Chapter 1252: The True and the False Shaman

Chapter 1251: The True and the False Shaman

Half a month later, the Alliance Assembly of all major tribes within the Vermilion Bird Mountain Realm was formally convened.

The assembly was held within an ancient great hall, deep in the heart of a barren desert. The location was remote and desolate—once, in ages past, it had served as a meeting place for the major tribes of the realm, where they discussed policies, made decisions, and resolved disputes.

Yet after countless years, the hall had fallen into ruin, its walls crumbling and broken. Eventually, it had been abandoned.

Now, amidst the chaos of a fractured age, the estranged tribes—with their faith and unity long dispersed—had no better venue to choose from. Thus, they reopened this ancient hall, making it once again the site for discussions of alliance and union.

Within the hall, representatives of every major tribe had gathered. Totems of varying symbols competed in splendor, banners rippled like waves of flame.

The most powerful forces, the highest-ranking cultivators, the peak combatants of the entire Vermilion Bird Mountain Realm—nearly all were present.

The Vermilion Sparrow Tribe, the Flamewing Tribe, the Firehawk Tribe, the Crimson Luan Tribe… even the mighty Bifang Tribe—all had gathered, bringing with them their chieftains, grand elders, young masters, and elite barbarian generals.

The atmosphere within that ancient hall was heavy and solemn.

The oppressive blood aura of numerous late- and mid-stage Golden Core cultivators interwove like the depths of an ocean—so dense it seemed even breathing became difficult.

And amidst that crowd, the most peculiar, the most inconspicuous yet paradoxically the most eye-catching figure—was the smallest one of all, with a youthful face and a disproportionately lofty bearing: Mo Hua.

After all, he was the only Foundation Establishment cultivator in the entire hall.

Despite having the lowest cultivation, his seat was among the highest.

By his side sat the towering figure of Lu-Gu, the Great Chieftain of the Shugu Tribe, his late Golden Core cultivation exuding a mountain-like pressure.

Mo Hua’s seat was just a little lower than Lu-Gu’s—nearly equal, in fact.

Were it not for the fact that this alliance meeting was filled with Golden Core cultivators—most at the mid or late-stage—and therefore extremely dangerous, Mo Hua would have sat above Lu-Gu, as was proper by Shugu custom.

But to ensure his own safety, he had “humbly” arranged for Lu-Gu to sit just ahead of him.

Even so, his position beside the Shugu Great Chieftain drew countless stares. This was, after all, a grand tribal alliance that had not occurred in centuries.

Golden Core cultivators were everywhere.

Many mid-stage Golden Core generals—warriors famed for their battle exploits—could not even earn a seat, forced instead to stand like attendants.

Yet this youth, the youngest of all, with the lowest cultivation—Foundation Establishment! — sat openly on a high seat beside the great chieftains of the tribes. How could that not stir envy and indignation?

Several hot-tempered barbarian generals glared daggers at Mo Hua, murderous intent flickering faintly in their eyes.

They could tolerate being suppressed by high-ranking Golden Core chieftains and elders.

But this little brat? Clearly unqualified.

Still, though resentment churned within, none dared cause a scene.

This was the Tribal Alliance—a centennial event of enormous consequence—not a place for reckless brawling or petty posturing.

Moreover, Mo Hua was seated beside Lu-Gu.

Though many looked down on Mo Hua for “borrowing the tiger’s might,” none dared offend Lu-Gu.

Lu-Gu’s brutality was infamous.

While the official story claimed the former Great Chieftain of the Shugu Tribe had been assassinated by a traitor named Can-Gu in his old age, any keen observer knew perfectly well who had truly struck the fatal blow.

A man who could kill his own chieftain without hesitation—what were a few outsiders to him?

Thus, though they resented Mo Hua, they did not dare act.

Among those watching him, the one most shocked was Dan-Lie, Great Chieftain of the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe.

He had not expected Lu-Gu to actually attend this assembly.

And seeing the relationship between Lu-Gu and Mo Hua made Dan-Lie’s heart stir uneasily.

Others might think Mo Hua relied upon the Shugu Tribe and Lu-Gu’s protection to attain such a lofty seat—but Dan-Lie faintly sensed something deeper.

It wasn’t that Lu-Gu commanded Mo Hua.

Nor was Mo Hua some puppet propped up by Lu-Gu.

Rather, this youth-like Shaman seemed to be commanding Lu-Gu himself.

The realization made Dan-Lie’s skin crawl.

He had met Lu-Gu before—he knew this man’s power, pride, and temperament.

