overcome it.
And then—heaven descended. A divine being appeared from above and casually slaughtered the Barbarian God.
For countless days and nights, he had secretly yearned for this, sometimes even dreaming of it.
But he knew—that was wishful thinking.
Just a powerless man's fantasy, a delusion born from desperation, longing for some god to deliver him from suffering and despair.
"So right now… am I dreaming? Or is this reality? If it's reality, do I still need to offer little Zatu to the Barbarian God…"
The old man could no longer tell illusion from truth.
Just then, an excruciating pain tore through his divine consciousness.
It was as if someone had ripped off one of his arms and sliced open his chest—ten thousand needles stabbing into his soul sea, every one screaming agony.
The old barbarian trembled violently, back soaked in cold sweat.
He had no idea what to do—when suddenly, a clear and slightly magnetic voice echoed beside his ear:
"Focus your mind. Meditate. Restrain desire and guard your heart. All outer appearances are but false illusions. All suffering is but the delusion of the mind."
Each word rang crisp and firm—not the voice of any barbarian cultivator.
Yet within the voice lay a purity like spring water, a power that cleansed the soul.
Almost instinctively, the old man followed the guidance. He steadied his breath, let go of the pain, and guarded his heart.
After a long while, the injuries on his soul began to stabilize.
Even the tendency of his spirit to fracture due to depletion stopped.
Slowly, the old barbarian raised his head—and realized that, at some point, a mysterious youth had appeared in front of him.
He couldn't describe the feeling this youth gave him.
His robes were plain, weathered by travel, but his eyes were piercingly bright—holding both the kindness of compassion and the depth of someone who sees through all things, as well as a dignity that brooked no offense.
His skin was white and smooth as jade, bearing both the strength and gentleness—elegant and transcendent, like an immortal descended.
The youth simply stood there, and yet somehow, he resonated with the earth's breath and echoed the will of the heavens.
A thought involuntarily rose in the old man's heart:
"If the Divine Lord were to walk among mortals… perhaps He would look just like this…"
The elder stood dazed for a long while before a jolt of realization struck him.
That image of the Barbarian God being ripped apart resurfaced in his mind.
He didn't know if the Barbarian God had truly died, or if it was somehow connected to this mysterious youth before him.
But one thing was clear—regardless of whether there was a connection, this youth was not someone he could afford to offend.
The old man immediately lowered his head, bent his back, and gave a deep bow to Mo Hua:
"This old one is Zhamu… greetings, Senior."
He had no idea how old the youth truly was, but he dared not act arrogantly.
The Dao does not differentiate by age. The one who attains enlightenment is the elder.
Even among strangers, when meeting someone far superior in cultivation, regardless of appearance—it was never wrong to humble oneself and respectfully call them "Senior."
And sure enough, Mo Hua's impression of the old man improved once again.
Whether it was for the sake of his grandson or his tribe—being willing to risk his life, as a mere cultivator, to battle the "Barbarian God"—it spoke volumes about his heart and courage.
"Your name is Zhamu?" Mo Hua asked.
His voice was youthful and clear, sounding very young.
But the old man didn't dare show the slightest disrespect and cupped his hands, "Yes."
"You're a tribal elder?"
The old man nodded, "Yes. I am an elder of Wutu Mountain's Wutu Tribe."
Wutu?
Mo Hua was a little confused.
But then he recalled—barbarian script differed from that of the Dao Court. "Wutu" was likely the transliteration of a barbarian word, converted phonetically under the Dao Court's standardization.
Same with the elder's name, "Zhamu."
"Then let me ask you," Mo Hua's gaze grew sharp. "Where is this place? Which region of the Great Wilderness are we in? And how far is it from the Nine Provinces?"
The barbarian elder froze.
He hadn't expected such a "basic" question from this mysterious youth.
Didn't he know where he was after arriving here?
Or… had he really fallen down from the heavens?
The elder thought for a moment, then replied truthfully:
"Replying to Senior… This is the Wutu Mountain Range, located in the southern part of the Vast Wilderness, west of the Endless Marshes. It's one of the three thousand domains of the Wilderness. As for the distance to the Nine Provinces…"
He gave a wry smile, "This old man has lived his whole life in Wutu Mountain. I've never left, and I have no idea how vast the world beyond is."
