Chapter 1160: Fire
Just a sliver away—Divine Sense with twenty-two runes. That level of progress was quite remarkable.
It even exceeded Mo Hua's expectations.
He had originally assumed these barbarian gods were all just "minor deities"—not even gods in the proper sense. No Divine Essence, and their true forms were merely mountain spirits, phantoms, or demonic beasts of low grade.
The strongest one, the barbarian god of the Wulu Tribe, was only at Second Grade Peak, not even Third Grade.
Yet to his surprise, while these barbarian gods weren't strong in cultivation… their meat was extremely nourishing.
After pondering a bit, Mo Hua figured it out.
Though their true forms were mere monsters, these barbarian gods had gained a sliver of divine authority—they had tasted incense offerings, received the worship of believers, and begun to form rudimentary divinity. Compared to typical evil spirits, their quality was on a whole other level.
Devouring them provided an excellent boost to his Divine Sense.
Low cultivation, easy to hunt, and a potent supplement after eating—these barbarian gods of the Great Wilderness were undoubtedly "delicacies" on the Divine Sense menu.
Mo Hua felt deeply that the Great Wilderness was a fine place—a land of fortune for him.
Though sometimes, it did feel a bit like: "Shallow waters breed too many turtles. Any mangy dog or chicken dares call itself a god here."
But then he thought again—it wasn't really fair to compare them like that.
He was a special case.
These locally-grown barbarian gods, how could they possibly compare to him—someone who:
Had attained the Dao through Divine Sense
Transformed his path through Divine Will
Cultivated the God-Slaying Sword
Studied the Heavenly Demon Path
Comprehended both the Heavenly Secret Derivative Algorithm and Heavenly Secret Deceptive Algorithm
Had consumed Divine Essence
Survived the Desolate Heaven Blood Sacrifice
Devoured countless demons and monsters
Even captured the true fetus of an evil god alive—
—A proper "demigod" in every sense?
Whether it was the foundation of his Divine Sense, the depth of his Divine Will, his combat experience, or the weight of his inheritance—they weren't even on the same scale.
If it hadn't been him—if it were any other cultivator, even one in the Golden Core Realm—stepping into the heart of these Three Thousand Wilderness Mountains, they would likely have fallen prey to the subtle and eerie barbarian gods without even realizing it, eventually becoming sacrifices on some altar.
"It's not that the barbarian gods of the Great Wilderness are too weak. It's just that I'm too strong."
"Can't blame them…"
In his heart, Mo Hua silently restored a bit of dignity to the barbarian gods.
Now that he was just one step away from twenty-two runes, his motivation only grew.
He accelerated his "Barbarian God Hunt."
All of this, of course, was done in the shadows.
Most tribes had no idea that the gods they worshipped had already been slaughtered—and eaten—by Mo Hua.
But as the hunting continued, the number of targets rapidly decreased.
On Elder Zhamu's list, most names of the barbarian gods had already been crossed out.
After all, no matter how many barbarian gods the Great Wilderness had, they couldn't withstand Mo Hua's relentless, sickle-like harvest.
And Elder Zhamu was just a small elder of a minor tribe. He rarely left the region and only knew of the gods around Mount Wutu—a limited number.
Those he could kill, those he should kill, those that were easy to kill—Mo Hua had already handled them. And devoured them.
The remaining ones? A few weren't bad at all. They truly fulfilled the role of barbarian gods—diligent, dutiful, genuinely blessing their tribes with favorable weather.
Mo Hua felt a bit embarrassed eating those. He simply gave them a glance, then left them alone.
Then there were others—neither good nor evil—but incredibly alert and deeply hidden. These ones were hard to kill.
Mo Hua lurked in various tribes for quite a while, but couldn't catch any slip-ups from these types.
Eventually, he overheard some tribal elders chatting and learned the truth: these barbarian gods had sent them dream warnings—strictly instructing them to cease all sacrifices.
Not even offerings were to be laid out. No one was allowed to worship. They were to act as if their tribe had no god at all. Only this way could they avert unseen disaster, dodge unknown calamity.
Cowardly as frightened birds, these "turtle-in-its-shell" barbarian gods… Mo Hua could do nothing about them.
His time was precious. He couldn't afford to waste effort chasing a lone sapling and ignore the whole forest—so he let them be.