Such a person could never be subjugated by anyone—least of all a youth half his height, one-tenth his age, and several realms beneath his cultivation.

“Why…? What on earth happened between them? Could it be… Lu-Gu has been enslaved?”

Dan-Lie’s brows furrowed tightly. As his gaze returned to Mo Hua, he found, to his disquiet, that there was a strange and uncanny aura hidden beneath that serene young face.

Meanwhile, Mo Hua himself remained outwardly composed, his expression calm and measured, assuming the proper dignity of a “Shaman Lord.”

After all, he was about to face a trial—one that would determine the true and the false shaman. There was no room for carelessness.

As time passed, all preparations for the alliance were completed.

Every tribal leader and high-ranking elder had arrived.

Yet the assembly still had not begun. Everyone waited patiently, as though for some important guests to appear.

Mo Hua, growing drowsy, closed his eyes to rest.

Half an hour later, the once-bustling hall abruptly fell into complete silence—so quiet a pin could be heard dropping.

Two immense Divine-Sense auras swept through the great hall like tidal waves.

Mo Hua’s heart tightened. Slowly opening his eyes, he followed the direction of the aura—and saw two cultivators entering the hall, both emanating extraordinary presence.

One was a tall, broad-shouldered man with flaming red hair, rugged features, and eyes that burned with indomitable faith. His body radiated heat like living fire; even his gaze seemed to blaze.

His upper body was bare, revealing muscles like carved stone and the crimson flame sigil etched across his back. Pouches and, strange blood-scented medicine bottles hung from his belt.

His cultivation—late-stage Golden Core.

The other was a woman. Her face was thickly painted—lips the color of dark jade, long arched brows, and heavy eyeshadow giving her a dangerously seductive air.

Beneath the layers of makeup, her features were beautiful—alluring, even—though her entire body was wrapped in a green robe, hiding every inch of skin save her face. Her aura was equally deep and powerful—also late-stage Golden Core.

“Two late Golden Cores…”

Mo Hua’s heart tightened further. From the strength of their outward-flowing spiritual power, he could tell these were the two shamans from the Royal Court whom Dan-Lie had warned him about—the ones who would preside over the assembly: the true Shamans.

Sure enough, as soon as the two entered, the entire hall—chiefs, elders, and generals alike—stood and saluted:

“Lord Flame Shaman!”

“Lord Azure Shaman!”

Their voices were filled with reverence.

Though these people commanded immense authority within their own tribes, before true Shamans, none dared show the slightest disrespect.

It was a stark contrast to their treatment of Mo Hua—whom most regarded with cold disdain.

For them, refraining from publicly exposing this “counterfeit shaman” was already an act of tremendous restraint.

Mo Hua himself was somewhat taken aback.

He had thought the Royal Court’s shamans were probably nothing special—certainly not far superior to himself.

Yet as he now beheld the Flame Shaman and the Azure Shaman, and felt the vast strength of their Divine-Sense, he couldn’t help but admit… perhaps others’ disdain for him was not entirely unwarranted.

One was a towering man, blazing like divine fire.

The other, a graceful woman shrouded in mystery and beauty.

Both late-stage Golden Cores—true Shamans.

While he… was a late Foundation Establishment youth, short and soft-faced.

Placed side by side, anyone with eyes could instantly tell which were the genuine Shamans—and which was the imitation.

Even Mo Hua himself couldn’t help but feel… like a bit of a forgery.

He sighed inwardly, a faint hint of self-deprecation in his heart.

Still, on the surface he remained utterly composed—the very image of a calm, unflappable, and dignified “Lord Shaman.”

At the highest end of the hall stood two seats—prepared specifically for these two Royal Court Shamans.

The bare-chested man covered in flame patterns was respectfully addressed as Lord Flame Shaman, while the green-robed woman of haunting beauty was Lord Azure Shaman.

The shared title “Shaman” marked their divine office, while “Flame” and “Qingqiu”(AzureHill) likely corresponded to the divine powers they cultivated or deities they served.

After being escorted to their seats amid deep reverence, both Shamans turned their gaze immediately toward Mo Hua—for among all present, he alone was Foundation Establishment.

He alone… was the anomaly.

And only Mo Hua had remained seated, not rising to greet them—as if he did not even regard them as worth acknowledging.

Azure Shaman’s gaze lingered over Mo Hua’s fair, delicate features, saying nothing.

It was Flame Shaman who broke the silence, glancing at Mo Hua and asking lightly:

“And this one is…?”

No one answered. The hall fell momentarily silent.

