Chapter Twelve: The Human Purge Plan

As the diminutive humans entered the Bronze Age, the “Cave Dwellers” joined in as well. However, metallurgy demanded skill, and in these remote wilds, the smelting of copper could easily betray the location of a settlement. Thus, for now, the Ancestor of Luo pursued his copper-forging enterprise with great caution.

Yet within the pocket world, the small folk had already begun crafting bronze ornaments and musical instruments, to say nothing of bronze weaponry. Their practice of blood and breath cultivation, however, had reached an impasse. Limited by their own physicality, their martial prowess remained mired at a rudimentary level.

It was precisely for this reason that, when Luo left behind a molted shell of himself, its discovery caused wild excitement and ignited a grand conflict. Stories now circulated throughout this miniature world of a mysterious Martial God, a master whose martial arts pierced the heavens, who ascended in a blaze of rainbow light, leaving only a gilded body behind to instruct those who remained.

Luo himself was rather intrigued by this “Martial God” persona that rumor had bestowed upon him. Thus, with time to spare today, he fashioned an incarnation for himself within the pocket world, then merged his consciousness with it.

The small folk’s development plan had now reached phase 2.3: cultivating civilization and enriching the spirit. Luo, too, found himself ever exploring the mysteries of his own mind. Since refining his spirit through the practice of breath and energy, he better understood the symbiotic relationship between body and mind—they nurture and complete each other; to neglect one is to diminish both.

Regrettably, due to innate limitations, the small folk could make no further spiritual progress. Luo felt it a pity to squander the burgeoning scale of their civilization, so for now he let them continue to explore the martial path. Should they remain stalled, he would enact another world-cleansing and initiate the small folk 3.0 plan.

Though the small folk were not yet spread across the entire pocket world, they had explored a third of the land and ventured into the seas, their population now exceeding three hundred thousand. With so many chattering little beings, Luo felt some reluctance to simply wash them away from the earth.

So he resolved to grant them one more year—a year as measured on the primeval continent. If in that time there was no progress, he would unleash a flood to scour the land.

His incarnation descended into a particular tribe; Luo strolled about, observing the settlement and immersing himself in the customs and culture of the small folk at close quarters. After all, watching from above like a satellite each day, he was bound to miss some things, and the gulf between him and his creations could only deepen.

Within the tribe, they had already established a marketplace akin to a bazaar, where barter prevailed alongside transactions using a common bronze currency of the tribal alliance. Still, bartering was more common.

It would be impossible to find teahouses, restaurants, or taverns here. Yet, people did gather in small groups around campfires, roasting meat, each carving off a portion with their own knife and sharing stories—even among strangers.

This was an innovation devised by some clever soul: anyone could set up a campfire, roast some meat, and passersby were welcome to share—provided they first exchanged useful information.

This method of sharing news soon spread, imitated by all the tribes, especially in busy market areas, for such places drew travelers from far and wide, increasing the odds of new intelligence.

Luo, carrying a small knife, approached a campfire where five men sat. The meat had been all but devoured, the five men now sated and content, but when they saw Luo—distinguished and striking—they looked surprised, yet made no move to prevent him from sitting.

Luo glanced at the bare bones remaining, but showed no dismay. He seated himself, retrieved a sheep leg from his pouch, and set it down.

Sheep in the pocket world boasted eight legs and were larger than cattle. A number had been domesticated by the small folk and become a key source of meat. Yet only tribal nobles normally enjoyed the legs of these eight-legged sheep; commoners merely glimpsed them on the living animal, and wandering martial artists such as these could only hope for a taste if honored by a noble’s invitation.

The meat these men had just roasted came from a shaggy, one-eyed beast—tough, stringy, and of little benefit to martial cultivation, but enough to fill their bellies.

Others gathered around nearby fires now glanced over, a few even salivating, eager to sample something new. To say they were drooling was no exaggeration.

“Friend, what do you wish to know?” The original host of the fire, his single sharp eye now torn from the sheep leg, fixed it on Luo’s face.

“That mountain,” Luo said, pointing.

This tribe lay closest to the peak now hailed as the Sacred Mountain, which explained the gathering of so many people—and Luo’s own arrival.

The one-eyed man gave a derisive chuckle. “Ha, I’m afraid that’s not enough.”

Information about the mountain was the most precious commodity among all the tribes these days.

“I have plenty more,” Luo offered enticingly.

The five men around the fire all drew deeper breaths. Conversation at the other fires paused, then resumed, but it was plain their attention was fixed on Luo.

“You… could ask the chieftain,” the one-eyed man said, scrutinizing Luo carefully, sensing he could not see through him and growing hesitant.

“He’s been inside the mountain already?” Luo asked.

The man nodded. “He was among the first.”

Luo rose without taking the sheep leg from the grill. He gazed toward the mist-shrouded mountains. In truth, he felt no particular emotion, but his face took on a thoughtful cast.

Within the pocket world, there was little he could not know—save for the thoughts of men. In strictest terms, the chieftain of this tribe was not truly among the very first; it was a woodcutter who had first discovered the blood-red mist.

That woodcutter was now imprisoned—his limbs broken, his tongue cut out, his eyes gouged, locked away in a dungeon.

Yet Luo’s purpose was not to seek out that man, but to stir up a storm of blood and strife, so that the small folk might find their way forward through competition.

He resolved to contact the woodcutter—not face to face, but through remote spiritual communion.

As Luo stood, his consciousness spread across the entire tribe. His spirit now ranged ten feet from his body, and given the primeval scale of things, the tribe spanned no more than three feet across, with a depth of little more than an inch—easily encompassed by Luo.

…

He exhaled, drawing breath, doing his utmost to remain calm.

His name was Mu, a woodcutter, once an honest man. Now, darkness and hatred alone filled his heart.

He had known great joy and even greater sorrow, but never enlightenment. He wanted to weep, but could not, for his eyes were gone.

And with his limbs shattered, even if he could cry, he could not wipe away the tears.

“Mu.”

At that moment, a voice sounded in his mind.

How did he know it was in his mind? Because his ears had long since been deafened by smoke.