–Hey, so now you know you were wrong?–
Yang Zicang, however, had no intention of getting angry at the primitives.
–Woo-woo-woo-woo.– The leader, whose entire coat of fur was scorched bald, crawled forward a couple of times on the ground.
–Too bad I’m not the Dragon King, and I can’t put out your fire.–
In the eyes of these savages, Yang Zicang was undoubtedly the chief culprit behind it all.
Seeing Yang Zicang unmoved, two burly savages stood up from the ground.
They raised stones, ready to smash the leader lying on the ground.
They all prostrated on the ground, howling along.
These savages believed that their group’s leader had offended this indescribable entity, and perhaps only by putting him to death could they quell this being’s wrath.
–Stop!–
But the savages couldn’t understand a word he said; the boulders flew from their hands, and the leader prostrated himself in resignation, showing no intention to resist.
【Trajectory Deployment!】
Thump-thump!
The two rocks landed eerily on either side of the leader’s head.
They clearly saw, in that instant, a faint silvery-white ring emerge from Yang Zicang’s chest, accompanied by a few fleeting lines that vanished in a flash.
The two savages slammed onto the ground, trembling uncontrollably.
Yang Zicang stepped forward. A savage with singed, blackened hair on the ground looked up with tearful eyes. He whimpered and cried, looking especially pitiful, like a child who knew he had caused trouble.
–So you were the first one to eat the sweet potatoes, huh.–
All burned up—I barely recognized you.
–Alright, alright. I can’t talk with you guys anyway. How about this — all of you, say Ah-woo. From now on, you’ll be called A’wu. Just happens to share a name with one of your famous brothers from another world—both called Little Wu.–
Yang Zicang planned to pay a visit to their tribe.
He remembered that back on Earth, some Amazon tribes had items left behind by human journalists. It might be the same here.
–Maybe the statue’s over there.–
Half a day later, the expectant young man followed the group of beings who viewed him as a divine figure, arriving outside the hollow nestled against the mountains and waters.
At the entrance of a large crevice deep in the cliff—capable of blocking the wind and sheltering from rain—gathered several savages of all sizes, clad in nothing at all.
As soon as they saw Yang ZiCang, they whimpered and wailed, raising stones and wooden clubs in hostility. This frightened A’wu’s foraging group, and they hurried forward, frantically gesticulating and explaining in makeshift sign language.
The more Yang Zicang looked, the colder his heart grew.
Though extremely unwilling to admit it, from the hollows in the cliff face that could be seen at a single glance, there was not a trace of human civilization or man-made objects.
They didn’t even know how to make stone knives.
–It seems I’ll have to look somewhere else.–
As expected, the acceleration ability wasn’t granted for nothing—traveling a hundred li a day, who knew how long it would take to explore this world.
Before long, Yang Zicang, with a hard bow slung across his back, departed.
……
A few days later, Yang Zicang encountered the remains of human corpses and gazed upon this blood-stained land.
The human bodies were torn and broken, scattered everywhere; it didn’t look like more than a couple of days had passed. He couldn’t tell if they’d been left here by someone or were torn apart and devoured by beasts.
But at least it meant there were other humans nearby.
–Woo—howl~–
Not long after he set off, just as he passed over a mountain ridge, Yang Zicang heard the howling of wolves echoing around him.
–Wolves?–
No, there was something else—extremely indistinct, desperate screams.
Yang Zicang sprinted toward the direction of the sound.
At the edge of the distant woods, about a dozen or so wolf-like canines prowled back and forth, their razor-sharp teeth bared in vicious snarls, exuding an aura of terror.
The wolves were surrounding a cave about half a man’s height off the ground, from which those miserable cries emerged.
A slaughter unleashed by beasts was taking place inside.
Vaguely, one could make out humanoid forms being brutally torn apart and dismembered.
[Deploy!]
Whoosh, whoosh! Two arrows pierced the night sky, precisely striking the two lead wolves charging at the forefront, instantly knocking them down.
Several savages locked in battle with the wolfhounds stared dumbly at these small branches that had suddenly come flying out of nowhere.
Yang Zicang, who had loosed the two arrows, moved again. His running trajectory suddenly accelerated, nearly doubling his speed as he charged toward the wolf pack’s perimeter.
–Waaah, ooh-aaah!–
On the distant open ground, several savages, their bodies covered in pitch-black hair and stark naked, desperately pelted the wolfhounds with rocks. The savages perched high up in trees and on rocky crags hunched over like gorillas, watching the lifeless bodies of their clansmen below, and burst into mournful cries.
–Bastards, meet your death!–
–Grrrrowl!– The wolfhounds wheeled their formation, pelting into the forest with tails held straight before charging in for the pounce.
Yang Zicang dodged left and right. Golden light flared around his fist as he caught a wolfhound before him with a heavy blow, but the beast showed no sign of being affected by Chronos whatsoever—it was simply knocked to the ground.
–This…–
As expected, this was just the training ground of a dream. Though the sense of reality was stronger than last time, it was still not the real world.
Here, he could finally use his abilities, but Chronos could not actually harm the creatures within it.
The wild men screamed, pointing at the young man zipping through the forest like a fast-pouncing leopard.
With Yang Zicang joining the fray, these dangerous beasts were drawn toward him.
The pressure on the wild men suddenly lessened, and the battle shifted within a minute or two.