Heaven values life, after all.
Any barbarian god that he could reach was likely one that deserved to die—already walking the path to death.
The ones he couldn't touch? That meant their fates were not yet exhausted. To forcefully sever their karma would be wrong.
In a way, this too was respecting Heaven's way, abiding by karmic law.
Mo Hua was becoming increasingly adept at navigating the web of fate and causality.
But with this shift—fewer barbarian gods to devour—his Divine Sense advancement inevitably slowed.
He had no choice but to expand his ambitions—venturing beyond Mount Wutu, to hunt barbarian gods in the outer regions.
But doing so would require serious preparation.
According to Elder Zhamu, beyond Mount Wutu were many "Great Tribes."
These "Great Tribes" had numerous Golden Core cultivators. Some even possibly housed legendary Nascent Soul–realm nobles and Dragon Lords, worshipped by tens of thousands.
Those were existences Mo Hua couldn't afford to offend.
Here in the Three Thousand Mountains of the Great Wilderness, his connections were even scarcer than in Great Desert City.
At least in Great Desert City, he had the Dao Soldiers Division and the Yang Clan.
But here in the heart of the Wilderness, he was truly alone—no background, no support.
If anything went wrong, there would be no one to back him up.
He didn't even have a base of operations.
In a place like Tongxian City, while there weren't many high-tier cultivators, he had high prestige among the common cultivators. He was well-liked, highly respected.
The Dao Court Office, the small clans, minor sects, rogue cultivators, monster hunters, artifact forgers, array masters… everyone was of one heart with him.
Whatever he wanted to do, he had people lining up to help.
But here in the Wilderness? He had nothing.
The only one at his side was the "big tiger" he depended on.
So, in all things, he had to be cautious.
At the very least, he had to figure out the lay of the land—understand the general barbarian god situation beyond Mount Wutu—then make a move.
Ideally, he could get another "Elder Zhamu's list," and things would go twice as smoothly with half the effort.
This matter needed careful long-term planning.
But before that, Mo Hua's current task was to comb through Mount Wutu and the surrounding mountain tribes one more time—to see if there were any fish that slipped through the net.
So, Mo Hua continued mapping the area, plugging the gaps while also steadily pushing forward with his plan to expand outward and hunt more barbarian gods.
Time passed little by little, and his plans gradually advanced.
When he had spare time, he would still go visit the big tiger.
Now, the most beast-infested and treacherous peak in the deep mountains of Mount Wutu had become the big tiger's private domain.
The Second-Grade beasts that once occupied the peak had either been torn apart by the big tiger or had fled in fear, not daring to cross back into its territory.
Mount Wutu had become the tiger's domain in every sense.
It had truly become the king of the mountain.
The big tiger had even started stockpiling beast meat—specifically so Mo Hua could roast it for him.
It had grown a little spoiled. Unless absolutely unavoidable, it wouldn't eat any beast meat unless Mo Hua personally roasted it.
In its cave, Mo Hua had even set up a "Three-Nines Cold Ice Array."
An Ice-type formation, one of the more intricate Eight Trigram Arrays. It was complicated in structure and sparsely transmitted—few cultivators even knew how to set one up.
Fortunately, the Great Void Sect had a vast trove of formation texts. Mo Hua had studied a wide array of formations under Venerable Elder Xun and had learned some basics in ice arrays.
The Three-Nines Cold Ice Array was one of them. Not especially profound, but more than sufficient.
Whenever the tiger killed a beast, it would store the carcass on the Cold Ice Array to preserve it and keep it fresh, preventing spoilage.
Then, once Mo Hua returned from hunting barbarian gods, he would roast the meat for it.
While he cooked, the tiger would lie nearby with its eyes wide open, staring fixedly.
When the meat was ready, the tiger would let out an "Awoo!" and open its mouth wide. Mo Hua would toss the meat in, and it would chew slowly—freshly roasted, freshly eaten—with an expression of pure bliss.
Mo Hua always kept some of that roasted meat aside.
He brought it to the Wutu Tribe and shared it with Little Zha Tu.
Zha Tu was Elder Zhamu's grandson—the same child the elder had once planned to offer in sacrifice to the barbarian god.
Like all other barbarian children, Zha Tu had beast-totem tattoos etched into his skin.
