Suddenly, the crowd stirred, eyes shifting toward the bonfire.
Several leaders scrambled over in a panicked crawl, then breathed a sigh of relief.
It turned out that the shaman, who had been sitting cross-legged, nearly teetered over—yet immediately straightened his spine and propped himself back up.
Beside the shaman, a middle-aged man, after steadying him, suddenly burst into tears. He was once the strongest man here but had never strayed a step, watching over this elder for over a decade.
Now, that young man—once the settlement’s mightiest youth—had become a middle-aged man himself.
He naturally knew well that the old man beside him had endured prolonged suffering in both body and soul. Yet always, through sheer force of will, he clung to this waning existence, as if determined to wring out every last drop of life’s essence before he could depart in peace.
Whenever he thought of the old man’s occasional groans of pain, clenched deep in his throat, or the uncontrollable trembling of his limbs, his heart ached with a sympathy that felt all too real.
The shaman turned his withered head, its skin loose and sagging, and raised his hand with great effort. The middle-aged wildling immediately bent low, bowing his head, and allowed the old man to pat him gently.
The wildlings around them, their feral edge tempered, gazed on with envy shining in their eyes.
The flames, towering two to three meters high, blazed with grandeur and majesty.
The snow-white devil, which had claimed countless lives over endless ages, would detour upon seeing it, or else be destroyed—such was the power of the shaman’s divine might.
It guarded the settlement.
Whenever the flames dared to dwindle, someone would add firewood, as taught by the shaman.
Beneath the warm ash beside it, countless fruits resembling sweet potatoes lay buried.
For decades, they had sustained tens of thousands of people in this region; countless leaders had crossed mountains and rivers, risking death in tigers’ jaws to lead their tribes here, all for a single bite of such filling fare.
The benevolent shaman never begrudged sharing it with all who came.
The old man withdrew his hand, turned back, half-lidded his eyes, and sat before the bonfire, like an ascetic deep in meditation.
After who knows how long, he seemed to hear an illusory sound.
–Xiao Wu?–
Around him, a hubbub of –Ooh– and –Hoo-ah– erupted from the countless savages.
The now-sluggish old man struggled to open his blurred, turbid eyes and gazed into the distance, where a figure clad in very thin yet brightly colored clothes appeared.
In truth, he could no longer make out that figure clearly.
Yet the moment this person emerged, the image etched in his memory from countless years of longing, from billions of imagined times, instantly overlapped with them.
–Ah!–
The old man let out a sharp cry, trembling as he miraculously managed to stand on his own.
Countless savages rose to their feet, their eyes fixed on Yang Zicang in the distance with blazing hostility.
–Hah!–
He swung his withered yet vigorous palm.
At that moment, the old man seemed to regain his youth—his eyes flashed with piercing light, his whole being radiating solemn authority and majesty.
Over a thousand people crouched down with a collective gasp, not daring to move, stealing fearful glances at the old man.
Witnessing this scene, Yang Zicang couldn’t help but shudder inwardly.
The old man took a long staff handed to him by an attendant, planted it on the ground, and prepared to take a step forward.
–Stop, stop, stop.–
Yang Zicang raised his hand.
At these syllables, the old man suddenly seemed to realize something, letting out a –Hah-yah– as if he had unraveled the world’s most perplexing riddle, his heart swelling with profound joy like one who had attained enlightenment.
So that’s what that syllable from back then meant.
That sound uttered before stopping the falling boulder—it meant don’t move, yep.
Yang Zicang walked forward through the crowd that parted before him, making way.
Standing before the bonfire, he gazed up at the towering red flames, his heart filled with genuine elation.
–Ooh-oh, ah!–
The aged A-Wu handed him something grayish and grimy, still radiating heat, its surface coated with wood ash.
Yang Zicang reached out his palm to warm it by the fire, then took the –ancient sweet potato – covered in wood ash that Old Awu handed him and sniffed it with a smile.
–This is truly wonderful.–
He pinched off a tiny bit and tasted it.
–Mmm! Delicious—my little Wu is already a master chef.–
He gave a thumbs up, and Awu burst into laughter.
None of the thousand savage tribesmen had ever seen the witch smile with such heartfelt joy.
Then, to their shock, they watched the old man half-squat and bring his head close to Yang Zicang.
The youth paused for a moment before realizing what was happening—back when they first met, he had patted that head several times.
It had been an unintentional habit at the time.
–Alas, time is the cruelest…–
He lightly patted the old man’s nearly-bald crown.
Feeling the solid, reassuring sensation on his scalp—as if his final wish had been fulfilled—the vitality in Edzun’s aging frame suddenly dwindled, leaving him frail as he broke into a string of coughs.
–You need to rest well.– Without further words, Yang Zicang scooped him up and carried him to the leather mat a few steps away. The surrounding savages parted way without a word.
Several elders who had crossed paths with Yang Zicang long ago had already prostrated themselves on the ground, stirring the gathering’s unspoken reverence—none of them dared act carelessly with the appearance of the eminent young man.
As Orc bowed down offering those yet to grovel was he also held back from helping people back to their feat- Yang Zicang swept them one after the other up the but by hardened grasp into hand of old Awu being resolutely checking him and fiercely by how persistent wrist when struggling still gripping around his stop.
He weakly fumbled two small black stones from his person, opening his palm to pass them to the man beside him who had not aged a single bit over the decades.
A Wu had long stopped pondering why; anything that happened with this man was simply taken as normal.
Yang Zicang shook his head, gently curling the withered fingers around the flint, shaping them into a fist.
–Designate your own successor.–
He pointed at the old man’s fist, then gestured toward the cluster of savages squatting nearby.
A Wu smiled and nodded, his heart overflowing with boundless bliss.