–Aaroooo~–
The wolfhounds lifted their heads and howled in chorus. A mighty, majestic silver wolf leaped onto a massive rock and answered with a loud roar, its cold, piercing gaze locking onto Yang Zicang at the edge of the forest.
The wolfhounds fell back in silent agreement—this was a foe only the Wolfhound King could challenge.
Inside the wild men’s camp, seeing that the wolfhounds had been lured away by that man, an older, slightly hunched hairy man jumped down from a tree.
He wore a decoration made of straw and dry wolf skin around his waist, pointing at Yang Zicang from behind the crowd and shouting loudly.
–Wah ya! Ah ya ya! Wah ah ya wah ah ya!–
When the young man looked over, he pointed to a nearby tree, motioning for him to climb up.
The Wolfhound King paid no heed to any of that. It leaped off the massive rock, letting out a series of low, rumbling growls from its throat, its paws clawing the ground as it prepared to lunge forward.
Surrounding primitive humans scrambled noisily to higher ground, staring at Yang Zicang.
The only one draped in animal fur—the –old ape-man–—grew anxious upon seeing that the man wouldn’t budge.
–Roar~–
The wolfhound king’s form flickered, leaving afterimages as it charged forward—even Yang Zicang, wielding his deployment ability, couldn’t match this speed.
Seeing this ferocious beast about to pounce on that scrawny, hairless man, the old ape-man felt a pang of deep regret.
But the next moment, only a –boom– was heard.
Yang Zicang kicked the wolfhound king square on the head and barked coldly, –Haah!–
The wolfhound king tumbled several times across the ground with a thunderous crash. As it lifted its head, a rock the size of a watermelon hurtled over—bang!
The other wolfhounds scattered in panic with a yelp, whimpering incessantly. But before their howls faded, another stone slammed into a plump wolfhound, and in an instant, two wolfhounds lay dead.
The old ape-man’s face froze in bewilderment.
Within the limits of his meager intelligence, it seemed that aside from those ferocious giant beasts, nothing had ever so effortlessly slain the wolfhound pack’s leader.
This young man, so gaunt and hairless, could actually go toe-to-toe with the creature he himself dreaded.
Yang Zicang stepped forward and pulled out the two arrows he had shot—such ammunition was dwindling fast.
The remaining wolfhounds fled with their tails between their legs; the ape-like humans whooped and hollered, brimming with exhilaration.
The old ape-man approached Yang Zicang from a distance, waving his hands in greeting like a gorilla.
–Shut up, you’re annoying.–
Glancing around, there was nothing here but trees and a natural rock cave.
On the rocks outside the cave were murals that looked like the paintings of young children. Some creatures with four legs and some with wings could be seen; perhaps they were meant to be pterosaurs, or butterflies.
Yang Zicang shook his head. It seemed no one from civilized society had visited this place, but he still climbed into the cave on his own to have a look.
As the strongman who had saved the day, the savages made no move to stop him.
The cave was pitch-black inside, and its walls were covered in drawings even more primitive than oracle bone script.
There were no statues.
Yang Zicang was disappointed.
At the cave entrance, the old ape-man, grinning wide-lipped, held out withered dates to the departing young man. Yang Zicang hesitated for a moment before picking up a fruit.
–Alright, you all, develop well. Strive for writing to appear as soon as possible. I’m off now. See you later.–
With that, gripping his bow, he leaped down from the cave’s ledge to leave.
Unexpectedly, the old ape-man ran forward and tugged on his clothes, pointing at the bow in his hand.
–You want this? Not a chance.–
Most of the surrounding savages didn’t understand the bow’s worth and just feared it. Only the old ape-man had clearly seen from the beginning that it was this very bow that had annihilated the wolf-dog.
–Ooh-ah, ooh-ah.–
The old ape-man pointed at the bow, then spoke a string of grunts and shouts to a few of his tribesmen behind him.
Two female savages hesitated, stepping forward a few paces, sizing up Yang Zicang up and down. To his surprise, one of them even manage a shy nod at the old ape-man.
Seeing the looks in these two barbarian girls’ eyes, Yang Zicang suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.
–Hey, wait up. I have no intention of becoming some sort of live-in son-in-law here.–
Losing all interest in even demonstrating the bow and arrow technique for these savages, he quickly accelerated time and vanished on the spot, provoking the wildlings into a cacophony of alarm and chaos.
After three months had passed, having left behind a stone-tipped spear made with his own hands for one primitive tribe, Yang Zicang was utterly disheartened.
Using his temporal acceleration, he had traveled far and wide, encountering several primitive –tribes.–
Most of these gatherings of savages lacked their own language, and had not even crafted weapons.
Those who could use stones as weapons were already considered the more advanced clans among them.
–There’s no civilization at all. They can’t even grind stones; how can they possibly make statues?–
He realized that, perhaps due to the overly specific demands in his description, the mail-courier had sent him to a world with nothing. Likely, it only met the condition of being –sufficiently safe.–
But waking up like this, with nothing accomplished, felt too unbearable to accept.
–Where the hell is this bloodline sculpture?–
In the distance, figures of several savages appeared, having just emerged from a bloody battle, capturing a few wild beasts.
These gains were bought with human lives.
Seeing these, humanity’s –ancestors,– struggling to survive in such a world, Yang Zicang’s heart felt a pang of bitterness.
