Chapter Fifty-Seven: Grow Steadily, Don’t Take Risks

Laozu gazed into the distant sky and saw the three-headed, six-armed giant striding through the void. With his six gnarled fists, he pounded mercilessly at the head of the speckled mountain fowl, sparks and lightning crackling with every blow. Even separated by hundreds of miles, Laozu could smell the acrid scent of burnt air, as if the very atmosphere had been scorched.

Yet, with every strike, a translucent azure halo inscribed with shifting runes rose around the mountain fowl, steadfastly shielding it from the giant’s heavy blows and protecting its vital points. All the while, the mountain fowl retaliated relentlessly, its wings, resplendent as brocade clouds, unleashing myriad beams of light like needles of rain, stabbing toward the giant.

The struggle was deadlocked, neither side yielding an inch, the air itself roiling with elemental power—not just the metallic essence from before, but many others as well.

Suddenly, the metallic essence stilled, then vanished without a trace—so swiftly that even the blink of an eye was too slow, and Laozu could not discern where it had gone.

In that instant, he saw a blinding light condense into a single arrow, which pierced through the mountain fowl’s body and out the other side.

“Great Yi!” the mountain fowl shrieked.

The giant seized the opportunity, snatching the bird’s slender neck and, with his other hand, conjured a broadaxe from thin air and brought it down with force.

With a resounding crack, wind and rain came lashing down. The mountain fowl was swiftly dismembered by the giant’s axe, its body scattered across the mountains and valleys for a thousand miles.

But scarcely had the mountain fowl been torn apart when an immense spectral fowl appeared in midair, pecking fiercely at the giant.

Yet the giant was prepared. The great serpent coiled at his waist opened its jaws and inhaled, swallowing the spectral soul of the mountain fowl whole.

“Qiu Zhi, you have broken your oath and deceived the Fiery Wu tribe. Today, I slay you in accordance with our vow,” the giant roared to the heavens, his words echoing in the ancient, universal speech of the primordial world.

“Shi! The Fiery Wu tribe shall be restored by you,” he commanded.

A distant voice answered, “Yes.”

With that, the giant’s figure faded and vanished in a flash of light.

The tempest ceased, the sky darkened, and all returned to the silence of night, though an air of unease lingered.

Laozu’s spirit returned to his body, and he took several deep breaths to recover.

Witnessing this sudden battle of deities, Laozu felt a measure of relief, unlike the bewildered anxiety he had known in the past—after all, he was somewhat familiar with both sides. This was the age-old struggle between the Wu and the Demon clans: one, Qiu Zhi; the other, the fiendish aid summoned by the Fiery Wu tribe.

Yet one question lingered in Laozu’s mind: Had Tang truly found these reinforcements?

By his reckoning, it had been a year since Tang departed, and perhaps she had indeed reached the higher echelons of the Fiery Wu tribe. But he could not be sure; the primordial wilderness was vast and fraught with peril, her path surely beset by thorns and dangers at every turn. Even the trials of the Journey to the West paled in comparison.

Now, with the overlords of the Fiery Wu tribe arrived and the chieftain of Qiu Zhi’s demon tribe slain, her vengeance could be said to be complete.

Soon after, Laozu’s tribespeople awoke one by one, bewildered and at a loss. He said little, merely instructing them to gather on the plain at the foot of the mountain, light a bonfire, and await dawn.

During this time, Laozu made a special trip to Tiger Head Village, where more than five hundred people lived—no small matter if chaos broke out there.

When he arrived, all was in order. He learned that one of Firechild’s offspring was maintaining order.

Firechild had many children, but only seven were acknowledged as his own.

Laozu would sometimes jest that the “Gourd Child” had grown into his own grandfather—a term not yet invented in this era, nor even “forefather.” Remembering one’s parents was already rare; anything further back was confusion.

This child of Firechild’s was named Luo, a girl older than Laozu by a few years—close to fifty. In the primordial world, fifty was only just adulthood, not yet middle age; though weathered and rough of skin from hardship, her appearance was as youthful as at eighteen.

Laozu offered her words of encouragement, then left her to settle the villagers, assuring them that the strange events had passed.

His prestige among the “Cave Dwellers” was unrivaled, surpassed only by the Mother Goddess herself. Every word he spoke was heeded without question.

Laozu returned to Luoxiang, keeping vigil with his people as they awaited the sunrise. Nothing further disturbed the latter half of the night, and the ceaseless drizzle that had lasted over a month finally ceased.

At dawn, Laozu gathered the leaders of the tribe for a meeting and recounted all that he had seen and heard the previous night.

Ironhead, who had experienced Tang’s ordeal firsthand, was the first to raise his hand. “Chieftain, will Tang return?”

Laozu replied sternly, “I do not know.”

“Chieftain, should we seek out the Fiery Wu?” Ironhead pressed.

Laozu waved his hand. “No.”

He had considered it, but according to Tang's map, the original site of the Fiery Wu tribe lay more than ten thousand miles from Luoxiang, the dangers along the way unimaginable, and who could say where the Wu named “Shi” would choose to resettle the tribe.

For now, Laozu preferred to keep to this remote corner, nurturing and strengthening his people until he could hold up the sky with a single hand.

His thoughts drifted as he gazed again at the sky, where mountain ranges stretched endlessly into clouds, obscuring his view of Buzhou Mountain. He longed to see, just once, the magnificent spine of Pangu, so often described by the elders of his tribe, before the sacred mountain was toppled.

He harbored no grand ambitions of sainthood or enlightenment; his cultivation progressed with difficulty, and dreams of higher realms were far beyond him.

“Chieftain, what should we do now?” Firechild asked.

Laozu considered. “We continue last night’s discussion—on the site of our third settlement.”

But another thought struck him: the metallic essence of the land had been greatly depleted. He scooped up a handful of earth and examined it with his spiritual sight.

The metallic energy was indeed greatly diminished, by at least half.

But what of the valley?

Without delay, Laozu ended the meeting and led his people to the valley.

As he had suspected, his inspection revealed that seventy percent of the metallic essence had been drawn from the mountain range connected to the valley.

“That arrow…” Laozu recalled the arrow from the night before.

Truly, such extravagance...