Chapter 1232: Proving the Dao

Chapter 1231: Proving the Dao

The barbarian commander was at once terrified, furious, and bewildered. “Don’t you want to know who we are?” he demanded.

Mo Hua said, “The identities of the dead are nothing to fuss over.”

The Vermilion Sparrow Tribe and the Golden-Core Shugu began to strike.

The Abyssal-Bone heavy-armored troops, together with the other barbarian soldiers, moved in to strangle and rend.

Blood in the trees thickened; wails rose up. As one reinforcement after another fell, the barbarian commander’s eyes widened with rage.

Dan-Zhu stepped forward and drew a long blade, ready to end the commander’s life.

Though Dan-Zhu would be the one to kill him, the commander looked at Mo Hua with a murderous glare and hissed through clenched teeth:

“My Wujiao Tribe will not let you go. One day your tribe will be trampled flat by my Wujiao warriors. Your people will be forged into black smoke. You will be ripped to pieces by the Young Lord and fed to the Wujiao Great God. Never will you be allowed to pass on…”

Mo Hua waved his hand. “You sure talk a lot.”

Dan-Zhu brought his blade down and chopped off the barbarian commander’s head.

The head sprang free, blood spouting; it rolled three times on the ground before coming to a stop, eyes wide open, frozen in a look of deathly unwillingness.

Dan-Zhu stepped up and closed the eyes with the sole of his boot.

By then the fighting had thinned and was drawing to a close.

Though the reinforcements called by that commander rode barbarian horses and fought well in number, they were no match for Mo Hua’s eight hundred-odd barbarians—especially not before the Abyssal-Bone heavy-armored troops.

The crushing superiority in strength made the battle a one-sided slaughter.

Soon enough, the so-called Wujiao Tribe’s commander and all his men were dead.

Mo Hua ordered the spoils collected: over a hundred barbarian horses were seized. The corpses were hauled to the cliff and thrown down, their traces erased. The mountain beasts would make short work of them, finishing the remains and further hiding the evidence.

When all this was done, Mo Hua told his barbarians to pull back.

He himself went with Dan-Zhu and a few others to the Acha Clan, where they made simple burials for the dead. Mo Hua personally buried A-Bu.

After the grave was set, Mo Hua wanted to erect a stele for A-Bu.

But A-Bu was just an ordinary barbarian boy—no cultivation, no notable contributions, no deeds to praise. Perhaps he had ambitions and a heart to repay kindness, but everything had been cut off before it began.

His life had ended completely.

Mo Hua had nothing more to write; he simply inscribed “Tomb of the Boy A-Bu” on the stone. A-Bu was dead.

Yet there would be more boys to die just as simply.

Even now, many other “A-Bu”s were dying.

In this chaotic age they were hacked apart, bisected at the waist; innocent lives ended by disorder and war.

Mo Hua drew a deep breath and let the suppressed feelings in his heart settle.

“There is… no room left for gentleness,” he murmured.

Staring at the grave, his expression grew cold, a decisive willingness to kill now shone in his eyes.

…

Half a day later.

Hundreds of li away, before a great mountain valley, countless barbarian soldiers were arrayed, their ranks immense.

They wore black armor of a foul, eerie design. Many rode barbarian steeds or monstrous birds bound in iron chains. Among the troops were bent shaman-priests, faces stained black with blood, performing a strange war dance to rouse their soldiers’ morale. This was a full-fledged barbarian army, complete with units and shamanic amplifiers to bolster their fighting spirit.

A youth in a pure black cloak, cold-featured, sat astride a hideous vulture-beast bound by eighteen demon-chains.

This youth was the master of the barbarian host.

After a moment, hoofbeats sounded. A scout raced up, tumbled from his mount, bowed, and knelt before the black-cloaked youth.

“Reporting to the Young Lord: Lord Red-Vulture… is dead. Over two hundred warriors died. Their bodies were left in the wasteland. The barbarian horses are gone—seemingly… taken.”

The black-cloaked youth’s expression did not change, only a chilling decisiveness gathered between his brows; his voice was hoarse like an owl’s.

“Who dared kill my Wujiao Tribe’s people?”

The scout pressed his forehead to the ground, trembling uncontrollably, forcing himself to speak despite the fear.

“Those thieves… their strength is great, their work clean—left little trace. From the signs at the scene, it looks like ‘heavy barbarian troops’ were involved. Lord Red-Vulture and his men must have run into trouble…”

“Heavy troops…”

The black-cloaked youth’s pupils tightened.

