Chapter 1219: Shi-Gu

Chapter 1218: Shi-Gu

At the beginning, the people of the Great Wilderness only thought this was a simple famine.

In the history of the Great Wilderness, famines broke out often, with similar records appearing repeatedly.

Most barbarian cultivators also thought this famine would be the same as before—some would starve to death, endure it, and it would pass.

Until the famine spread rapidly over a larger area.

The barbarian cultivators shrouded in famine began showing all sorts of strange anomalies.

Only then did people realize—this time might not be the same…

…

At this moment, across the desolate lands of the Three Thousand Wildernesses, an army of more than six thousand barbarian soldiers was marching forward like a long dragon.

Mo Hua, as Shaman, was leading the way at the front.

He also closely observed the famine conditions along the way.

After leaving the Wu-Tian Tribe, the scenery along the road was the same as before—utterly desolate.

But gradually, human figures began appearing.

These were people truly “alive.”

And many of them were cultivators from mid- to large-scale tribes.

Seeing this, Mo Hua finally let out a slight breath of relief.

“Good… at least there are still living people…”

Mo Hua began sending men to contact these surviving tribal cultivators, to understand their situation.

After some contact, Mo Hua roughly understood why these tribes had managed to survive the famine.

When facing disaster, people often respond slowly.

At first, they too hadn’t taken this famine seriously.

But as the “strangeness” of the famine gradually revealed itself, many tribes realized the problem.

These tribes were usually mid-to-large tribes, with secluded ancestors, powerful great chiefs, knowledgeable grand elders, and many competent Golden Core cultivators.

Their higher cultivation allowed them to see what ordinary barbarian cultivators could not.

Thus, they took various measures to respond to the famine—even going so far as migrating their entire tribes to avoid the calamity.

These measures were far from perfect. Many still died midway, tribes scattered, falling apart, succumbing to countless unknown factors.

Moreover, it wasn’t just about foresight—it depended on execution.

If a tribe acted too slowly and didn’t migrate before the famine spread, the outcome would hardly be good.

But with tribes as a foundation, at least some still survived.

As for the smaller tribes—low cultivation, unable to perceive the oncoming disaster—they could only leave their fate to heaven.

If lucky enough to be caught in the “gaps” of the famine, they might survive.

Like the Wu-Tian Tribe, for instance.

But if unlucky, swallowed directly by famine, they could only meet the doom of tribal annihilation, everyone reduced to dried corpses.

The “famine” was like a giant “sieve,” filtering the Great Wilderness once over.

Those who hadn’t died—whether by luck, chance, or foresight—surviving at all was no easy feat.

Mo Hua also tried, under the name of “Shaman” and Dan-Zhu, to rally these survivors, uniting against the natural disaster.

But most tribes refused.

“Those not of my tribe must have different hearts.”

In the Great Wilderness, tribal conflicts were deep, divisions severe—they would not easily trust outsiders.

Especially now, with famine rampant, surrendering to a stranger like Mo Hua—who could say if they wouldn’t be treated as “rations”?

Moreover, the force under Mo Hua’s banner was far too powerful.

The late Golden Core general Lu-Gu, plus a dozen Golden Core commanders from the Shugu Tribe.

The Vermilion Sparrow Tribe’s young master Dan-Zhu, along with the barbarian general Chi-Feng and two Golden Core elders.

And the ferocious Abyssal-Bone heavy-armored soldiers, plus six thousand barbarian troops in alliance.

Such power in these famine years was practically a “giant crocodile.”

These scattered survivor tribes, if they followed Mo Hua’s force, could be devoured whole without even the strength to resist.

Mo Hua could also use force to “absorb” them, but it would be meaningless.

With divided hearts, absorbing them would serve no use.

Besides, Mo Hua himself was now barely able to protect his own force.

If he could just preserve what he had, and let his people live, that was already fortune enough.

Mo Hua sighed inwardly.

But no matter what, it was good that there were still living people.

If some were still alive, it meant the Famine Calamity Grand Formation had not fully closed—this “heavenly disaster” still left a thread of survival…

“As for Martial Uncle… what exactly does he plan to do with this Famine Calamity Grand Formation…”

Mo Hua lifted his head, gazing at the pitch-black death aura above, his brows tightly furrowed.

