Chapter Thirteen: One Punch

At midday, the blazing sun hung high in the sky, bathing the world in its brilliance. Across the land, beneath the sunlight, streaks of fresh crimson blood quietly pooled upon the earth, interspersed with countless corpses.

Amidst a chorus of cheers and jubilation, Bamu stood dazed, taking in his surroundings. Around him were his brothers, comrades, and clansmen. At this moment, their faces brimmed with reverence and wild pride as they gazed at Bamu, exultant on his behalf.

“I have succeeded.” Recalling all that had occurred that day, he felt himself lost, as if in a dream. Yet quickly, he shook off this sensation, focusing on the inexhaustible power surging from deep within his body. He could not help but offer a heartfelt prayer, utterly in awe.

Nearby, in a corner invisible to mortal eyes, Chen Ming sensed a warm current flowing toward him—a thick, unceasing stream of faith, which his divine essence transformed into divine power. He looked toward Bamu and saw, above his head, a thick cord of faith, as broad as a python, standing tall.

Around them, the fervent emotions of the people—adoration, fear, and more—enveloped Bamu, only to be channeled through this line of faith, flowing steadily toward Chen Ming.

“He has already become a devout believer,” Chen Ming sighed softly, though he felt little joy. Faith, as a force, was all too dependent on the individual believer. Before one truly ignited the divine flame, a god’s life and death could, to some extent, be swayed by their followers. This was a dangerous prospect.

Moreover, faith gained solely through granting benefits was inherently unstable. If, earlier, Chen Ming had not responded to Bamu’s wishes and had refused to heal his clansmen, what then? Surely, Bamu’s faith would not be as resolute as it was now—perhaps resentment or even hatred would have taken root instead.

Thus, it was clear that entrusting the strength and survival of an eternal deity to the fickle will of short-sighted mortals was an inherent flaw.

“Still, it may not always be so,” Chen Ming mused. If the seeds of faith were sown from childhood, if the entire clan believed and this tradition was passed down through generations, then in time, faith would become inseparable from the destiny of the people—a bond not easily severed. Yet achieving such unity was a daunting challenge.

“I must gather faith quickly and ignite the divine flame,” he sighed, a sense of urgency rising within him. At present, he had only just begun to consolidate his divine position, barely setting foot on the path of divinity. If, at this stage, someone were to slay all his followers, the backlash from the unseen realms would be enough to utterly annihilate his soul, leaving no chance of recovery.

Once one set foot on the path of divinity, there was no turning back unless one truly achieved godhood.

These thoughts flickered through his mind as his gaze shifted into the distance.

Far away, a dark figure drew near. At this moment, Bamu too noticed the black-robed priest and his companions approaching.

At the sight of the priest, every face changed; fear flickered in their eyes. But seeing Bamu still standing firm ahead, they felt a measure of relief.

It had to be said, Bamu’s near-invincible might in battle had instilled them with newfound confidence. To them, Bamu must have communicated with some ancient and powerful being, perhaps even the ancestors of their tribe. Only a few elderly faces betrayed deep concern. Having survived long in this desert, they understood the risks of invoking totems—Bamu’s current glory might be matched by a terrible price yet to be paid.

As the priest approached, Bamu’s pupils contracted in instinctive fear, but the ceaseless power within his body and the divine art bestowed upon him bolstered his confidence. He drew a deep breath and stepped forward to meet them.

The black-robed priest regarded Bamu with a flicker of surprise. “You are the chief of this tribe?”

“I am,” Bamu replied in a deep voice.

With a cold smile, the priest sneered, “Since you are the chief, surely you know who I am. Will you not surrender now?”

At these words, a nameless fury rose in Bamu’s heart. He retorted coldly, “Surrender? Never!”

Startled, the priest crushed an eyeball-shaped artifact in his hand, instantly shrouding himself in black mist. He scrutinized Bamu, using the arcane senses granted by the black mist.

“Not a totem,” he muttered to himself after sensing for a while, secretly relieved. Then rage surged within him—he had been deceived, squandering a precious ancestral relic for nothing.

“You damned wretch!” he cursed, pulling a jet-black staff from his robes and, before Bamu could react, leveled it at him.

A jet of black energy shot toward Bamu with chilling swiftness, eerily displaying the twisted faces of elders and children—grim and ghastly.

“Bamu!” his people cried from behind, hoping he would evade the attack.

Chen Ming, who had been poised to intervene, withdrew his hand in surprise, studying the black energy repeatedly.

It was not that the power was too great—rather, it was pitifully weak. To Bamu and his fellow mortals, the black mist might seem terrifying, laced with curses and spectral horrors. But to Chen Ming, it was no more than a bundle of concentrated resentment and remnants of devoured souls, reeking of death and decay, devoid of true mystery.

Such power might indeed dissolve an ordinary person or lesser spirit, but with Bamu now shielded by divine power, it was laughably ineffective.

Thus, with no interference from Chen Ming, the black mist struck Bamu amidst the shocked and fearful gazes of those around him.

The black energy exploded upon contact, releasing a host of snarling, unwilling spirits that wound themselves about his body, creating a nightmarish spectacle.

The black-robed priest smiled in triumph. In the past, no matter how valiant the warrior, none had survived this attack—their flesh would rot away, leaving only pale bones to terrify all who looked upon them.

Yet Bamu, astonished, found himself enveloped in the black vapor, spectral faces crawling up his flesh as though to claim his soul. But as terror gripped him, divine power surged from within, a pure aura shielding him and dissolving the black mist entirely.

Before everyone’s eyes, Bamu emerged unscathed.

The black-robed priest froze in disbelief. “Impossible!”

With a furious gesture, he swung his staff, unleashing a blast of black energy many times greater than before, thick with resentment. As the energy was released, his staff visibly faded, its power spent.

Yet, to his despair, Bamu appeared once more without the slightest harm, the divine glow still lingering on his body. He stood calmly upon the earth, regarding the priest with cold disdain, utterly fearless.

“This cannot be!” the priest gasped, his withered hands fumbling within his robes for something more.

But Bamu had already reacted. With blinding speed, he charged forward, astonishing all who beheld him. He stood before the priest, eyes icy, and sent a crushing fist into the man’s skull. “Die.”

Empowered by divine strength, the priest was hurled away, his head exploding like a melon—dead beyond all doubt.

“Run!” cried Balek and his men in terror. Seeing Bamu standing there like a god of war, they dared not approach and hurriedly fled.

Bamu watched their escape, hesitated, but chose not to pursue, allowing them to get away.

“Bamu! Bamu! Bamu!” His clansmen gathered round, faces radiant with worship, madly shouting his name.