"I've only heard some of the elders say—the Nine Provinces lie far to the Extreme North, separated by countless thousands of miles. Endless gobi deserts and sea-like sand stretch in between… One could spend a lifetime and never cross it."
Upon hearing this, Mo Hua's heart sank.
He didn't know the exact location of Wutu Mountain, but he had heard of the "Three Thousand Domains" of the Great Wilderness.
This place was in the southern region of the wilderness—deep in barbarian territory. This was the true "heartland" of the Wilds.
Mo Hua could only sigh internally.
He was a Dao soldier of the Dao Court, supposed to be following the army to suppress the rebellion.
Yet the battle had barely begun, and before he could earn a single merit, that dumb big tiger had somehow bumbled them both all the way into the backlines of the barbarian tribes.
Now, the plan was completely thrown into chaos.
Mo Hua frowned in thought.
The barbarian elder remained respectfully still, head bowed, not daring to look at Mo Hua's expression, let alone move.
But then—suddenly, the child lying on the ground let out a weak murmur, face pale as paper.
The elder's heart clenched. Forgetting all else, he rushed to check on his grandson.
He checked the child's forehead, felt his pulse, and even fed him a few pills—But none of it worked.
The barbarian elder had no choice but to look up at Mo Hua, his face full of pleading.
Mo Hua activated his divine sense, took out a pill, and handed it over.
The elder received it with both hands, reverently. He hesitated for a moment, still uneasy, but in the end, clenched his teeth and fed the pill to the child.
As soon as it entered his mouth, the boy's complexion visibly improved.
The elder was overjoyed and immediately bowed in deep gratitude, saying:
"Many thanks, Senior, for bestowing this immortal medicine."
Mo Hua sighed inwardly.
What immortal medicine? It was just a common pill that replenished qi and blood—only, it came from the Great Void Sect, so the quality was a bit better than most.
This child had simply gone too long without food, his blood and energy depleted, his body worn down.
When his soul had been pulled away earlier, it caused a misalignment between spirit and body—hence he couldn't wake up after returning.
"Take him back and let him sleep a while. He needs rest and recovery," Mo Hua instructed.
The barbarian elder quickly responded, "Yes, yes."
He carried the child on his back, looked at Mo Hua, as if wanting to say something but holding back.
Mo Hua said gently, "Return to the tribe for now. I'll have more questions for you later."
The elder, unsure whether to feel relief or anxiety, bowed once more and respectfully said:
"This old one will be awaiting Senior's arrival at the Wutu Tribe."
With that, he carried his grandson on his back and slowly descended the mountain.
Mo Hua watched his aging figure disappear into the distance. Recalling how the old man had said this grandson was his only remaining family in this life, he couldn't help but feel a pang of emotion.
Then he turned and looked toward the stone wall.
That so-called "Barbarian God" was unimpressive in strength—but its method of concealment was rather exquisite, like a mudfish burrowing into the ground, leaving no trace.
When there's time, it might be worth studying—learning how to feel for those "mudfish"... and how to catch them.
In the path of spiritual sense, relying on yourself and hunting with your own power is the only way to stay well-fed.
The pity was... that Barbarian God was just too "scrawny." Mo Hua had swallowed it in a single bite—couldn't even taste it properly.
Still, his divine sense had grown a little stronger from the meal.
That alone gave Mo Hua some comfort.
"Hopefully, one day... I'll get a real feast. Eat till I'm full…"
He silently prayed in his heart.
After that, he too left the deep mountains, retracing the trail until he found the big tiger.
Sure enough, the big tiger was still lying where he'd left it, both front paws clutching the storage pouch, waiting around with nothing better to do.
When it finally saw Mo Hua appear, it wagged its tail and stood up cheerfully, letting out a few happy "awoo" sounds.
Mo Hua smiled warmly and couldn't help but rub the tiger's big head.
Then, a thought popped into his mind—
I can't keep calling it "Big Tiger" forever.
This big guy had been with him for so long. He should really give it a proper name.
But what should he call it?
Mo Hua sank into thought.
"Dahei?" (Big Black?)
No, not quite... It wasn't just black—it had white stripes too…
"Dabai?" (Big White?)
Also no good… Dabai was already the name of his senior brother's horse. Can't reuse that.