–This is just a dream. Once I’m gone, you’ll be set free.–
He turned and walked away, muttering to himself.
Ten years later.
Yang Zicang stood on a towering, protruding rock, his expression solemn as he gazed into the distance.
He had traversed every inch of land within a radius of over two thousand kilometers, yet found no trace of any prehistoric civilization.
Thus, he decided to venture even farther.
Perhaps on the other side of the continent, there might be other civilizations or their remnants.
Yang Zicang looked down at his own hand, and at the flint resting in his palm.
Though it appeared just as when he first entered, a full decade had passed—even with time acceleration, he had personally weathered nearly two years.
–Though this is a dream, for those within it, there is still pain and joy.–
Before leaving, Yang Zicang wanted to return to the small tribe he had first encountered years ago. He wanted to see if they were still there.
[I initiate time acceleration, jumping ahead to fifteen days later.]
[I have consumed 15R.]
Yang Zicang, leaning on his long spear, emerged from the woods, which had grown slightly lusher.
It had just rained. The savages had taken shelter in a recessed concave pit of a distant cliff, tousling their body hair, or pounding stones with wooden hammers nearby.
They were crafting relatively handy rock tools.
Suddenly, these people erupted in a cacophony of shouts, baring their teeth at the distant silhouette.
But immediately, a voice silenced them.
A burly savage, slightly aged, stood up. Hesitant, he craned his neck to peer at Yang Zicang.
–Mm.–
–Mm, mm-mm!–
A few wildmen, with arms dangling, crouched down beside this upright, peering wildman.
Seeing the patchy layers of hair, Yang Zicang’s face broke into a smile, and he spoke with perfect clarity: –Xiao Wu!–
A Wu let out a loud cry, tumbling and scrambling out of the pit, his feet sinking into the mud as streams of slime oozed between his toes.
Yang Zicang smiled as he watched him run over and crouch by his side.
–Long time no see, Xiao Wu.–
Yang Zicang ruffled his greasy, black hair. After two years of living here, he no longer shied away from such things.
Following A Wu’s lead, two or three middle-aged or elderly wildmen came over—those still alive from the group of that time.
Looking at these faces, so changed by time—even if only in a dream—Yang Zicang still felt a pang of sorrow.
To them, thirty or forty already meant old age. The robust youths of seventeen or eighteen back then were now retired to the second tier, doing tasks like sharpening stones and picking fruit in the community.
–I’m sorry. This is my fault.–
A Wu, of course, couldn’t understand what he said, but he found the –incomprehensible one’s– voice rhythmic, clear, and wonderfully versatile.
A Wu deliberately pulled Yang Zicang’s hand while crouching like an orangutan, urging him to follow him to the side.
Yang Zicang followed him with confusion, while the other savages gathered around and trailed along. It seemed that A-wu still held some prestige.
Before long, Yang Zicang arrived at a pile of stacked branches.
The shape of the heap resembled the campfire he had built himself.
A-wu looked at him expectantly, pointing to his mouth and the burn scars on his body.
–You guys… fine. But these rain-soaked logs won’t catch fire. Follow me, Xiao Wu.–
For the next half day, Yang Zicang led the savages to find relatively drier wood, letting it dry under the sun to evaporate the surface moisture.
He also collected dry branches, dry grass, and plants dampened by rain—intending to use them later for a comparison in fire-starting. Additionally, Yang Zicang split open a hard fruit resembling a gourd to use as a water ladle, scooping water from the stream.
Along the way, the young man casually took down a passing beast resembling a wild ox with his bow and arrow, sending a chill down the spines of the watching savages.
The savages now looked at the curved –firewood– on him with even greater fear.
By evening, a new pile of firewood was set, with water prepared beside it, along with a heap of green grass.
Under the curious gaze of the savages, Yang Zicang pulled a flint out of his pocket.
He crouched down, first taking a small pinch of dry grass and placing it in front of him, striking the flint. The sparks that flew in all directions startled the wildlings, who let out loud shouts.
After just a few strikes, the dry grass ignited.
Seeing fire again, older wildlings like A’Wu, who belonged to the –middle-aged and elderly– group of the small tribe, felt both joy and overwhelming fear.
The fire burned out quickly.
–Eh? Huh?– They stared at him in confusion.
Yang ZiCang gestured, pointing out the difference between dry grass and green grass, and demonstrated with the green grass—sparks flew but it wouldn’t catch fire. After this failure, he tried again with the dry grass, and it ignited instantly.
–This is called ‘making fire.’ This is ‘dry,’ and this is ‘wet.’–
Yang ZiCang repeated the pronunciation several times, but it was no different from playing music to a cow.
Just as the small fire was about to die out again, Yang ZiCang tossed in a fresh piece of wood, and it flared back to life. Some of the younger wildlings showed dawning realization on their faces.
Yang ZiCang then demonstrated with a wet branch—it took a good while to ignite.
The firelight flickered on all their faces, and A’Wu stared at it, deep in thought.
But in the next second, with a smack.
A’Wu leaped to the side, staring in alarm at Yang ZiCang’s actions.
They saw him pour clean water from the gourd ladle onto the fire, and the small blaze was extinguished instantly.
–Ah? Eh?–
Yang ZiCang pointed to the water, then to the fire. Only then did it dawn on him—had this deity fallen into another rage?