But unlike the others, he was small and thin, lacking that typical savage fierceness and brutish energy.
The Wutu Tribe was impoverished. Even as the elder's grandson, Zha Tu hadn't received any special treatment. When Mo Hua gave him the roasted meat, the boy was filled with both surprise and anxiety. He nervously asked:
"Mr. Wu… can I eat it?"
Mo Hua nodded. "You've been hurt. You need to nourish your body."
Though Little Zha Tu had improved somewhat, his foundation was weak—his body still frail and in need of strengthening.
Among the barbarian tribes, meat was the staple of daily life.
But due to years of war and famine, even meat had become scarce.
And even when there was meat, it wasn't exactly good meat.
The barbarians had almost no cooking skills, used barely any spices—the meat was always gamey, dry, and tough. Chewing it was like gnawing dried ox tendon.
The worst part was: in the Great Wilderness, no distinction was made between carnivorous and herbivorous beasts.
They ate everything.
Herbivorous beasts were fine.
But carnivorous beasts—those were different. Not only did they kill humans, they fed on them. Their flesh was infused with human blood and nutrients, and their demonic energy was far denser.
As a result, eating carnivorous beast meat could cause serious side effects for cultivators:
Violent mood swings. Bloodlust. Loss of reason. Hallucinations of blood and slaughter.
Their meridians could be tainted by demonic energy, shortening their lifespan. Even cultivation could go awry—one careless moment and they'd suffer a qi deviation.
But in the Great Wilderness, none of this seemed to matter much.
The environment was brutal, and barbarian cultivators died young anyway. No one cared if they lived shorter lives.
And with such poor conditions, having anything to eat was already considered lucky—no one fussed over what kind of meat it was.
In fact, some particularly savage tribes even practiced cannibalism.
Yes—actual human-eating.
So eating carnivorous beasts, which was sort of like indirect cannibalism, could even seem relatively civilized.
These customs had been part of the Wilderness for thousands of years. Mo Hua couldn't change them—he could only respect them to a degree.
But the meat he gave Little Zha Tu had been carefully selected—from herbivorous beasts only.
It had been purified with formation fire to remove demonic energy and bad odors, then seasoned with spices. Clean and delicious.
Zha Tu took one bite—and his eyes widened instantly. But then he hesitated, reluctant to eat more. He tried to store it away. Yet halfway through, he suddenly froze.
Mo Hua asked, "What's wrong?"
Zha Tu fell silent for a moment, then said in a low voice:
"This meat is so good… I wanted to save some for Ah Da, Ah Li, and Na Zhen to taste too… but then I remembered—they're gone. I'm the only one left…"
His expression grew still and silent.
Mo Hua's heart ached a little.
Separation, death, grief beyond repair—this child had tasted them far too early.
Mo Hua gently shifted the topic: "Your name is Zha Tu?"
The boy nodded.
"What does Zha Tu mean in barbarian script?"
Zha Tu replied, "It means 'when the flame is lit.'"
Mo Hua blinked. "Then your grandfather's name, Zha Mu—does it mean wood?"
Zha Tu nodded again. "It means strong, solid firewood."
He explained, "My grandfather was named Zha Mu, so he named me 'Zha Tu'—it means that he is the firewood, and I am the spark, the flame that burns from him. I was supposed to be the hope of the Wutu Tribe's revival."
Then he sighed. "But I'm useless. My grandfather became the wood… but this little flame of mine—never managed to light."
Mo Hua's gaze turned thoughtful.
Little Zha Tu actually had quite decent spiritual roots.
Moreover, this child had a kind heart—something truly rare in the wild and savage lands of the Great Wilderness.
Mo Hua then asked, "What about your parents?"
Little Zha Tu looked a bit downcast and replied, "My mother passed away. My father… he was conscripted to go fight against the Dao Court."
Mo Hua's expression darkened slightly.
It seemed that the Great Wilderness army wasn't composed solely of warriors from the royal tribes and their vassals. Many of the soldiers were likely conscripted young men from smaller, weaker tribes like Zha Tu's.
And these low-ranking tribal cultivators—especially from minor tribes—certainly wouldn't receive good treatment.
Most of them were likely used as cannon fodder.
It was entirely possible that on the night the Wilderness Gate mutinied and ambushed the Dao soldiers, Zha Tu's father had been one of the nameless soldiers on the front lines, clashing with the Dao forces.