"Dazhuang?" (Big Brawny?)
A strong, muscular tiger...
Nope. Way too tacky.
"Dahu?" (Big Tiger?)
Already taken.
...
Mo Hua frowned deeply, pondering for a long time—but in the end, none of the names felt quite right.
Naming things… really is hard.
Honestly, coming up with a name was more exhausting than drawing up ten formation arrays.
So for now, Mo Hua decided to put the matter aside. He'd name it later when inspiration struck.
He handed the storage pouch back into the big tiger's paws and instructed:
"I've still got some business to handle. You look after the pouch for me till I return."
The big tiger looked a little unhappy but still took the pouch and clutched it with its paws.
But after holding it for a moment, it pushed the pouch back to Mo Hua—whether because it now trusted him, or because it was worried he might run into danger without it.
After all, in its mind, a storage pouch was practically a cultivator's lifeline.
Mo Hua was surprised.
"Huh, this big tiger's… kind of considerate."
He chuckled and said, "Alright then, I'll keep the pouch. You go play in the mountains, catch a few demon beasts—I'll roast them for you when I get back."
At that, the big tiger was ecstatic, letting out a joyful "Awooo!" and nodding its massive head enthusiastically.
Mo Hua ruffled its mane and then turned to leave.
The big tiger was just too large and too fierce. Roaming the wilds was fine, but it'd cause a scene if it entered any cultivator or barbarian territory.
So for now, Mo Hua had no choice but to leave it roaming freely in the mountains.
After parting ways with the big tiger, Mo Hua followed the mountain path to the Wutu Tribe, where the barbarian elder lived.
The Wutu Tribe wasn't far—only about twenty li away.
Following the elder's lingering aura, Mo Hua soon arrived at the outskirts of the tribe.
Hanging at the entrance was a totem—reddish-brown in color, depicting both mountain and flame shapes, forming a crude image of a small volcano.
Inside, the tribe was made up of tents large and small.
The tents were constructed from worn-out demon beast pelts and rough hemp cloth.
All the decorations and furnishings gave off a distinct wilderness vibe.
But honestly, "tribe" was being generous—it looked more like a poor mountain village.
There were only about five or six hundred people, most of whom were old, sick, or disabled. There were very few able-bodied adults.
At the perimeter, they'd built a simple wooden fence.
Crude array markings had been painted on the fence—meant to ward off beasts and intruders.
But to Mo Hua, these were as good as nonexistent.
Silently cloaked in concealment, he entered the tribe without a sound. He sensed the aura of the elder—Zhamu—coming from the largest tent.
Mo Hua slipped inside like a shadow.
The tent was quite spacious, though sparsely furnished.
Inside, Zhamu was sitting beside his grandson, visibly worried.
"He just needs a few days of rest," Mo Hua said calmly.
Zhamu jumped at the voice. He turned and saw the mysterious young man already seated on a chair, flipping through some barbarian-language scrolls laid out on the table.
Zhamu quickly steadied himself, bowed respectfully, and said:
"Greetings, Senior."
Being called "Senior" by someone clearly older than him made Mo Hua feel a bit weird inside.
But out here in the world, he couldn't reveal his true identity so casually.
The more people misunderstood him, the better.
The more misunderstandings, the further from the truth.
Mo Hua remained composed and pointed to the stone stool across from him. "Sit."
Zhamu obeyed and sat carefully, still visibly uneasy.
Mo Hua gave him a glance and said, "You don't need to worry too much about your grandson. What you should be concerned about… is yourself. Your divine sense is heavily injured."
"Injuries to the divine sense aren't like physical wounds. You may not notice them in daily life, but they come with stabbing pain from time to time—intangible, invisible, and notoriously hard to heal."
Zhamu bowed again and said:
"Thank you, Senior, for the warning. But this old body is already rotten wood… whether I live or die, it matters little now."
Mo Hua nodded, then asked:
"What is the Barbarian God?"
Zhamu's expression twitched slightly. After some thought, he slowly replied:
"The Barbarian God… is the deity we barbarians worship."
Mo Hua asked, "A real deity?"
Zhamu hesitated, then said:
"It dwells in the unseen, its power unfathomable. It protects our people, helps us thrive, and defends us from invaders—so we call it a god. And because it's our god, it's known as the Barbarian God."
