Chapter Twelve: Salvation

In the distance from the village, a group had stopped, among them an elder clad in black ceremonial robes stood out prominently. Within this assembly were dozens of warriors exuding a murderous aura, their faces fierce as they gazed upon the groups of bound slaves nearby, laughter booming from their throats.

"Honored Priest, surely this time we have gathered enough offerings to last for quite a while," remarked a burly warrior, his headdress adorned with three feathers, his tone tinged with reverence.

The elder nodded in response. "Indeed. The previous tribe, along with this one, has provided more than enough for all the offerings required this year. There will even be surplus."

"Then we can keep more of the young slaves," the warrior laughed, casting his gaze over some of the youthful and beautiful slave women around them, hunger flickering in his eyes.

Beside him, the priest nodded, his gaunt, skeletal face twisting into a sinister smile, chilling to behold.

"Why haven’t the men we sent out returned yet?"

After a while, the priest spoke, puzzled and somewhat concerned.

"They should be back soon. With the number of warriors in that tribe, the battle ought to be nearly finished," replied the chief, his feathered headdress marking him as a leader.

"Look, some are returning," he said, pointing toward dozens of men running toward them from afar.

"Why are only these few coming back? Where are the others, and the slaves from that tribe?" the priest asked, a sense of unease creeping into his voice.

His words stirred a similar apprehension among those nearby.

The chief strode over to a warrior, panting heavily as though fleeing disaster, and asked in confusion, "Why do you look like this? Where are the others?"

"Master Balek, they… they…" The warrior gasped, terror thick in his eyes. "We were defeated."

"What?" Balek cried out in shock. "How could we lose? How many were there?"

"There was only one. Our intelligence was wrong; the enemy tribe has a totem."

Another man staggered forward, apparently a minor leader, his body scarred and his eyes haunted by terror, confirming the story.

"Impossible!"

Around them, both the chief and the priest shouted in disbelief.

"We investigated thoroughly before coming. The ancestral spirits told me clearly that there could not be a totem in this village," the old priest stated with absolute certainty.

"Indeed, the ancestral spirits have never been wrong. If a true totem had intervened, none of you would have survived," the chief agreed, his authority second only to the priest’s. He well understood the power of a tribal totem: it might not annihilate an entire tribe in a moment, but dealing with a handful of men was effortless.

"Most likely, it’s a wandering nature spirit hoping to become a totem and enjoy the offerings," the priest sneered, unconcerned.

He pointed to the defeated warriors around him. "Lead us there. I want to see who dares oppose us."

"With the priest leading us, the enemy surely cannot resist," Balek said confidently, knowing better than anyone present how terrifying such power could be. He had encountered similar situations before; when the priest intervened, no matter how strong the enemy warriors were, they had no choice but to meet their end. If not for this awe-inspiring strength, he would not have shown such respect—after all, in the wilds, strength is paramount.

On the other side, Bamu, after repelling the enemy, stared at his hands, sensing the overwhelming force within himself, his heart shaken. "Is this the power of the totem?"

He looked around; countless warriors lay sprawled on the ground. Approaching one, he bent down to examine him.

It was his cousin, as close as a brother. Blood streamed from his body, flesh torn, yet his eyes shone with vitality.

"Cough... Chief..." he struggled to speak, his gaze brimming with trust and admiration.

"Don’t speak," Bamu murmured, his heart wracked with pain. He knew his cousin would not survive; this was merely a fleeting reprieve before death.

In this harsh, primitive world, the lack of medical care was unimaginable to modern people. Even minor illnesses could spell disaster for the people here. For this reason, priests held such high status—not only did they preside over rituals and communicate with ancestral spirits, but they also served as healers.

Now, Bamu was overwhelmed by grief, memories of shared life and battles flooding back, emotions surging uncontrollably, almost causing him to wail toward the sky.

He looked around; all his tribe's warriors bore wounds.

"If only I had gained this power sooner," he thought, gazing at his palm and feeling the tremendous force within.

"Power?" Suddenly, a flash of insight crossed his mind. He gently stroked the fallen tribesman.

"If you are truly an almighty god, then show me your proof!" he cried out inwardly, for the first time sincerely praying to the existence in the unseen.

Feeling the call from afar, Chen Ming glanced at him in surprise.

A deity can sense their followers; once their divine fire is ignited, a god can perceive those who invoke their name across even vast universes. But Chen Ming had not reached that point yet. Though he could still connect with his believers, it had to be initiated by him. Only Glama, whom he had appointed as pope, could actively reach him through the thread of faith.

He smiled at the thought, his divine power stirring within, transmitting through the unseen connection to Bamu.

All present were his potential followers; naturally, he wished to preserve them.

Instantly, Bamu felt a surge of divine energy within him. A green light shimmered from his palm, brushing over the fallen warrior.

As the green glow enveloped him, wounds began to heal at a visible rate, restoring his body to its original state. Within a few breaths, the light faded, and the once-dying warrior stood with no injuries, only a pale complexion.

He rose to his feet, staring at his body in disbelief, feeling his strength return. "This... this..."

Across from him, Bamu was equally amazed. He had only vented his grief, never expecting the god to answer his prayer.

But seeing so many fallen tribesmen, he had no time to dwell on it. He hurried to the next, following the sensation, letting divine power flow through, manifesting as green light that enveloped the wounded.

Once again, the process astounded all present, as another was healed.

The previously hopeless tribesmen began to look to Bamu, hope rekindling in their eyes.

Bamu wasted no time, moving from one to another, healing them all.

Chen Ming frowned at the scene—how long would this take?

With a wave of his hand, a burst of divine power issued forth, manifesting as hundreds of points of light through Bamu, enveloping everyone. In moments, all present were touching their unharmed bodies in disbelief, gazing at Bamu in awe.

They looked upon his mighty figure, their eyes filled with madness and reverence.