On the battlefield, they might be just faceless pawns.
But back in their tribe, they were the backbone of a household.
They were the only father a child had.
And Zha Tu's father had likely already perished in that battle—never to return.
Mo Hua sighed inwardly and asked, "Have all the adults in your tribe been sent to war?"
Zha Tu nodded. "Most of the uncles and older men with stronger cultivation were taken."
"A lot of our supplies—food, water—were also requisitioned."
"That made the Wutu Tribe even weaker."
"We couldn't defend against the beasts in the mountains, so we had to abandon our original camp and come here to survive."
"Without supplies, and with no adults left to hunt, we barely have anything to eat."
"Plus, this year there were strange omens. The sky burned with falling fire—it's hotter than ever before. Some of the wild millet in the mountains dried up completely. There's even less to eat now."
"Many in the Wutu Tribe have already starved to death."
"That's why Grandpa had no choice but to pray to the barbarian gods—hoping for blessings, so that the millet wouldn't die and the hunts would yield prey, just enough… just enough to help our tribe make it through the next few years…"
Zha Tu's voice dropped to a murmur. "To survive… until my father and the others return from the war."
Though in his heart, he knew that was likely impossible.
His father and the other men probably weren't coming back.
And even if they did… the old, the sick, and the children like him might not survive that long.
Mo Hua's expression grew heavier. "Are the other tribes in the same situation?"
Zha Tu nodded. "Yeah. Pretty much. Some are worse than us. Whole tribes have starved to death. Some… some got so hungry they started eating each other…"
"There used to be some smaller tribes around here. Now, they're all gone. The entire tribe… dead."
Mo Hua's brows furrowed deeply. He asked again, "If things are that desperate, why not leave the tribe and find another way to survive?"
Zha Tu shook his head seriously. "You can't leave the tribe… Once you leave the tribe, you lose your tribal totem. That makes you a 'barbarian slave.' And barbarian slaves aren't even considered people. If they catch you, they treat you like livestock. You'll just die even worse."
Mo Hua let out a long, deep sigh.
This was war—the other side of its cruelty.
Both the front lines and the rear were being drained by war.
And the suffering and poverty of the tribal cultivators in the Great Wilderness… was something he hadn't fully expected.
It seemed that no matter where you went, those at the bottom always suffered the most.
And right now… he still couldn't do anything about it.
Mo Hua sighed again and looked at little Zha Tu.
The boy was still eating the roasted meat Mo Hua had given him. He ate slowly and carefully, cherishing every bite as if afraid there'd never be more.
Mo Hua's heart clenched a little. Suddenly, something inside him jolted.
How many times had he seen scenes like this—these heart-wrenching moments?
And how many times had he simply sighed and called himself "helpless"?
Was he really just going to remain "helpless" forever?
Was he truly powerless—or just using that as an excuse for his inaction?
Why had he cultivated all this power—this immense spiritual sense, these countless spells and techniques?
Mo Hua froze. His heart surged like crashing waves.
A cultivator seeks the Dao—and must also walk the Dao.
No matter how grand the "Dao" may be, it must begin with small deeds. Sooner or later, one must take action.
And if action is inevitable—why not begin now? Why not start with what he could do?
Defy fate. Change his destiny—and the destinies of all cultivators at the bottom.
Start right here in the Great Wilderness.
Change one person's fate. Then a tribe's. Then many tribes'. Until he altered the fate of all three thousand tribes in the Great Wilderness.
And with that—reshape the entire landscape of the Great Wilderness.
To build the foundation for his path to enlightenment in this savage, war-torn world—to forge his fate in defiance of Heaven itself!
Mo Hua's chest trembled with emotion. Even his blood seemed to surge and boil.
Beside him, Zha Tu was still carefully nibbling on his meat. Noticing Mo Hua's shifting expression and the profound, almost divine aura in his eyes, the child was a little confused. But something deep inside him stirred—a sense of awe and reverence. He couldn't help but quietly ask:
"Master Wu…?"
Mo Hua snapped back to himself, slowly retracting all his bold thoughts and grand ambitions, cutting off the threads of fate that had begun to unfurl.
He turned to look at Zha Tu, then reached out and gently patted the child's head with a warm smile.
"You have a good name."
(End of this Chapter)