–The day is growing late. Tonight, let’s have a feast.–
Of course, they couldn’t discard the beast felled by arrows. Yang Zicang pulled a half-arm-length, keen rock knife from his waist and used it to dissect the carcasses, leaving the savages utterly astounded.
They had never seen anything that could slice through meat with such clean efficiency.
Every random item on this mysterious being was a prized treasure, and many savages cast gazes of worship.
The sun had completely vanished, and the fire crackled as it burned.
The night—a night fraught with countless dangers. For endless ages, every night had been a perilous world for the savages, where wolves, leopards, and tigers could suddenly emerge, snatching away their fragile lives.
But not tonight.
The flames cast their glow on the mountain walls and the edges of the distant forest, while the savory aroma of roasting meat seemed to open up new regions of the brain. Some beasts that passed by, upon seeing the fire, immediately fled far away.
Upon witnessing the reappearance of the fire, the few survivors among the savages who had once followed A’Wu recalled the terrifying scenes of yesteryear and dared not approach.
–Come, eat,– Yang Zicang said, pointing at the campfire.
Behind him, a childlike ape-man had been hiding behind the elders for a long time, sucking his fingers as he sniffed the meat’s fragrance, until he finally mustered the courage to step forward.
–This is called fire, fire.–
–Fyre.–
The child laboriously uttered in a crude, slurred accent.
Hearing this not-so-standard word, Yang Zicang smiled and nodded, handing a skewer of roasted meat toward the child.
A Wu swallowed hard, staring at the person in front of him.
He never stopped reminiscing about the sweet potato from back in the day—every single bite of it.
Under dozens of eyes swirling with all kinds of emotions, the frail little boy gulped, hesitated while looking at Yang Zicang’s outstretched arm, then slowly reached out his small, dark hand to take it.
The boy sniffed it, tried to tear off a piece of meat with his teeth—and then his gaze froze, as if he had turned to stone.
The surrounding wildmen watched nervously. Two or three seconds later, the kid let out a sudden cry, wolfing down the roasted meat into his mouth.
Before he even finished chewing, his eyes were blazing, his breath ragged as he stared at the other pieces of meat over the fire, like a little tiger locking onto its prey.
With his lead, more people stepped forward, laboriously uttering the sound –fire.– Those who succeeded all received meat personally roasted by Yang Zicang.
Before long, the entire primitive tribe erupted as if a monkey nest had been stirred up. And Yang Zicang, the one who had brought such –delicacies,– was now worshipped by the crowd—they were desperate to get more of this stuff.
Over the next few days, Yang Zicang taught these people how to make fire, how to sharpen stone knives, and how to roast meat.
They had already learned to use vines as ropes, their intelligence not beyond hope. With someone guiding them step by step, some of them began to show talent, especially the children, who picked up simple skills.
–Hereafter, these are for you all.–
Before leaving, Yang Zicang placed two pieces of flint into the rough, fumbling palms of Awu, who crouched in front of him.
The primitive people stared at this scene in disbelief—this miraculous being had actually given their tribe something that could create –that which lights up the darkness.–
–Ah-wu!– –Xia-hu!– –Xieh-mu!– –Wu-wu!–
They hopped and shouted, trying to mimic Yang Zicang’s pronunciations.
Awu looked down at the stones in his hands, his brain slow to react. When he raised his head again, the figure before him had vanished.
A few years later, Yang Zicang limped through a gobi desert, leaning on a staff and carrying a clay canteen.
The clay canteen was not for his own use but for certain people here.
Whenever he encountered someone being chased—panic-stricken and lost after fleeing from enormous sand centipedes—he would lend them a few sips from his canteen to restore their strength.
–No statues here, no ruins either. Have I truly come to the wrong dream?–
[I doubted the power of the king’s court—how laughable I am.]
Yang Zicang shook his head, speechless.
Whenever he felt about to wake up, Moxel would always appear like this.
–If you won’t let me wake up and won’t take me to the Land of Statues, what’s the point of pulling off such a massive dream—just to flaunt your miraculous power?–
Yang Zicang grumbled on habit, unaware when this had become his daily chore.
There was no response. He let out a breath, sat beneath the scorching sun, and gazed ahead at the mirage.
Within it lay scenes of an oasis and flowing streams.
In this Gobi desert, similar illusions often appeared, and generally in those directions, one could find desiccated corpses with all moisture completely evaporated.
Anyone who believed that food and water waited there had better prepare to die of thirst.
–Hatta!–
A voice came from beside him.
Yang Zicang turned his head to see a girl with her little face flushed from the sun, shielding herself with a broad green leaf and draped in simple clothing made from wide leaves.
Under such relentless exposure, without something to cover the body, sunburn was inevitable.
Most of the primitive people here possessed such skills.
–So it’s you—didn’t expect you’d follow me this far.–
Two days ago, when escorting someone back to the primitive settlement, he had seen this energetic little sprite.
Now, she blinked her wide eyes, staring intently at Yang Zicang’s wooden staff, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on the clay pot of water hanging from it.
–Want it?–
Yang Zicang chuckled, took it off, shook it gently, and handed it to the child.
–Huh? Ah me?– She pointed at herself.
–It’s a gift for you. Be careful not to break it—it can’t handle a fall.–
The child set the green leaf aside, picked up the kettle resting on the sand dune, and hugged it while shaking it lightly.
Yang Zicang reached out and removed the wooden stopper; the child quickly peered in with one eye, tilting the kettle as if hoping to see its contents more clearly against the sunlight.