He had finally found that man, and his mind, flickering with newfound clarity, realized:
—He must have known I could endure this long, and so he came at the last moment to encourage me to keep living on.
A Wu cast one final glance at the bonfire, its sparks drifting and curling up toward the sky.
Above the wide horizontal cave gaped steep cliffs. By all logic, this was not a safe place, yet miraculously, over so many years, no loosened rocks had ever fallen to injure these disheveled, fur-clad primitives below.
Yang Zicang sat cross-legged atop the mountain peak, the dark red spirit artifact laid horizontally across his lap.
He awaited the slowly approaching comet before him.
The celestial point of light trailed a gray-blue streak across the horizon.
It treads with steady steps across the blue firmament, like a solitary king strolling forward with dignity.
It calmly splits the azure sky.
The snow stops and falls again; the wind ceases and rises once more.
This day, Yang Zicang slowly opened his eyes, sensing a heavy, terrifying aura brewing at the foot of the mountain.
The comet strides solemnly from above, descending.
–It’s coming.–
He stood up and drew a small knife-like spirit artifact from his robe.
{Long, long ago, someone found themselves in the same situation as you and made the same choice.}
Suddenly, Yang Zicang seemed to see a phantom, a vision.
[I have achieved over 50% resonance of the core with Rong Maimai (Vessel-Merger) Asnar.]
–What is this?–
Yang Zicang stood on the spot, lost in a dream-like haze. The mountaintop was no longer the same place as before, but an unfamiliar towering cliff with some resemblance.
A tall, upright figure stood before him, carrying a huge sword on his back. The moment he saw this figure, Yang Zicang knew it was Asnar.
Though standing still, Yang Zicang could perceive through this silhouette fragmented scenes of his past experiences:
On that desolate land where civilization withered like creeping weeds, the man named Asna walked alone through some settlements that still bore the shadow of humanity, bringing to the wanderers, who had already regressed to a primitive society, the skills that could provide warmth and sustenance.
At this moment, standing on the mountain peak just like himself, he awaited the birth of a powerful nightmare from the wandering camp below, where he had taught the use of fire.
–This is real…–
Yang Zicang watched in awe as he drew the massive sword and leaped down.
The illusion vanished.
Below, thousands of savages stared at the –fire– that had protected them for decades, lost and bewildered.
Now, it seemed to come alive.
Though its aura was so terrifying that their hearts trembled and their instinct screamed to flee, they pressed down their fear and bowed their heads towards it.
Was it the departure of the shaman that had caused the divine power to go out of control?
Or had the shaman merged with the fire, awakening within it?
Various thoughts flashed through the minds of the savages. They could not understand what had happened, but they were certain it was related to their shaman.
Some turned their heads towards the cliff top, as if seeking help.
A surge of heroic spirit rose in Yang Zicang’s heart. The reason he dared to stand here was that no matter what happened, he would not truly die.
But that figure just now—the world he inhabited was not an illusion—leaped down without hesitation as well.
–Asnar, huh? A truly heroic figure.–
Outside the massive bonfire, countless thin threads of flame continuously emerged. Amidst the assembly of so many savages, something within rapidly took shape, and a hazy eye grew forth.
The flame-eye swept its gaze around, and the first thing it laid its eye on was a group of trapped beasts.
With its intelligence still extremely low, its first instinct was to replenish nearby sustenance.
Swoosh! Swoosh!
Several trails of flame extended from the ground, coiling toward the tigers and wolves that Yang Zicang had captured.
Amidst anguished howls, the beasts rapidly withered and dried up.
Countless savages shouted and screamed, trembling in terror; but under the guttural commands of a few chieftains, the crowd halted their urge to flee.
High above, Yang Zicang silently watched it all. He was waiting—waiting for the flames to attack the savages, so that they could learn just how terrifying a nightmare could be.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
With deafening roars, the bonfire violently expanded. From within its core, several monstrous figures with wolf and tiger heads appeared, flickering into existence—deformed beings seemingly sporting four or five heads and a dozen long, flaming limbs.
The moment they were born, several small fire tigers shot out from the flames toward the surrounding crowd.
Hiss, hiss, hiss, hiss!
Arcs of fierce light shot down from the high sky, with a destructively doomed aura driving them down into the broad ground below. The wiggling illusory tigers and wolves could no longer move an inch.
The savage hordes finally realized that this was not Witch revival—the sheep instantly plunged into chaos.
Forming the center of it all swung that twisted multi-headed nightmare ablaze, its angry raised eyes locking on the standing silhouette above the distant edge of the cliff.
–Groooowwwl~–
Seared rock gathered speed by furious great energy surging; heads upground drawing number per each limb meeting close—besting aim dead straight births from and for the enlarged volume around the inferno rising suddenly still above measure sky high depth in folds. There is newly enough kindling quick hope long waiting. In newly merged solid new form swelling here: not so formless anymore therefore born almost the old.
–I thank you for telling me your origins.–
There came all so quiet authority vast descending on great rising gusting following burning wrath sworn brawler sound that followed roaring crash: down. That man too, simply metal-hard, burning flash-shot direct from all air-ruling invisible bellow of voice from spheres they hid far: Yang Zicang impools gold ray arrow heavy perfectly launched!
–Now, perish!–
Crashing crashing an own life–Yangling sharply quickly quake feeling strange thing new around fall route hugging flash… ghost running over his form doubling open presence still there project of one entirely shadow brought while he rushed high brave again—
[*I have generated over 85 percent mental resonance alignment rate advanced; with conductor Asner named one still before summon this ever made gift chain help state draw whole reading core. *]
[*We—the two of Pulse-fused leader Asner so deep— unite walking powerfully closer existing times crossing still race within faster course– alongside not broken… still I run same speed now lived heavy purpose also free march forward as him. *]
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