Chapter Thirty-Three: The Ancestor Luo Who Could Be Felled by a Single Fart

The distant mountains are azure cliffs, resembling delicate painted brows, shrouded in mist and illusion. Nearby, vibrant purples and reds mingle with lush greens, stirring the heart with their beauty.

Raising his gaze, he sees an endless expanse—millions of acres of emerald waves. The sun blazes, steam rises from the water, and the haze intoxicates. Vapor drifts, traversing a thousand mountains, gathering as water, thousands upon thousands of droplets falling among the peaks.

The greenery in the mountains seems ready to drip, as hurried travelers dart into caves. Yet atop this mountain, one person stands alone, occupying the summit, welcoming the rain, drawing in countless wisps of vapor, clad as if in feathers, like an immortal.

Suddenly, another flashes through the mountains, climbing from the mid-slope to the broad plateau at the summit. Braving the rain alone, he approaches the one at the peak: “Chief, the rain is so heavy, let’s return and take shelter.”

He trembles in the rain, as if some peerless beast lurks within the curtain of water. Before him, the Ancestor Luo is also quaking, the flesh on his face twitching uncontrollably.

“In such peril, it’s best to sharpen one’s spirit. Go back; if I can’t endure, I’ll return,” Ancestor Luo waved his hand, managing a strained smile.

Ironhead Boy scratched his head, unsure whether to heed Luo’s words or stay and accompany him. But this rain is terrifying—far more so than when he faced the unicorn last time.

Luo insisted, “You go first.” His tone grew stern, and Ironhead Boy finally nodded in agreement. He retreated swiftly, stumbling and crawling, as if pursued by someone wielding a blade.

Watching him leave, Luo continued to resist the downpour alone.

Why does this rain carry such dreadful, intimidating power? It is because its water is drawn from that vast “lake.” This “lake” is the footprint left by the Divine Dragon Lord, as recorded by Luo, and after pooling, it formed a sprawling inland sea, its size rivaling the combined oceans of Luo’s previous life.

A trace of the Dragon Lord’s aura lingers within that footprint. Even that mere wisp is enough to frighten an immortal.

For a “false immortal” like Luo, simply being soaked by rain formed from the aura-infused lake is enough to make his legs tremble and weaken.

The terror within is beyond words; Luo’s fear cannot be overstated. If he remains under this rain too long, he might well “die of fright.”

To die from a rainstorm—a human ancestor meeting such an end—would surely make Luo a legend.

He had just conjured wind and rain in his own pocket world and dispatched the greatest figures among the small human tribes with a wave, yet in the primordial era, he is but a petty insect—one the Dragon Lord could obliterate with a casual gesture.

After about an hour of endurance, Luo finally staggered to his feet. He slapped his cheeks to loosen the jaw muscles that had grown sore from clenching. Then he hurried down the mountain, fleeing without pausing for a moment.

As long as he stayed out of the rain, the Dragon Lord’s oppressive aura weakened considerably.

The mountain was silent; truly, all birds had flown away, all paths void of human tracks. Dominated by terrifying upright apes, not a single animal remained, even the dense forest drooped lifelessly, as if the rain had been wasted, unable to bring it to flourish.

Passing through a familiar grove, Luo reached into a tree hollow and pulled out a short-legged, plump dove with a head full of white spots. It stood three feet tall with an eight-foot wingspan. Luo had coveted its big wings for some time, but this creature was wary of the “cave people,” making it difficult for Luo to catch.

It often hid in the dense woods, using the foliage for cover. Luo’s arrows seldom hit it. When the heavy rain began, Luo saw it flee into the grove, and sure enough, he caught it there.

Without counting its legs, Luo placed the dove atop his head to shield himself from wind and rain, then hurried back toward the tribe’s cave.

“Chief, chief,” tribespeople shivered at the cave entrance, awaiting his return.

Luo rushed inside, dispelling the rain from his body and tossing the big dove onto the ground, instructing them to roast it—leave him one wing and divide the rest among the others.

He then retired to his room to meditate.

This time, his spiritual gains were considerable; it felt as if he had been washed clean, much of the filth and impurities rinsed away.

Luo performed the Three Souls and Seven Spirits Yin God technique, causing his soul to take form within the room, and through his physical perspective, he saw that his Yin God was more solid than before, his spiritual awareness extending three feet further.

Such benefits he had gained twice before, discovered by accident, and thus he adopted this method of tempering his spirit, advancing faster than ever.

Yet with this fierce spiritual progress, his body needs extra care for half a month.

After his last such ordeal, he chewed through three hundred pounds of meat daily for eighteen days. Fortunately, due to his cultivation, his digestion was extraordinary, absorbing all essence and residue, so he didn’t spend all day in the latrine.

His stomach now resembled a furnace; barring earth, stone, and steel, he could easily digest grass, wood, and meat, without producing any waste.

Luo worried that if this continued, his anus might atrophy and disappear.

Would he become like a mythical beast, eating but never excreting?

But if his anus vanished, it wouldn’t matter—no more hemorrhoids to trouble him.

A blessing in disguise, perhaps.

Examining his Yin God with physical eyes, then scanning his body with spiritual awareness, the interplay allowed him to detect errors in his cultivation.

He would then make adjustments, a daily practice.

Cultivation demands caution, especially for a pioneer like him—one wrong step and correction becomes nearly impossible.

Moreover, Lady Hou Tu still served as the ancestor witch of the tribal shamans, yet to transform into reincarnation. When people died, they simply vanished—perhaps returning soul and body to the earth, or maybe becoming vengeful spirits, trembling on the land until their shadowy lifespan ended, then dissolving back into the world.

As for ghosts dying to become ghouls, and ghouls dying to become… Luo was unsure if such things existed.

After his Yin God wandered for a while, it returned to his body, bringing back the seven spirits, which infused his flesh with color and fullness.

On the path of cultivation, before achieving enlightenment, the body must be preserved. If destroyed, the soul becomes incomplete; surviving as pure spirit is difficult, and growth impossible.

Thus, Luo’s calculations dictated that he must at least forge a primordial spirit—a refuge for the soul—before abandoning the flesh.

But that is for later; Luo is still but an ant in the primordial chaos.

After the rain, as Luo prepared to enjoy his roasted dove wing, the Far-Sighted, who had been monitoring the red-furred monster, suddenly came to report.