A caravan of over thirty people was advancing alone across the boundless grassland. There weren’t many wagons—only seven or eight—but the leather-clad riders surrounding them were all young and spirited, with a few even being mere children of eleven or twelve years old.
At the head of the caravan was an elderly man dressed in ornate attire, riding a yellow steed. He wore a fiery-red fox-fur hat, his forehead etched with deep wrinkles, his face slightly purplish. Around his waist was a tri-colored brocade belt, a symbol of his status as the leader of a tribe.
This place was already the southern part of the Tianlan Grassland, and this was a caravan of the Tugu people on their way to the Holy Temple to present tribute.
The “Tianlan Grassland” was what the Tugu people called the Mulan Grassland. Since the Tugu had long worshipped the legendary “Tianlan Beast” as their guardian deity, passing down this devotion through generations, the grassland bore this name.
Originally, the Tugu only occupied the southern half of the Tianlan Grassland. But thirty years ago, after decisively defeating their long-time enemies, the Mulan people, in a battle at the heart of the grassland, they seized control of the entire expanse, their power skyrocketing as they became unrivaled across the plains.
Of course, the Tugu were a vast people, with countless internal tribes—some as small as a few hundred thousand, others as large as super-tribes with populations exceeding a hundred million, scattered across the grassland. Due to the many who distinguished themselves in the last Holy War, numerous new independent tribes had emerged. Some of these were sizable, while others were insignificant, with populations barely reaching tens of thousands.
The “Heron Tribe” to which the old man belonged was one such micro-tribe, split off from a larger one. Though it could still be called a tribe, its entire population numbered only seventy to eighty thousand.
The old man was named Ying Lu. In his youth, he had been exceptionally fierce in battle, and during the Holy War, he had single-handedly crushed several small Mulan tribes, capturing many nobles, which earned him his current status. But now, worn down by time and years of toil, his body had aged prematurely despite being only in his fifties.
It was midday. The old man gazed up at the scorching sun, then turned to look at the children in the caravan behind him and sighed deeply.
By tradition, every tribe, regardless of size, was required to have at least one immortal master (Xianshi) in residence. Otherwise, if disaster struck—whether natural or from demonic beasts—ordinary mortals would be defenseless. But newly formed small tribes like theirs couldn’t attract any immortal masters, not even the lowest-ranked ones. After all, for immortal masters, the larger and wealthier the tribe, the better, as it could provide ample resources for their cultivation.
Some small tribes still managed to retain low-ranking immortal masters either because those masters originated from the tribe or because their cultivation aptitude was so poor that larger tribes refused to support them, leaving them no choice but to stay.
The Heron Tribe had yet to have the chance to nurture its own immortal master, so whenever trouble arose, they had to hire low-ranking masters from neighboring tribes at exorbitant prices. A few interventions could cost them nearly half a year’s income, further straining their already meager resources.
Fortunately, the once-every-twenty-years “Spirit Awakening Day” was finally approaching. Ying Lu, who had long been preparing for this, naturally couldn’t let the opportunity slip. He immediately led several tribe members who had been tested and found to possess spiritual roots toward the nearest Tianlan Holy Temple.
Originally built to worship the Tianlan Sacred Beast, the Tianlan Holy Temples had, over the centuries, evolved into sacred sites for the Tugu people, becoming places dedicated to training low-ranking immortal masters.
Each temple housed several high-ranking immortal masters responsible for teaching basic cultivation methods. Those with lower aptitude would return to their respective tribes to serve as resident masters, while those with greater potential would be taken as disciples by the high-ranking cultivators for specialized training. Mortals who hadn’t undergone the Spirit Awakening Ceremony were strictly forbidden from receiving private instruction in immortal arts.
There weren’t many of these temples—only sixty or seventy—but they were evenly distributed across the grassland, each serving as the center of a vast region surrounded by thousands of tribes, large and small.
As the sole temple in the region, larger tribes naturally settled closer to it. The Heron Tribe, being small, had been assigned a remote location. The journey from their tribe to the temple took a full three months. Left with no choice, Ying Lu had set out with his caravan four months prior.