Heaven and earth like a chessboard, the living like pieces.

Now, the Great Wilderness was the board, and these countless barbarian cultivators were pieces.

Martial Uncle’s pair of black hands was moving everything.

And he himself—unknowingly—had fallen headfirst into Martial Uncle’s game…

Mo Hua’s heart grew heavy, even his sea of consciousness felt stifled.

…

Afterward, Mo Hua pressed on, though the weight on his chest never lifted.

Dan-Zhu and the others, however, felt a little better.

Along the way, some tribes with ties to the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe shared bits of news.

From this, they learned that the main Vermilion Sparrow Tribe had temporarily survived.

Though the exact situation was unclear, at least there was no danger of extermination.

Dan-Zhu and the others let out a breath of relief, but their desire to return to the tribe only grew stronger.

They continued forward, and after two more days of travel, a mountain range stretched across before them.

The famine loomed like miasma, covering the entire range, blocking the way.

Dan-Zhu and the others split up to scout, walking far along both sides, yet the famine mist remained endless.

The miasma merged with the famine like a “Great Wall,” cutting them off completely.

The road ahead was utterly blocked.

Everyone’s expressions grew solemn.

If they wanted to continue toward the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe’s main territory, they would have to cross this mountain range.

But the famine aura had withered the entire range.

Crossing through would mean everyone dying of “hunger.”

Dan-Zhu looked toward Mo Hua.

Mo Hua frowned in thought, but for the moment had no good solution.

He himself, alone, had methods—using rule-construction to suppress famine aura and cross.

But that was only limited suppression, not enough to calm famine on a large scale.

With six thousand men, too many in number, if they forced their way through, the slightest slip could trigger cannibalism—inevitably leading to total annihilation.

Mo Hua’s gaze grew heavy.

The Heavenly Secrets were worsening, sinister shadows hovered in his heart—time was running out.

But the more urgent it was, the more trivial matters delayed him.

And anxiety was useless.

The famine blocking their path was a dead end.

Thus two more days dragged on.

The problem of the blocked road remained unsolved, but another, even more pressing problem appeared:

“We’re running out of food.”

Under famine, the Great Wilderness already had little to eat.

With six thousand on the march, the consumption was enormous.

What they had brought was only enough for a month.

Now, after leaving the Wusha Mountain Realm for over half a month, soon the food would be gone.

When that happened, all the barbarian soldiers would starve.

Although cultivators’ bodies were strong and could endure long hunger, their blood-essence would still decline.

Once it declined enough, they would still suffer unbearable hunger.

If the barbarian soldiers starved too long, even without famine aura, hunger alone would drive them mad, causing riots.

This was something Mo Hua hadn’t foreseen.

He had expected famine, but underestimated its severity.

If this problem wasn’t solved, mutiny was only a matter of time.

Once mutiny broke out, the foundation would be lost, and nothing else would matter.

Dan-Zhu and the others clearly realized this too, their faces dark with worry.

At this moment, Lu-Gu said to the group:

“Let’s change our route.”

“Change our route?”

“Yes,” Lu-Gu said, “Don’t head for the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe yet. Let’s first go to Shi-Gu Tribe.”

“Shi-Gu…” Chi-Feng’s pupils shrank.

Mo Hua didn’t understand what “Shi-Gu” meant, so Dan-Zhu whispered:

“Shi-Gu is Lu-Gu’s elder brother, another chief general of the Shugu Tribe. He’s late Golden Core, even stronger than Lu-Gu.”

(TN: Shi-Gu translates to Bone-Slayer)

“Shi-Gu and Lu-Gu are the two strongest generals of the Shugu Tribe.”

Mo Hua slightly nodded.

Lu-Gu said, “About a hundred li west from here is my brother’s Shi-Gu Tribe. We can rest there and seek supplies.”

But Chi-Feng shook his head. “No.”

Lu-Gu sneered. “What? Afraid?”

Chi-Feng’s expression darkened.

Mo Hua noticed the hatred hidden in Chi-Feng’s eyes—he understood.

Chi-Feng must have a grudge with Shi-Gu.

One was a Vermilion Sparrow general, the other a Shugu general—they had fought.

And clearly, Chi-Feng had lost.

Many of his scars were likely left by Shi-Gu.

That explained his hostility and fear.