And then, the first sip of water was swallowed by her eyes.
–Wow wa!–
The child was stunned.
She had heard the rescued man use simple words to describe Yang Zicang’s magic, saying he had –water,– so she had chased after him all the way.
And this was real!
–Ahm eh, ah yo wah.–
Clutching the magical gourd-shaped pottery jar, she pointed at it without quite believing it.
–You’re quite polite, aren’t you, you cunning little runt.–
Yang Zicang tousled her hair: –Take it. Uncle says if I’m giving it, then I mean it.–
With that, he stood up tall and straight and walked ahead. She couldn’t understand his words, but she could surely grasp his actions.
The child looked at the kettle, then at Yang Zicang, pondering something deep in her gaze.
She tilted her head back, took a few gulps of water, then shouted something at Yang Zicang—yo ah arhs—and only after following him for a short stretch did she rapidly scurry away, clutching the water jar with the green leaf perched on her head.
Yang Zicang turned to watch her leave, but just as she hadn’t gone far, the child—whether from sheer excitement or because the sand was too scorching and slippery—tripped and fell.
The clay water jug shattered into several pieces, and the remaining clean water seeped into the sand, rapidly disappearing.
The child was stunned for a moment, then burst into loud crying.
In the desert, obtaining such a unique water-storage tool was unprecedented—something never seen before, yet she had messed it up.
–You really don’t have much luck, do you?–
Far away, Yang Zicang watched her with a grin, arms crossed; minutes later, the kid was still crying.
–Oh, you wouldn’t happen to know what you just broke, would you?–
He walked toward the child.
–Anyway, I’ve got plenty of time, so I’ll restart the furnace right here. This time, I’ll mold a more beautiful one.–
He brought the child back to the nearby tribal area, then searched from afar for clay, wood, and coal to make pottery, setting up a kiln on that spot.
Over twenty days later, after several failures, some crude usable pottery emerged from the firing.
At first, only the child stayed by his side, but in the days that followed, more and more primitives gathered around.
They were initially just curious, or perhaps drawn by Yang Zicang’s might—because with a few stones, he could drive off those sand centipedes.
But soon, they could no longer stay calm.
As pottery of all shapes appeared before their eyes, the crowd’s gaze at Yang Zicang had shifted from looking at a person to revering a sage.
–Here, take this to play with.–
Yang Zicang casually picked up a frog-shaped clay figurine from this batch and handed it to the little one.
–Wow!–
The child’s eyes were sparkling with stars, drawing envy from the surrounding kids.
–Atata!– The child held up the clay frog, as proud as if raising a crown.
–Ah-tata, ah-tata!–
Then her possession was snatched away.
Yang Zicang watched them laugh and frolic.
Many days later, roughly over half of the people in this primitive tribe had learned to use pottery to hold water.
Of course, the difference between the two was not too great.
Thus, another forty-plus years passed.
Yang Zicang had traveled through countless places, lost track of them all.
He had long since grown too lazy to curse that Light Emblem from ages past; likewise, he held no illusions about the statue. He merely sought useful skills while incidentally looking for that thing.
Clad in a straw raincoat, Yang Zicang looked up at the dissipating dark clouds in the sky, planted his hands on his hips, and twisted his neck.
He rolled up his pant cuffs, stepped into the water, and waded toward the small boat ahead.
Calling it a boat was generous; it was actually a larger-than-common dugout canoe, carved and hollowed from a felled tree.
Although over the decades he had found iron ore and fashioned brittle, unenduring iron tools, and replenished his arrows, he still couldn’t manage the artisan skill needed to build a boat.
Yang Zicang turned to look at the primitive people bowing to him in reverence. This small tribe had developed relatively fast—they had a simple language and knew how to bind things with vines.
But there were only about a dozen of them. Yang Zicang guessed they might have learned these skills from elsewhere.
In front of these dozen people, he crafted an even more complex vine net and successfully caught fish and small beasts with it. Surely, someone among them would eventually discover more uses for it in the future.
–See you in the future, savages!–
–Kurakuraura!–
The savages, carrying their saw blades and axes, reluctantly saw him off.
Yang Zicang hoisted the beast-hide sail and departed from this place, aiming to cross the sea and seek out more distant lands.
Perhaps there would be new discoveries on the ocean.
Or maybe, as soon as he set out, he would come across the abandoned cargo ships of the East India Company anchored in the distance—he wondered eagerly.
–Sixty years have passed; it’s time for a new attempt! From now on, I am: Zheng. Magellan Columbus. Jack Zang!–
The young man stepped onto the gunwale, his hands donning a shade-crown of woven grass. Though his craftsmanship was crude, it possessed a rugged, unpolished beauty all its own.
If another failure ensued, this post emblem would be written off as ruined by his own greed.
Suddenly, the savages on the shore behind him shouted even louder, a note of terror creeping into many of their voices.
Puzzled, Yang Zicang turned around and followed their gaze upward. A streak of meteor light dotted the far edge of the sky, like a pinprick shining in the distant heavens.
–Whoa, a shooting star! No, wait—it’s a comet,– Yang Zicang chuckled.
These savages were so innocent, he thought.
Still, he couldn’t blame them. A comet with such a visible tail, even in broad daylight, was a rare sight. Having such an anomaly suddenly appear in the sky must indeed be beyond their understanding.
