Chapter 51: Plans Cannot Keep Up with Change

To prepare for this day, Luo Zu had invested a great deal of effort, especially in tending to the giant fish of the lake, feeding it daily and gradually luring it to the edge of the shore. Today was the moment to test the fruits of his labor.

The commotion was immense, and the fish now waited by the lake, expecting its meal to come to it. Luo Zu knew the great dragon worm had been thoroughly enticed, its appetite whetted and its desire for the mother cocoon unwavering after such a long pursuit. He was certain it would not abandon the cocoon, so even if he sped up the flight of the gigantic blade, there would be no harm.

Crash! Thunder roared—not from a fire explosion, but from the gigantic blade breaking the sound barrier under Luo Zu’s command. In a streak, it vanished from sight, yet the swarm of insects remained undeterred, surging after its trail.

The giant beasts, however, now turned tail and retreated, no longer daring to pursue the insect swarm. Luo Zu did not try to hold them back, letting them scatter and flee as they wished. Clearly, they had sensed the pressure emanating from the vast lake, the lingering might of the Kuafu Witch Tribe. Luo Zu himself had grown accustomed to it, having been drenched for years by rain imbued with Kuafu’s divine power, but the beasts had always avoided that rain. How could they ever adapt? Their fear only deepened each time.

This left the giant fish in the lake ravenous; after just a dozen feedings, it had followed Luo Zu to this riverbank. The distance shrank—ten kilometers... five kilometers... drawing ever closer, just three kilometers remained.

But the fish could wait no longer. Its massive jaws gaped wide, engulfing half the insect swarm in a single bite.

Seeing this, Luo Zu hurriedly commanded the gigantic blade to release its hold, tossing the mother cocoon into the fish’s maw. There was no need for the fish to chase after the swarm; it simply held its mouth open, letting the insects pour in.

Meanwhile, the great dragon worm arrived slowly, accompanied by the fading miasma of poison and evil, along with earth, stones, and plants, all rushing into the fish’s cavernous mouth. Driven by the lure of the mother cocoon, it paid no heed to the glaring danger.

The fish was delighted—it felt as if it could sit and wait for prey to come to it. No longer did it exert itself, nor did it thrash its hundred-mile-long body; instead, it rested its head on the shore, mouth agape, awaiting the food to arrive.

Beneath the fish’s colossal head, spanning over ten kilometers, the great dragon worm darted inside, barely stirring the creature, as if a tiny mud loach had slipped into its mouth.

Thus, the great dragon worm vanished into its belly...

Not a ripple disturbed the water. Luo Zu stared, watching closely for any sign of trouble, fearing the great dragon worm might stir things up and poison the fish to death.

Twilight was not long, only the heart was impatient. Luo Zu waited for half an hour, witnessing nothing but an endless feast. All proceeded smoothly—proof that plans can never anticipate every change.

The fish showed no restraint; its gaping mouth never tired, remaining open as the surrounding swarm of insects streamed in, each willingly swimming into its stomach. Luo Zu had no idea how vast the fish’s appetite was—it had been eating for nearly an hour, and still the flow of insects remained constant. It seemed as though it would devour all the insects in the area.

When the great dragon worm showed no sign of movement after so long, Luo Zu presumed it had been digested, and so did not linger. He stowed the gigantic blade in his world-in-a-jug and rose lightly, riding the wind away.

A quarter hour later, his figure appeared at the edge of the Great Dragon Ravine. Now, the ravine was utterly lifeless; its veins polluted, earth and stones saturated with baleful energy, the slopes beside the river reduced to nothing but dead wood and dry grass—bleaker even than autumn and winter.

Luo Zu watched for a while, then stomped his foot, causing the soil and stones beneath him to shift.

Thunder rumbled; the earth loosened and rolled down into the ravine. Though there was not a drop of water in the soil, it surged and poured into the valley like a mudslide.

The ravine was ruined, the surrounding ten kilometers of land rendered useless, awaiting only the slow restoration of vitality by the passage of time.

It might be possible to cultivate plants adapted to the poisonous miasma and evil energy here, but Luo Zu had found none suited to such conditions. Thus, this idea was abandoned.

He had not expected the great dragon worm to become history so swiftly, without even a struggle, ending up as a meal in the fish’s belly. Perhaps that is the way of the primordial wilderness.

Luo Zu felt no sorrow for it, nor would humanity linger in grief; instead, they would adapt more quickly to this battlefield.

Returning to the tribe, Luo Zu glanced again at the fish in the lake. Its mouth remained open, the flow of insects undiminished.

The mother cocoon’s influence likely extended for a hundred kilometers. But how many insects were within that radius? Luo Zu could not say, for it included not only the surface, but also the insects beneath the soil.

Though beasts were abundant in the primordial wilderness, the insects were even more numerous.

As for the definition of insects? It was Luo Zu’s own: in Witch Tribe culture, insects were considered beasts, while in Demon Tribe lore, they were not. Luo Zu, drawing from his previous life, classified beasts as vertebrates, insects as invertebrates.

Fortunately, the primordial wilderness had both kinds—distinct, not mixed. Of course, some monsters sported insect heads or other oddities, yet possessed spines...

Sometimes, it was difficult to classify certain creatures. Some were composed purely of primal energy, or were mountains themselves, silicon-based life, acidic entities, elemental beings...

Such was the primordial wilderness—diverse and grand. Once you accepted it, you simply accepted it.

When the moon rose above the willow branches, Luo Zu finished a simple, healthy supper and looked again at the lake. The fish finally closed its mouth, splashed a few times, and returned to the depths.

Thus, the "great battle" ended, and Luo Zu breathed a gentle sigh.

He felt lighter, as if a heavy iron weight had been lifted from his body.

It was a subtle sensation, but more profound—his thoughts flowed more freely. The mental knots tied to the ravine were undone, freeing up memory for more important pursuits: the exploration of cultivation, the next stage of Daoist arts.

His yang spirit became purer, pure yang merging with yin, marking a step toward refining spirit and returning to the void—a path he had discovered.

He owed this to the many descendants in his world-in-a-jug. Without their ingenuity, even Luo Zu’s extraordinary talent would have stalled, for he was not a born divinity.

As Luo Zu took deep breaths, rain suddenly began to fall, dripping softly from the sky.