Mo Hua gave a slight nod—he understood now.
These barbarians didn't really know what they were dealing with.
As long as something was a presence of divine sense and could help them—even if it was a demon, a ghost, a monster, or some eldritch thing—they'd treat it as a god.
Whether it was really a god didn't matter. Or rather, they didn't need to know.
Even if their "god" demanded their children as sacrifice, they'd probably go along with it.
Of course, they didn't have a choice.
Even minor spirits or demons are beyond the capabilities of ordinary cultivators.
This Zhamu elder had studied some shamanic arts and divine sense techniques—frankly, he was already quite powerful. But going up against that "Barbarian God," he never stood a chance.
Even if that "Barbarian God" was really just a mountain spirit of unknown origin.
Zhamu glanced nervously at Mo Hua. He didn't dare ask, but his anxiety finally pushed him to speak:
"Senior… may I ask about the Wutu God…"
"What?" Mo Hua blinked.
Zhamu had spoken with a heavy barbarian accent, and Mo Hua hadn't caught it at first.
Zhamu repeated, "The Wutu God…"
Then explained, "The Barbarian God our Wutu Tribe worships—sharp-faced, clawed, mighty in form. The place where I met you was the shrine where we offer it tribute…"
Mo Hua let out a soft "Oh."
So that "Barbarian God" he casually killed with a single punch… actually had a name.
And he didn't even know its name… before he erased it from existence.
Elder Zhamu's cloudy eyes were filled with hopeful anticipation as he looked at Mo Hua. It was clear he longed to hear a certain answer—but was also afraid of hearing the truth.
For the barbarian tribes, the relationship between the tribe and their god was always a contradiction.
If the god protected the tribe, the tribe could thrive and grow.
But if the god was greedy and insatiable, then sooner or later, the tribe would wither and die.
And now, the Wutu God had clearly become an "evil god." If what he'd seen in that dream wasn't real—if the Wutu God still existed—then one day, it would unleash its wrath upon them. And the Wutu Tribe… would be utterly doomed.
Zhamu had to confirm this. If he didn't, great disaster would follow.
Mo Hua, truthfully, didn't really want to say anything.
Killing a Barbarian God… and eating it? That sort of thing was best kept quiet.
But when he saw Elder Zhamu's furrowed brow and deeply unsettled fear, he couldn't help but feel a bit silent and conflicted.
To Mo Hua, it was a minor matter.
But if Zhamu didn't get clarity, he'd probably spend the rest of his life living in fear.
Mo Hua thought for a moment, then finally said simply:
"You don't need to offer sacrifices to your Wutu God anymore."
Zhamu froze.
Mo Hua added,
"It can't eat them anymore…"
Because I already ate it.
Zhamu trembled all over. In his aged eyes, a spark of hope ignited.
He fell to his knees and bowed until his forehead touched the ground, declaring:
"Your grace is vast and boundless, Senior. The Wutu Tribe will never forget it, not even in death."
Mo Hua replied calmly,
"I didn't do anything."
Zhamu instantly tensed, and said solemnly:
"This old one understands."
Mo Hua nodded, quite satisfied with Zhamu's tact and discretion.
Then a sudden thought struck him. He asked:
"The Wutu God… do all the Barbarian Gods here have names?"
Zhamu nodded.
"They're usually named after the local mountains, rivers… but most commonly, after the tribe itself."
Mo Hua asked again:
"In this Great Wilderness of yours, how many tribes are there?"
Zhamu replied:
"According to ancient tradition, the Great Wilderness holds three thousand great mountains—and three thousand clans."
"Three thousand!?" Mo Hua was startled.
He quickly followed up:
"Then wouldn't that mean there are around three thousand Barbarian Gods too?"
Zhamu was slightly taken aback. He didn't understand why this unfathomably calm and mysterious "Senior" suddenly looked… excited.
Zhamu explained:
"The number isn't fixed. As clans rise and fall, sometimes there are more, sometimes less. But overall… around that number."
Before he could finish his sentence, Mo Hua interrupted:
"Help me with something…"
He took out a brush and paper, and handed it to the utterly confused Zhamu.
"Write down all the Barbarian Gods you know—name, background, location, how they're worshipped. Everything."
(End of this Chapter)