Chapter Eleven: Intervention

In a humble, ramshackle village, Chen Ming stood silently, watching the warriors clash before him without uttering a word. He remained there, his entire being radiating a brilliance unseen by mortal eyes—a pure light, brimming with immense vitality and the true meaning of nature, a light so mesmerizing one could lose themselves within it.

Lost in contemplation, Chen Ming’s divine core quietly calculated and evolved within him, as if weighing gains and losses. After a while, he lifted his gaze to the side that was being relentlessly driven back by the invaders. The situation on the battlefield had become painfully clear. If things continued this way, there was no hope for them. Yet not a single soul surrendered, for they knew all too well the consequences of capitulation.

The fate that awaited them was a terrifying abyss. The tribes that survived on this land were both pragmatic and ruthless. They understood their enemies’ intentions and knew exactly what would befall them if captured. Thus, every one of them resisted with all their might, though it would change nothing.

Facing them, their adversaries bore savage grins. Scrawny bodies were covered in a dense lattice of scars, yet they charged forward undaunted. Their enemies were about to break, and victory was within reach.

Among them, a middle-aged man with facial markings caught Chen Ming’s attention. He seemed to be the village chief, clad in crude leather armor, wielding a long spear as he pressed forward with valor. Above his head, a faint red aura—his life essence—wavered restlessly.

Chen Ming looked again and saw that above the man’s head, the red life essence struggled to break free, yet was thickly shrouded by a black miasma of calamity, unable to escape. Instantly, Chen Ming understood: without outside intervention, this man would fall to his foes.

So, with a point of his palm, Chen Ming sent forth a thread of divine consciousness. This was but a sliver of his soul—lacking great power and limited in duration.

Across the field, the marked man thrust his spear with all his might, felling an enemy. But there was no exhilaration in his heart—only despair. Of his people, only a few wounded remained. They were down to a scant few dozen, while their foes still numbered in the hundreds. Their annihilation was imminent.

He trembled at the thought of capture and the horrors that would follow. Despair flooded his heart. He thought of his wife and children still in the village, the hundreds of wounded, and the elders, women, and children behind the lines. If he failed, their fates would be unspeakably grim.

Clenching his teeth, he forced out the last vestige of his strength and charged forward with his spear.

Suddenly, his weapon was blocked. Before him stood a burly brute with bloodshot eyes and a crazed, bloodthirsty grin. The giant snatched the spear, laughing harshly. “Bamu, you have no strength left. Are you not going to surrender?”

“Never,” Bamu spat through gritted teeth.

“Then die,” the brute sneered, thrusting the captured spear toward him.

Seeing the spearhead draw ever closer, a wave of helplessness engulfed Bamu. He had fought to his last with a weary body. Thinking of his family, he fell into utter despair and closed his eyes, awaiting death.

“Do you wish to survive?” whispered a voice in his ear—majestic, clear, and ethereal.

“Who is it? Am I not yet dead?” Questions filled his mind as he snapped his eyes open and witnessed a scene that left him stunned.

The brute still wore his savage grin, arm raised mid-thrust, but his movements had slowed to a crawl, as if time itself had been stretched a thousandfold. All around, the others were similarly slowed to the point of stasis, as though time had stopped in an instant.

He tried to turn his head to look behind him, but to his horror, he found his body immobile, as if under another’s control.

Then, a grand will descended upon his consciousness. Amid a vast, ancient chant, Bamu saw an enormous sacred tree, towering to the heavens, exuding boundless power.

“Do you wish to save your wife, your children, your warriors, and your tribe?” the voice asked again.

This time, Bamu did not hesitate. He roared in his heart, “What must I do?”

“It’s simple. Become my follower. Worship me as the god of your tribe.”

This time he hesitated, but recalling their dire situation, he replied resolutely, “I am willing.”

“Good.” The voice sounded again, but now it began to fade, as if about to vanish.

Alarmed, Bamu cried out in his heart, “What should I do?”

“Do whatever you deem necessary.”

Bamu was briefly confused, but then a force pushed him back, returning him to the present scene.

Time resumed. The spear, which had seemed frozen, now plunged resolutely into Bamu’s body, his eyes full of despair and confusion.

Yet, when the spear struck, there was no sound of flesh being pierced.

The brute stared in horror at his weapon. At the moment the spear touched Bamu’s body, a brilliant light erupted from him, enveloping him completely. The hard, sharp spear was stopped cold by his flesh.

Bamu threw his head back and laughed, sensing the warm radiance surrounding him, tears mingling with a surge of relief at his narrow escape from death.

“Die!” he roared, charging forward, his exhaustion gone, his body surging with inexhaustible strength. Before his enemy could react, Bamu struck him with a single punch.

“So fast!” the brute thought in terror. An instant later, his body was sent flying several meters. Upon landing, the divine power in Bamu’s fist detonated the man’s body, leaving not a trace behind.

“This power...” Bamu stared at his hands, stunned by his newfound strength. Then, as he looked at the enemies closing in on his wounded tribesmen, his hatred surged anew.

He plunged into the enemy ranks. To the astonishment of all, he became invulnerable—no blade or spear could harm him—and unstoppable. Any foe who so much as brushed against his fist was sent flying.

In the end, the remaining enemies gathered together, desperate, and encircled him. Seeing their deep-seated fear, Bamu laughed heartily, unable to contain the divine power within him as he unleashed a punch.

This blow was almost casual, not meant to cause harm. Yet, as if guided by fate, a divine imprint shivered within him. Before everyone’s stunned eyes, the world itself seemed to rupture—a green star, radiant with majestic power, descended from the heavens. In an instant, it smashed a massive crater into the ground, crushing countless enemies beneath its weight.

Divine art: Starfall.

Naturally, Chen Ming would not have Bamu slay his enemies one by one. With the gift of divine power, he also bestowed upon Bamu his most potent divine art, which had just been activated.

The remaining enemies finally broke, their faces twisted in terror as they gazed at Bamu as though beholding a demon from hell.

Bamu did not pursue them. He remained immersed in the aftermath of his blow’s destructive power.

He raised his hand, feeling the surging divine energy within, and could not help but murmur, “Was that truly my doing?”

In the shattered village, Bamu stood at the fore, tall and imposing. Behind him, wounded tribesmen gazed at him with reverence. Before him, the enemy fled in terror, making him appear as though he were the very god of war.