Chi-Feng said coldly, “Shi-Gu is a ruthless warlord, cunning and merciless. We must not deal with him now.”

Lu-Gu asked, “And compared to your Vermilion Sparrow Grand Chieftain?”

Chi-Feng replied, “Of course my Grand Chieftain is stronger.”

Lu-Gu smirked. “I dared face your Grand Chieftain. Yet you dare not face my brother Shi-Gu?

“Does that mean you believe my brother is stronger, and you fear him more?”

Chi-Feng’s face reddened in anger, but he was seasoned and would not take the bait.

“Our Grand Chieftain is righteous. Your brother Shi-Gu may not be.

“We avoid him for the safety of Young Master Dan-Zhu. Shi-Gu’s ambition is boundless—who knows what he might do?”

Lu-Gu’s gaze chilled. He turned to Dan-Zhu.

“Young Master Dan-Zhu… how about you? Do you dare meet my brother?”

Dan-Zhu fell silent.

It wasn’t that he didn’t dare. But as the teacher once said: A precious child does not sit beneath a crumbling wall.

Those who would achieve great things must cherish their lives.

Just then, Mo Hua suddenly said:

“We can.”

Dan-Zhu was stunned. Chi-Feng frowned.

Even Lu-Gu was taken aback.

“Yes,” Mo Hua nodded. “We’ll change course and see your brother Shi-Gu.”

Lu-Gu was silent a moment, then smiled faintly.

“As expected of Lord Shaman. Indeed fearless… Then it’s settled.”

Once they met Shi-Gu, the two Late Golden Core generals would stand together.

Even with Chi-Feng, Dan-Zhu, and over a hundred fifty Abyssal-Bone Heavy-Armored Soldiers, Mo Hua could not be protected.

The two brothers could strike together and slay the demonic Shaman without fail.

Even if not killing him, they could coerce and imprison him.

Better yet—extract the secret of forging the Shugu Ancestor’s heavy armor. That was the real prize.

Lu-Gu looked at Mo Hua without a trace.

Mo Hua’s gaze was calm and steady.

He knew Lu-Gu’s intent, but now, time was too urgent. He had to unite all possible strength.

This Shi-Gu—if he could be “won over,” “allied with,” or even just persuaded into a state of “mutual non-aggression” and coexistence—would still be an enormous help.

That way, he could “command” two late–Golden Core generals from the Shugu Tribe and wield the strength of two of Shugu’s main divisions.

Of course, the thought was a bit too idealistic. The process would certainly be full of obstacles, with tremendous risks.

But in this world, risk and reward always came together.

Without risk, there could be no gain.

And in dealing with Shi-Gu, Mo Hua was not without leverage.

His eyes deepened, steady as the abyss.

…

Since Mo Hua had spoken, the matter was settled.

Dan-Zhu and Chi Feng said nothing more.

Lu-Gu readily agreed.

The group turned west, heading toward the Shi-Gu Tribe.

The journey was treacherous; famine’s spread, hostile tribes along the way, and constant skirmishes slowed them. After two full days, they finally reached the valley where Shi-Gu’s tribe resided.

Upon entering the valley, they were greeted by low shrubs, yellow-brown tinged with hints of green.

The trees had not withered.

There were even demonic beasts roaring in the distance.

On any other day, this would have been called “desolate.”

But compared to the famine’s devastation everywhere else, this sight could almost be called “teeming with life.”

Not only did Lu-Gu’s eyes brighten with joy, but even Dan-Zhu, Chi Feng, and the others—long used to withered earth and corpses starved to death—felt an unexpected sense of relief at the scene before them.

Walking in such a “vibrant” valley, seemingly untouched by famine, their steps unconsciously grew lighter.

Mo Hua, too, let himself relax a little.

But after another ten miles, his expression gradually darkened.

He said nothing.

The group pressed forward. Before long, even Lu-Gu, whose face had been full of ease, sensed something wrong. His expression grew grim.

After a while, the other Golden Core cultivators noticed it too.

It was too quiet…

Clearly the valley brimmed with “life”—even the cries of demonic beasts could be heard. Yet not a single human voice.

When they reached the valley’s mouth and looked toward the gate of Shi-Gu’s tribe, everyone’s heart sank.

They couldn’t see famine’s miasma itself.