In such a small place, a tribe could actually sustain a unit of heavy-armored barbarian soldiers?

“Anything else?” he asked.

“The time was tight, I couldn’t investigate closely; I rode straight back to report truthfully—”

The youth showed a flash of displeasure but did not scold further.

If Lord Red-Vulture was dead, a deeper inquiry might mean the scout himself would never return to report.

A dark, murderous temper passed over the youth’s brow.

He felt an urge to lead his men back and root out those who had dared offend his Wujiao Tribe—to slit throats one by one and watch the blood flow. He would not allow anyone to defy the Wujiao Tribe.

But he forced that impulse down.

One who aims for greatness must not fly into blind rage or act on impulse.

He had grand designs yet to fulfill; he could not be tied down by petty outrages.

Besides…

A tribe capable of fielding heavy-armored troops was clearly no ordinary rabble.

A faint trace of dread touched the youth’s mind.

He pondered for a moment, then sneered inwardly: “Enough. Spare them for now. When I have shown my might, unified the entire Vermilion Bird Mountain Realm, and conquered all the major clans, I will come back and settle accounts. I’ll find them and toy with them slowly…”

The youth half-closed his eyes and calmed himself, then said coldly:

“Orders… keep marching. Cross the Transverse Range and subdue the tribes within the Vermilion Bird Realm. Those who follow prosper, those who resist perish.”

“Yes, Young Lord!”

The order spread; the shaman-priests resumed their war dance, rousing the soldiers’ murderous hearts.

The barbarian horses whinnied, the demon-mounted riders trembled; the black vulture beneath the youth stirred, exuding a murderous aura.

This killing army slowly moved off toward the facing peaks…

…

Their advance and the surrounding murderous qi did not escape Mo Hua’s perception.

But Mo Hua paid little heed to the seemingly wild killing intent.

He tilted his face to the sky and, in his heart, calculated the fortunes of the Great Wilderness, pondering the flux of heaven’s secrets and the shifting patterns of the world.

He kept his head raised, watching from the sunset into night, from the starless dark to the faint reddening of dawn in the east.

Mo Hua’s gaze grew ever firmer.

After a while, Dan-Zhu came up and said: “Sir, everything is ready.”

Mo Hua nodded and said softly, “Good. Let’s go.”

Under Mo Hua’s command, the Wutu Clan, Dan-Zhu’s Vermilion Sparrow Tribe, and the Shugu allied forces led by Lu-Gu—altogether over six thousand barbarian troops—set out in overwhelming force from their hidden mountain refuge.

They marched under Mo Hua, the Shaman, in the name of the Divine-Lord, across the land of the Great Wilderness.

Half a day later they reached the first small clan, called Fushan.

Mo Hua personally met the clan’s chieftain.

With Abyssal-Bone heavy armor and six thousand troops arrayed, the presence was majestic.

The Fushan chieftain trembled and dared not raise his head.

Mo Hua asked: “Do you wish to submit to the Divine-Lord? Will you devote yourself to the Divine-Lord’s cause?”

The Fushan chieftain looked at Mo Hua. In that glance he saw in Mo Hua’s young, handsome face a sanctity and authority unlike any mortal; he immediately fell to his knees and trembled, speaking with fear and reverence:

“The Fushan Clan is… willing.”

Mo Hua inclined his head indifferently.

The chieftain hesitated, then bit his lip and stammered:

“Please, sir… do not make the Fushan Clan your slaves; do not let our sons die out or our daughters be sold. Do not let the Fushan Clan… be annihilated.”

Mo Hua’s gaze was grave. “To convert to the Divine-Lord is to become his people. Those who serve the Divine-Lord are treated equally. On the battlefield we are comrades; off it we are kin. So long as you do not betray the Divine-Lord, the Divine-Lord will not abandon his people.”

The chieftain was moved and prostrated himself three times, head to the ground:

“We of Fushan, though weak, pledge to serve the Divine-Lord and you, my lord. We will do humble duty and die without regret.”

Mo Hua nodded. “Good. The Divine-Lord feels your loyalty.”

The Fushan Clan was pacified and incorporated; its able-bodied shaman-warriors were drafted into the barbarian ranks, others handled logistics, and the whole clan migrated with Mo Hua’s army.

As Mo Hua marched on, every small clan encountered along the way was without exception subdued and reorganized.

Timid clans bowed before Mo Hua’s heavy armor, overwhelming force, and the fearsome Golden-Core commanders. Some spiritual chieftains, seeing Mo Hua’s sacred and handsome face, mistook him for a living god and followed him willingly.

