Chapter Twenty-Three: Doubt

A day passed swiftly in the midst of the sacrificial rites.

That night, Chen Ming did not make any bold moves; he merely increased his investment of divine power in silence. Consequently, many people sensed in their dreams a vague vision of a god—immense and majestic beyond measure.

At the same time, Chen Ming issued secret instructions to some of his more devout followers, urging them to evangelize covertly throughout the tribe, spreading faith in all directions.

Observing the unfolding situation around him, Chen Ming remained unhurried. Each day, he quietly responded to the prayers and calls of his believers, carrying out these tasks without rest. Months slipped by in this manner, and within the slow passage of time, faith gradually settled and grew profound, becoming dense and cohesive.

Meanwhile, Chen Ming deliberately heightened his spiritual presence in the tribe. Normally, only the truly devout would be granted the ability to comprehend and wield divine magic. But now, having subtly relaxed his restrictions and even granting gifts proactively, even ordinary believers with a modicum of devotion could grasp one or two divine arts. Even those with only shallow faith, so long as they prayed in their hearts, would receive his response and feel the radiance of divinity. If they sought guidance, a sign would surely appear in their dreams that night—clear and effective.

After several months, both the number and quality of believers soared to unprecedented heights. The entire tribe buzzed with tales of the God of Nature.

Yet, though the results were remarkable, over time the high priest and his faction began to sense that something was amiss. They were not blind, after all; it was impossible for them to remain ignorant of the changes sweeping through the tribe.

But by then, there was nothing they could do. When the seeds of faith had first been sown, they had failed to suppress them in time. Now that belief had blossomed and borne fruit, it was too late. Nearly half the tribe, directly or indirectly, revered Chen Ming. No matter how high the high priest’s authority or how great his strength, could he truly slaughter all these people?

What’s more, they had not even grasped the extent of the problem. Under Chen Ming’s careful prohibitions and restraints, no one in the tribe could display divine magic openly. The high priest had not witnessed this supernatural power firsthand. To his eyes, these ants were as insignificant as ever, unaware that in the span of a few months, their numbers had swelled into a force capable of overwhelming him.

At the foot of a high mountain, Chen Ming stood, gazing silently at the tribe above.

In the sky, threads of pure, resilient white light slowly converged, dispersing the calamity and resentment that had shrouded the land for centuries. The light encircled a mass of dark, blood-red aura, leaving no gap.

Seeing this, Chen Ming smiled faintly. Sensing the divine domain that had unconsciously taken shape, he cast his gaze toward the blood-red aura at the heart of the tribe, his eyes icy and cold.

“It seems the time has come.”

Feeling the steady empowerment flowing from the divine domain, and seeing the distant blood-red aura growing ever weaker, Chen Ming smiled again and began to walk forward—one step at a time.

He advanced quietly, step by step. Outwardly, he appeared no different from any other tribesman, save for a faint divine radiance that set him apart. Though he seemed to move slowly, each stride spanned an unknown distance, and in moments he reached the tribe’s center.

It was the dead of night. Around the central altar, the fires burned quietly; several guards stood watch, their eyes scanning the surroundings.

Strangely, despite the ghostly glow enveloping him and his direct approach from outside, no one seemed to notice Chen Ming’s presence. It was as if, in this place, he simply did not exist.

As he neared the altar, the light about him grew brighter and brighter. At last, within the clear radiance, the figure of a youth emerged—handsome, poised, his expression serene, yet exuding an extraordinary aura. It was Chen Ming.

Standing beside the altar, he gazed at it, a faint otherworldly light in his eyes, as though he could see through the barriers beneath to the world below.

Indeed, with his divine sight, Chen Ming perceived a black space below, thick with karmic miasma, slumbering in the depths. This was the ancestral spirit’s divine domain.

Since this world lacked true gods, there was no way to form a genuine divine kingdom. Yet, as the tribe's totem, the ancestral spirit had enjoyed centuries of faith and blood sacrifice. Over time, it had carved out a miniature space—a fledgling divine domain to house itself and its followers.

Chen Ming focused his gaze. Though small, this domain was suffused with blood-red light, and within he could faintly see countless tormented faces emerging and fading away—shades of those who had perished in blood sacrifice, their remnants clinging to the spirit’s domain after being devoured.

Chen Ming frowned at this sight. Then, his body transformed into a beam of light that ignored the barriers above, plunging straight down.

At that moment, the nearby guards glanced at each other, each sensing something pass by, though they saw nothing. Shrugging off their unease, they resumed their watch.

Below, Chen Ming felt a glimmer of blood-red light emanate from ahead. In the blink of an eye, he found himself atop the ruins of a palace.

He looked around, surprised.

The surroundings resembled a medieval manor—though not large and somewhat desolate, it bore none of the savage features he had expected.

Lifting his eyes, he saw the manor itself—ancient and dilapidated, yet entirely out of place with the tribe’s primitive setting. Judging by the architecture alone, the tribe outside had barely crossed the threshold into civilization and still dwelled in primal conditions, while here was the hallmark of a mature culture.

Chen Ming was puzzled.

He knew that the environment within a divine domain, though different from the outer world, did not form itself. It had to be shaped by the will of the domain’s master. For such a scene to exist, the ancestral spirit must have spent much of its human life in such a place, perhaps even as the manor’s owner; otherwise, the vision could not be so vivid.

“But—is that possible?” he wondered quietly, observing the sophisticated architecture around him.

That ancestral spirit had basked in the tribe’s worship for centuries. Could such a refined scene have existed so long ago?

He recalled the hardship and backwardness of the tribesfolk outside, their rows of crude dwellings—a stark contrast, as if centuries separated them. With a trace of doubt and curiosity, he continued to survey his surroundings.

The manor was vast—perhaps originally so, or perhaps expanded by its owner’s will. Chen Ming strolled leisurely, admiring the rare sight.

The scene was remarkably lifelike, proof of the spirit’s deep familiarity with it in life. Yet it was, after all, a crude divine domain, and perfection was out of reach. Some areas for livestock or vegetable plots lay barren, and the great estate was utterly deserted, lending it an eerie, deathly stillness.

So he wandered, pausing here and there. The ancestral spirit showed no sign of movement, clearly still in slumber. But as Chen Ming approached a grand building, the domain’s master finally awoke.

Above, a plume of blood-red aura surged, thick with karmic retribution. At the same time, Chen Ming’s divine senses detected a towering figure ahead. As it sensed his presence, a pair of eyes as red as blood snapped open.