It’s only natural that they feel fear.
–This is just a dream.–
A few days later, gazing at the vast expanse of ocean in every direction, Yang Zicang murmured to himself.
Though this is a dream, he already felt as if he were living within it.
The sole human.
With the emerald sea and azure sky, at least he didn’t need food or water, nor sleep—otherwise, he’d have died hundreds or thousands of times drifting over these waves.
Yang Zicang glanced at the horizon. The comet was still there, having barely moved. It seemed it would take a long while yet to span the entire skyline.
–Will I cross the ocean first, or will you conquer the sky?–
He spoke almost to himself, a dry chuckle lacing his words.
As tens of days and nights passed, the weather gradually turned colder.
At noon, final fine snow ceased. Bored to distraction, Yang Zicang rowed with a flat, long-blade-like iron spear a few strokes, then suddenly felt a pang of unease—chill foreboding seeping through the air around him.
Frowning, he removed his straw hat, whose brim had long frayed free, and looked around but could find nothing wrong.
Suddenly, an overwhelming aura of dread emerged.
–What is that?!–
Shadows congealed on the edge of the wooden boat, centered around the flat iron spear, as if something was meant to manifest from it.
A long-marked surge of memory boiled up.
Nightmare!
Yang Zicang stared, stunned, at this shoddy iron lance. Did I not make this? Why would it spawn a Nightmare?
It wasn’t a projection born from Earth, after all.
–Squeak!–
A strange eye-like pattern grew on the stone spear and wooden lance, with a red glint flickering up and down inside it, then locking onto Yang Zicang.
[I, the great Quadrilateral, sense hostility.]
The Moxel on his chest automatically flickered into view.
The stone spear lying on the ground transformed into a shadowy monster like a serpent, its red eyes venomous and vicious. Its body arched and coiled before launching itself forward.
A golden phantom instantly lit up Yang Zicang’s hand as he punched out.
Bang!
The newborn nightmare within the iron spear was instantly vanquished.
Countless eerie patterns gleamed on the longspear, and clouds of dark red smoke retracted into the weapon as it fell to the boat, losing all movement.
Yang Zicang picked up the spear, and several mental voices echoed in his mind.
[The council members call it—a Soul-Artifact Weapon.]
A Soul-Artifact Weapon, not a Temporal-Artifact Weapon?
Yang Zicang’s eyes flew wide open.
He had destroyed it just now without expending any time—not even a single second had been deducted!
–Woo~–
A strange, mournful cry arose, dreamlike and illusory, as if sounding beside his ear, yet also emerging from deep within his mind.
An ancient, yet freshly-buried memory surfaced… that similar sound was the one he had heard when the so-called [Mother Essence] spoke to him.
An even denser, more sinister sense of dread surged forth. Yang Zicang searched left and right, and finally his gaze landed on the unhoisted beast-hide sail.
Having drifted at sea for so long, it had nearly rotted from moisture and decay.
At this moment, countless shadowy veins, like dark cyan blood vessels, writhed across the sail and the small mast, as if something was about to resurrect from within.
–Another nightmare? No, two!–
The golden spear thrust down.
Thump! The gray mist that had just begun to coalesce around the dugout canoe was deflected, as the dark red weapon, sharp as steel, plunged deep into it.
Yang Zicang could scarcely accept this—what in the world was happening? If it were only the nightmare here, it would almost be tolerable, but…
On land!
He dared not let that thought continue.
–This is a dream! Just a dream! Even if… ah! Die!!!–
He swung his golden-glowing fist in fury toward the mast, but this object was neither too large nor too small—relying merely on fist wrapped by Temporal Sequence could not hit its main body.
–Pfft! Pfft!–
Two streams of gray mist shot forth.
–Dispatch!–
Gray mist could be diverted by the dispatch ability, sending them shooting into the ocean.
Beneath the water, several fish struck by this gray mist writhed in agony, their bodies twisting and deforming, sprouting extra, octopus-like limbs.
Though his own Temporal Sequence should defend against such attacks, Yang Zicang felt a chilling creep on his scalp at the sight.
He pulled out and plunged the eerie, crooked spear once more, whereupon the mast let out a phantom wail.
Strangely, that sound made Yang Zicang cool down a bit.
–I should seize the chance to gather more data.–
This is a phenomenon I’ve been searching for decades—there’s no way I’ll just kill them all like that.
He picked up a wooden stick from the canoe and struck at them.
As expected, this ordinary stick, aside from thumping loudly against the already rotting leather, was utterly useless.
–Seems like those nightmares—though you’re somewhat different from them, not requiring to expend time sequences—can’t be harmed by ordinary attacks either.–
Poof poof poof!
Several more streams of gray mist shot forth, and as before, after being hoarded into the water, Yang Zicang thoroughly smashed them to pieces with a few strikes of the spirit weapon in his hand.
On the mast, now reduced to a stump, the black patterns gradually stopped flowing.
Blue-red secretion oozed out; as it dried up, it formed a translucent crystalline film covering the surface.
Yang Zicang reached out to touch it.
[Probably a spirit weapon that can accelerate the boat.]
After waiting a bit longer, no other abnormalities emerged from the canoe.
–Why did these things suddenly appear? Did we enter some special place?–
The sea ahead looked no different from before, except for the occasional snowflakes falling, perhaps due to winter.