There were, however, hot-tempered chieftains with hard spines who refused to submit.

Mo Hua handled each case as he saw fit.

If a chieftain was short-sighted and fierce but cared for his clan and would not betray his ancestors, Mo Hua threatened him—if he would not submit, his whole clan would be slaughtered and his line ended.

Such threats generally moved any chieftain of conscience.

They would not gamble their clan’s lives and ancestral line on Mo Hua’s “mercy.”

If Mo Hua proved unmerciful, they would be wiped out.

So despite resentment and curses in their hearts, for survival in chaotic times they had to declare submission. Yet still, some refused.

Those chieftains often cared little for their clans’ safety or lineage. They only wanted power—to reign as tyrants above their people, living in arrogance and indulgence. The lives of their clansmen meant nothing to them.

Forcing them into submission was harder than killing them.

Thus Mo Hua killed them.

And when the tyrannical chieftains died, the remaining tribesmen naturally had no choice but to “surrender” to Mo Hua.

Thus, in merely seven days, Mo Hua had “subdued” five or six small tribes. His army swelled to nearly ten thousand.

From Mo Hua’s point of view, this was “subjugation.” But in truth, it was also “annexation.”

Under normal circumstances, Mo Hua would never have used such ruthless means. He would have respected those tribes’ choices.

If they wished to follow him, they could follow. If not, he would have left them to their own fate.

But the times had changed.

Mo Hua no longer had the privilege of being “gentle.”

Now, he would simply ask one question: “Will you submit to the Divine-Lord?”

If they agreed—good.

If not—he would make them agree.

Words like “respect, empathy, communication, understanding, tolerance,” and all that talk of “respecting individual destiny”—were nothing but pretty lies.

In a world plunged into chaos, such idealism was useless—childish nonsense that could only bring destruction to everyone.

To expect these barbarians to understand “fairness, morality, compassion, right and wrong, good and evil, the continuation of their race, or the fate of all beings”—was impossible.

And Mo Hua no longer had the time to enlighten them.

Some things don’t need to be explained—and shouldn’t be explained.

They don’t need to understand, and there’s no need to make them understand.

In an age of chaos, only power reigns.

All Mo Hua needed was for these barbarian cultivators to obey his commands—to do whatever he ordered.

Only then could there be even a faint chance of survival. Only then could a sliver of hope form within the Heavenly Fate Mechanism itself…

Mo Hua lifted his gaze toward the vast heavens of the Great Wilderness.

Heaven and earth were like a chessboard. And within that board—all beings were but pieces.

Now, within this game of the Great Wilderness, his Martial Uncle was playing. The Hua family was playing. And unseen in the shadows, other aristocratic ancestors and demonic sect powers were playing as well.

Now, he too was part of the game. And since he was playing, he naturally needed “pieces.” Those without pieces had no right to interfere in the game.

If all beings were chess pieces, then the barbarian cultivators of the Great Wilderness were pieces as well.

His task—was to seize the pieces.

To snatch them away from his Martial Uncle, from the noble families, from every other player at the board—to seize every piece he could grasp, and make them his own.

To unite every fragment of power he could gather.

Only by doing so could he defy the heavens and change fate itself. Only thus could he reverse the course of destiny itself.

Cultivators seek to cultivate their Dao and ascend to immortality. At a certain height, they must prove their Dao—only then can they glimpse the mysteries of the Immortal Dao and Immortality.

What his Martial Uncle was doing in the Great Wilderness was perhaps also a form of “proving the Dao.”

He sought the Strange Dao—corrupting human hearts, sowing calamity, nurturing Dao-Sin, bringing silence to heaven and earth—so that the Strange Dao might pierce the heavens.

The noble clans were doing the same—proving their Dao. “The Dao of Man—takes from the weak to feed the strong.”

Whether consciously or not, they all acted as players on this vast board—exploiting the lives, legacies, and fortunes of others, to seize the profits of heaven and earth for their own gain.

And now, before Mo Hua too lay a path of “proving the Dao.”

He too must learn from his Martial Uncle, from those Hollow Void ancestor patriarchs of those noble clans—to use the multitude of living beings to prove his own Dao.

To use all he had learned throughout his life to carve out a single thread of life for the people of the Great Wilderness.

To comprehend the Heavenly Mechanism—and bless all living beings.

With one thought to save the world, he sought the Dao—and the path to eternal life.

(End of this Chapter)