But the aftermath of famine-deaths—the rotting blood and mountain vapors mingling into a red-yellow fog—they could see clearly.

Before them, the valley’s entrance was filled with this famine miasma.

And within the valley, the entire Shi-Gu Tribe—those towering tribal tents and strange towers—was “submerged” in dense, choking mist.

Outside the valley, no sign of famine.

Inside, the entire valley was utterly consumed.

So much so that, who knew for how long, blood-reeking dew had condensed on rooftops and statues, dripping down drop by drop.

Other than that—nothing.

The air was deathly silent.

This was…

Everyone looked at one another, faces pale.

Lu-Gu stepped forward, both horrified and chilled, then roused the power of his Golden Core, filling his dantian, and shouted loudly:

“Brother!”

“Shi-Gu?!”

“Where is everyone?!”

As a late–Golden Core cultivator, his blood-qi was immense. His roars were like a tiger’s bellow, shaking the mountains, echoing without end.

But no one responded.

All around remained deathly still.

Lu-Gu pondered briefly, then his eyes hardened. He casually pointed to several Shugu warriors and ordered: “You, go inside, see if anyone remains.”

Mo Hua’s gaze sank. “Don’t go.”

The Shugu warriors themselves didn’t want to go. They glanced at Mo Hua, then fearfully at Lu-Gu.

Lu-Gu’s eyes turned vicious: “Is he the general, or am I the general?”

Mo Hua was not Shugu’s Shaman; he had no authority to command Lu-Gu.

Afraid of Lu-Gu’s might, the warriors had no choice but to enter the foggy valley.

The moment they touched the famine’s aura, something strange happened. Their faces twisted, eyes filling with an unconscious hunger.

Red-yellow mist, like bloody dew, seeped into their meridians through nose and mouth.

Mo Hua frowned.

Lu-Gu still barked: “Keep going!”

Though starving inside, they retained some reason and obeyed their general’s command, marching deeper into the valley.

Step by step, they disappeared into the fog.

A moment later, from within the miasma came the sound of flesh being gnawed—wet, sticky, and gruesome.

Then, silence. Nothing.

Lu-Gu grew restless and agitated, pointing at more warriors: “You, go in, and if you find anyone, shout loudly!”

The chosen Shugu warriors trembled in terror.

Dan-Zhu could no longer bear it, frowning he said: “The Shi-Gu Tribe may have already moved away. This fog may hold no one at all. There’s no need to keep sending men to die.”

But Lu-Gu ignored him.

Of course, he wished his brother’s tribe had moved away, leaving the mist empty.

But he couldn’t be sure.

Outside the valley, there wasn’t a trace of human departure. If they had moved, where could they have gone?

Yet if Shi-Gu and his people hadn’t left, and were instead still “living” inside this famine fog…

Cold dread surged through Lu-Gu’s heart.

Without another word, he commanded harshly: “Go. Inside!”

The Shugu warriors hesitated.

Lu-Gu’s expression turned vicious—he immediately struck out and snapped one warrior’s neck on the spot.

The remaining few who had been “named” saw this and, trembling with fear, had no choice but to step into the miasma.

Their fate proved no different.

Along with several agonized wails, the wet, grisly sound of flesh being torn and devoured rose from within, and they vanished forever into the thick fog.

Yet Lu-Gu still would not give up. This time, he seemed intent on pointing out even more warriors.

Just then, Mo Hua’s expression shifted slightly. He shook his head and said, “No need to trouble yourself…”

Lu-Gu froze.

Mo Hua’s voice deepened: “The ‘people’ inside… they’re already coming out.”

Before his words finished, it was as if the blood-essence of those sent to die had awakened the fog.

The suffocating fog began to churn, stirring awake those who had been “slumbering” within.

From the red-yellow miasma that symbolized the Famine Calamity, silhouettes of human figures began to surface.

One after another, until before long, they formed a vast, oppressive mass.

Amid the deathly silence, the sight was especially eerie.

At the very center of that crowd stood a towering figure, like a small giant, broad and majestic—bearing an uncanny resemblance to Lu-Gu.

Lu-Gu had wished to see his elder brother, and now it seemed he was about to.

Yet, for reasons unknown, a tingling numbness crept across his scalp.

(End of this chapter)