Yang Zicang looked up at the mast—after touching it, he could indeed sense its ability to accelerate the boat.
Then his gaze lifted higher.
If there was anything else peculiar—it was that comet in the sky, which had only reached the position of the sun at its peak after two or three months of traveling.
-** Could it be you?!-**
Yang Zicang looked up. If that were the case, that land might be…
Turn the boat around!
[Spiritual weapon, accelerate!]
[Deploy, accelerate!]
Boom!
The speed of the dugout canoe instantly skyrocketed.
Yang Zicang, with one foot resting on the bow, grew restless and anxious.
He kept looking up at the comet, which had now grown slightly larger, allowing its red surface to be seen.
[Maintain this speed and consumption level. Time, accelerate!]
[I have advanced to 7.1R later.]
Day and night alternated several times within a single second. Yang Zicang noticed that the speed had slowed significantly—the mast’s acceleration ability had vanished.
Its energy source is not the temporal sequence.
–What do you need to replenish?–
The dead nightmare could not speak. Yang Zicang had a stroke of inspiration and bent down, plunging his hand into the waves underneath. Nearby fish, as if naturally drawn into his grasp, were caught by him.
As soon as the fish touched the spiritual weapon transformed from the mast, several threads extended and pierced the fish’s body. Its struggling gradually subsided, and then it swiftly shriveled.
–One fish is far from enough.–
Yang Zicang looked beneath the surface, where a colossal creature faintly stirred in the dark sea.
A shark covered in scale-like armor turned and lunged forward. It leaped several meters from the dugout canoe, landing straight onto the boat, eyes wide open, before Yang Zicang dispatched it with two gunshots.
The scent of blood permeated the air. Yang Zicang hoisted it near the mast, and before long, it had shriveled into a dessicated fish jerky.
The mast resumed accelerating.
–Please, even if it’s a dream…–
A month later, the coastline finally came into view. At the sight of it, Yang Zicang rose anxiously, staring into the distance.
The longboat shot across the unfamiliar beach sand like a speedboat, zipping forth.
[Time Acceleration.]
[I have advanced two rotations into the future.]
Sun and moon shifted. Yang Zicang materialized near the primitive tribe he had departed from, yet now it was utterly devoid of life.
But a thick, heavy stench of blood seemed to linger there eternally, immutable.
At the edge of the deep, dense forest, inside the cave where people once dwelled, a faint flicker of dark red light pulsed.
Overwhelming rage!
Yang Zicang had never felt such profound agony and fury.
Gripping Lance closely, his body emanated a golden radiance, amplified by quadruple Moxel, as he strode step by step toward that place. Before he drew near, the nightmare within already sensed the life force from outside.
Boom!
Rock exploded as several things, resembling swordfish but topped with monstrous, finger-sized faces, shot through the stone.
–Ah, die!–
Yang Zicang surely recognized whose faces those bore!
His weapon flickered. Had these things stayed on the ground, it might have been one thing, but as they flew through the air, they fell entirely under the restraint of will—impaling themselves on his spear as if of their own accord.
The spear shadow swept like wind.
Yang Zicang, who had honed his combat skills for at least a decade on this vast, primal continent, was long past being the nobody he once was.
These small, fiendish nightmare monsters were soon beaten to the ground, transforming into the shapes of various short blades and stone axes.
His heart ached with regret, and remorse was futile.
A thick, bloody aura surged forth.
{Grrrrr~}
From within the cave, a nightmare creature emerged, seemingly humanoid yet made of entwined vines.
It wore the twisted face of an ape, and its gaze fixed on Yang Zicang, whose eyes burned crimson into the world beyond.
The sight of that familiar but distorted face tore through the last of Yang Zicang’s restraint!
–Ah! Die!–
Swoosh! Swoosh!
Several vines shot forth from its fingers, expanding swiftly into a net that spread wide.
Before the net could fall, two smaller, grotesque creatures of the same kind appeared behind it, launching vine nets of their own converging ability.
Yang Zicang dissolved into a blur, his spear hurling upward to catch one vine net and tear it apart with a swing.
Sunlight, thinly filtering through the dense canopy, cast dappled shadows, while the roots beneath the nightmare creature’s feet gripped deep into the earth like tenacious veins.
{Ugula!}
They bellowed like primordial men, heaving up colossal vines that split the earth as they surged, like giant pythons darting through the soil.
Yang Zicang moved with agile grace, evading the roots slithering beneath the ground.
A low, guttural roar rang out as two smaller vine-fiends swung their woven great arms forward, bringing a howling gust of wind crashing down.
Thud!
The two vine-like arms altered their trajectory, slamming violently into each other with an explosive burst of flying debris.
He flickered aside with nimble ease, leaping lightly away, while the long spear in his hand shot forth like a streak of light, straight at the chest of the tree demon.
–Speed! Ram it open!–
The spear’s velocity surged!
The chest of the lesser fiend, no longer robust, burst open in an instant—the crimson glow within it shattered by the spear’s tip, dispersing into nothingness.
Upon seeing this, the remaining two fiends let out furious roars and charged forward.
They finally realized the man before them was no match for the weaklings they had preyed upon in days past, and began to unleash their full strength.
The roots beneath the ground burst forth with a thunderous roar, swinging like countless spears, sweeping toward Yang Zicang.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
With a series of light, precise steps, he planted one foot on a heaving root and leaped upward.