During the last Spirit Awakening Day, though his tribe had already gained independence, they couldn’t gather enough tribute and had no choice but to let the opportunity pass. This time, Ying Lu was determined not to miss it again—even if it meant tightening their belts for years, his tribe would have its own immortal master.
However, traversing such a vast grassland with tribute was an extremely dangerous undertaking. The offerings were all items of great value to immortal masters, making them tempting targets for bandits—or even rogue immortal masters themselves. Such incidents had occurred many times in previous years.
Tribes closer to the temple fared better, as bandits feared the temple’s authority and dared not act too brazenly. But for distant tribes like theirs, the risks were immense.
Rumors said that during the last event, a mid-sized tribe in this region had been transporting a nearly thousand-year-old spiritual herb when word leaked out. The entire caravan mysteriously vanished on the way to the temple, with not a single trace left behind. Many whispered that a high-ranking immortal master from a large tribe, coveting the treasure, had slaughtered them and taken it. The temple, furious, had supposedly sent investigators, but the matter was quietly dropped.
This time, though the tribute was ready, the absence of an immortal master to guard the caravan had left Ying Lu restless since their departure.
During the Spirit Awakening period, most immortal masters were busy accompanying their own tribes to the temples, making it impossible to hire one even with spirit stones. The few wandering masters available had already been snatched up by larger tribes with deeper pockets. As the leader of the weakest tribe, Ying Lu could only watch helplessly.
At this thought, the old man sighed and glanced back.
Of the seven or eight wagons behind him, four were loaded with tribute, pulled by the finest horses the tribe could muster. These wagons had also been shrewdly crafted from the sturdiest red birch wood the tribe possessed. To avoid drawing attention, all the wagons were made to look shabby and worn. Without these precautions, disaster might have struck long ago.
Even so, when they had encountered a small pack of wolves earlier, the caravan had nearly suffered casualties. To break free, they’d been forced to abandon the two slowest wagons, allowing the rest to escape unscathed.
Though those two wagons hadn’t carried anything valuable, they had held most of the food for the next two months. Now, they would have to pause their journey soon to hunt. Ying Lu recalled that in about two days, they would reach a nearby canyon—a place rarely visited by humans, where wild oxen or sheep might be found.
Lost in thought, the old man absentmindedly touched the hardwood bow hanging from his saddle, his expression contemplative.
“Eh? What’s that?” A clear, surprised voice rang out beside him. It came from a delicate-looking girl of fifteen or sixteen, riding close behind him. Her name was Ying Shan, a junior relative of Ying Lu and one of the few in the tribe confirmed to possess a spiritual root, making her deeply cherished by the old man.
Startled, Ying Lu quickly looked ahead. Not far in front of them, amidst a dense thicket, flickering cyan light pulsed faintly, as though something lay hidden within. He was certain that when he had last glanced that way, there had been no such glow.
His heart tightened. As a tribal leader, he was no stranger to the spiritual light emitted by immortal masters during spellcasting. Could it be that an immortal master was targeting their humble caravan?
His expression darkened as he abruptly raised a hand, bringing the entire procession to an immediate halt. The others had also noticed the cyan light in the thicket, their faces betraying unease and wariness.
Forcing himself to remain calm, Ying Lu held his reins steady, standing motionless as his mind raced for a way to protect his people.
But after a moment, he realized something was amiss. Though the cyan light continued to flicker, no immortal master emerged, nor were any spells cast.
His eyes narrowed as he peered intently at the thicket. The shrubs were dense, standing nearly as tall as a person, making it impossible to see inside clearly.
“Tu Meng! Go and see if there’s truly an immortal master there,” Ying Lu suddenly commanded after a brief hesitation.
“Yes, Chief!” A brawny, fierce-looking young man from the caravan hesitated briefly before dismounting and cautiously approaching the thicket about twenty zhang away. When he was within five or six zhang of the glowing spot, he paused, hesitating.
“May I ask which immortal master is present? We are from the Heron Tribe and humbly request an audience,” the young man called out politely, his tone respectful.
Yet the thicket remained silent, the spiritual light still swirling without response. The young man glanced back uncertainly at the old man.
After a moment’s thought, Ying Lu gave a silent nod. Emboldened, the young man crept forward, finally reaching the thicket. With a deep breath, he steeled himself and pushed aside the shrubs.
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