At last, the Great Chieftain of the Vermilion Sparrow Tribe, Dan-Lie, stepped forward and awkwardly introduced: “This one… is also… a Lord Shaman.”

Dan-Lie’s heart twisted in mild torment—and embarrassment.

After all, to speak those words before two genuine Shamans, gilding the face of this counterfeit one, demanded truly thick skin.

A trace of habitual mockery flickered through Flame Shaman’s eyes. He turned to Mo Hua and asked coolly:

“Then, may I ask—when did this ‘Shaman’ join the Royal Court? When were you sanctified by divine decree? When did you receive the teachings of the gods? Who is your preceptor? Which sect and lineage do you belong to? Are you ranked as a lower, middle, or upper Shaman? Who authorized your travels? Who bestowed upon you your ‘Shaman name’? And whose divine path do you claim to spread?”

Mo Hua was silent.

Inside, he cursed.

These people of the Great Wilderness really had too much time on their hands. So many formalities for a single Shaman—what were they guarding against? What was the point?

His eyes flickered slightly before he replied calmly, “I don’t know.”

Everyone froze.

Even the Flame and Azure Shamans exchanged startled looks.

Normally, anyone pretending to be a Shaman in front of them—even when exposed—would at least bluff or argue a few words. But this one… just said he didn’t know?

Wasn’t that the very definition of a barefaced “fraud”?

Couldn’t even lie properly—yet he sat among the great chieftains as an equal?

The tribal leaders and elders turned cold-faced, clearly feeling humiliated at having been “duped” by Mo Hua.

Dan-Lie looked awkward; even Lu-Gu seemed puzzled, unsure what Mo Hua intended.

Flame Shaman narrowed his eyes and asked coldly, “So—you’re not truly a Shaman? Your identity is false?”

Mo Hua shook his head. “No, I am a Shaman.”

Flame’s gaze hardened. “You know nothing, yet you claim to be a Shaman?”

Mo Hua countered calmly, “And who told you that being a Shaman requires knowing all those irrelevant things?”

Flame Shaman gave a short laugh. “The Great Wilderness tradition, the Royal Court inheritance, the rules of the Shamans—all have been passed down for millennia. How could they be false?”

Mo Hua said evenly, “The inheritance of the Great Wilderness belongs to the Great Wilderness. The inheritance of the Royal Court belongs to the Royal Court. Those are human rules—what do they have to do with the will of the gods? You are a Shaman—do you serve the divine will, or do you serve these man-made conventions?”

Flame Shaman was momentarily stunned.

Even Azure Shaman looked dazed.

The rest exchanged uncertain glances.

Flame’s gaze chilled again, boring into Mo Hua. “Quite the lofty tone. So, you claim to serve the will of the gods?”

Mo Hua’s expression didn’t waver. “Naturally.”

Flame Shaman’s eyes grew frostier. “Without entering the Royal Court, without divine investiture, without foundation, without lineage, without Shaman rank or sacred name—just words alone, and you dare to call yourself a Shaman? You’ve got quite the courage…”

Mo Hua shook his head slightly. “It wasn’t I who said I am a Shaman.”

Flame sneered. “Then who did?”

Mo Hua replied solemnly, “It was the Divine-Lord himself who told me so.”

Flame stared at him, momentarily speechless.

Mo Hua’s face was solemn, his tone reverent as he continued:

“I was born in ignorance—knew not my age, nor my clan, nor my origin or destination. I wandered aimlessly beneath heaven and earth. One day, I dreamed a dream: golden light filled the sky, glass-like radiance shone, and a godly being—pure as an infant—bestowed divine grace upon me. He told me that great calamity loomed over the world, that humanity was mired in endless suffering, and boundless nightmares were about to descend…”

“Mankind, lost in delusion, fought and killed one another. The Divine Dao had fallen into stagnation, trapped in dogma. Mortals worshipped in the gods’ names yet never truly heard their teachings—indulging only their desires, committing deeds of depravity—thus inviting catastrophe and the extinction of all life.”

“Therefore, the Divine-Lord, pure as a newborn, personally anointed me as a Shaman, entrusting me with the divine doctrine and power, to walk the mortal world, purge evil, spread divine will, save the people from their tribulations, and bring light to their hearts.”

Mo Hua’s eyes were clear, his expression devout, his teeth white as jade, his tongue eloquent as a blooming lotus.

The chieftains and elders were dumbstruck.

Even Flame Shaman stood frozen.

This boy…

He wasn’t bad at lying—he was too good at it.

That kind of silver tongue—Flame Shaman, in all his years, had never seen the like.

(End of this Chapter)