Another minor nightmare fiend rapidly consumed its own energy, swaying its body as countless fine vines sprouted from it, surging in all directions in a desperate attempt to ensnare the swiftly approaching enemy.
Yang Zicang radiated golden light, smashing through the endless web of fine vines with a single punch.
Landing before the cave, he yanked the spirit weapon embedded in the nightmare fiend’s body and pulled it out with a wrench.
–Go back to hell!–
The shaft of his spear batted away the vines coiling toward him, driving forcefully into the gap beside the other minor nightmare fiend before it could seal it with vines.
Bang!
A cluster of red energy exploded.
Countless giant vines howled toward him from behind.
Yang Zicang turned his head to look, his hands moving in sync.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The spear’s tip flashed explosively; his body shot forth like an arrow loosed from a bowstring, the crimson spirit weapon tracing a brilliant phantom trajectory.
Amid a thunderous roar, the remaining colossal nightmare fiend let out a telepathic wail of agony.
The Lance stabbed precisely into the red energy mass inside its body.
Crashing!
Bathed in dappled sunlight, the last nightmare fiend slowly began to disintegrate.
Amid the flurry of fragments, Yang Zicang rose and turned to cast an indifferent gaze—the ground was littered with unrecognizable monstrous remains.
Silently, he stepped into the cave, where more than a dozen withered human forms lay scattered around him.
On the cave walls were chaotic lines scratched by mischievous children with rocks, and higher up, the various living figures painstakingly carved by the respected savages of the clan.
There was a beast represented by an arch shape with four short lines, humans symbolized by erect crossing lines, and several fish twisted together from two curves.
–So you all have learned to fish.–
–Those people who struggled so hard to survive…–
Yang Zicang clenched his fists, looking at the desiccated corpses drained of life at the base of the wall beneath these paintings.
–Now is not the time for lamentation.–
This continent was still immensely vast.
If the mutation had begun spreading from this region, then by the look of it, perhaps it had not yet entirely covered the whole landmass.
He quickly made his way to the clans and small tribes he remembered passing down skills and weapons to.
In the past few months, the comet had streaked across nearly half the sky, and by now, spring had been underway for some time.
Along his journey, Yang Zicang encountered one devastated tribal settlement after another; only a few dazed savages had escaped with their lives,* too terrified to ever return home.
They scattered alone across the endless expanse of heaven and earth, uncertain when they might encounter others who shared their fate, to form a new tribe.
Boom!
The nightmare formed by wooden shanties was shattered by several shots from his spear.
Under the scorching sun, Yang Zicang strode across most of the continent, his steps drawing him closer.
Lifting a broken wooden plank and peering down, he saw that the corpse remains beneath the shack had been dead for less than half a month.
–This nightmare must have formed not long ago. My guess is correct.–
A comet hung in the flawless azure sky like a masterful brushstroke from a painter.
Lowering his gaze from the sky, he was about to leave when he suddenly heard several voices in the distance.
A large and a small savage burst out, crouching like apes just over ten meters away, grunting and ogling at Yang Zicang.
–I’m sorry. This time, I… can’t teach you anything anymore.–
He vanished from where he stood.
The comet continued its steady advance, and as it crossed most of the sky, Yang Zicang returned to the other side of the continent.
Eventually, he found more small tribes, some of which had either forgotten the skills Yang Zicang had taught them, damaged tools like stone spears and knives, or had never crossed paths with him before.
By the withered yellow forest, Yang Zicang made a new stone spear and a complex little wooden shack, yet no nightmare emerged from it.
From then on, he simply watched the comet above him, trailing just a step behind in his own journey.
He was now certain—with more than ninety percent probability—that these anomalies all originated from it.
–Is this the message this world wants to convey to me?–
After sitting outside for two days without witnessing any anomalies, Yang Zicang set it ablaze, burning it to ashes.
……
The shaman sat before the campfire.
Surrounding him, with dim eyes and dulled senses, were countless people whose gazes were pure yet gleamed with sharp intelligence.
Regardless of gender or age, they were wrapped in clean and neatly arranged furs of all kinds.
The wind and snow raged. Yet, in this hollow beneath the cliff wall, bursts of laughter and chatter occasionally emerged. But these people dared not speak loudly near the aged shaman, only whispering low jokes at the edges of the crowd from time to time.
If anyone disturbed the old man, several tribal chiefs would immediately untie their ropes and waistbands, strip away their animal hides, and cast them out into the wind and snow.
For without the shaman, how could they live so comfortably? They would only endure hunger and cold in the blizzard, struggling through the harsh winter.
They treated these young savages who committed offenses with such severity because the old man was far too advanced in years to withstand any stimulation from loud noises.
Of those who survived from that era, only a few remained.
But don’t underestimate these few; their lifespans had already exceeded twice that of ordinary savages, as most savages originally lived no more than thirty years. Most died from disease, starvation, or the jaws of wild beasts.
A man with a smooth forehead softly muttered a few words to the girl beside him; the female savage, with her long hair draped over her shoulders and a round face, shot him a glare before tiptoeing away and stepping out.
The male savage let out a low chuckle, then sneaked backward, retreating from the vast, blazing campfire’s perimeter.
The two tribal leaders exchanged a glance and shared a knowing smile.
They encouraged an ever-growing number of people in the tribe, as it would provide an endless supply of labor to sustain and expand their settlement.
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