The purple rain poured down, striking the hillside with a patter, like whispers from hell summoning the souls of the departed.
On the slope, a solitary figure stood, clad in a straw cloak and wearing a conical hat. In his hand, he held a long, azure saber. Raindrops struck the blade, momentarily tingeing it with purple before sliding off.
Ahead, a small tribe was making its arduous way forward.
The ground was riddled with muddy puddles, each step sinking them deeply. The sacred beasts, heads bowed, stumbled onward, one foot after another.
Where were they going?
For this tribe of just over a hundred people, they had no idea.
Let's go, let's go.
It was better than waiting to die. Perhaps, if they reached the Great Wall, the elders would show mercy, and there would be a glimmer of hope for survival.
The road ahead was vast and uncertain, their path unknown.
Numbness, deathly silence, and despair enveloped everyone's hearts.
No one knew the tribe's name, no one remembered their once beautiful past, no one knew they too had loved ones, families, children.
They supported each other, walking across the muddy earth.
Along the way, people kept falling, never to rise again.
Perhaps, death was a release from this suffering.
But as long as they were not dead, should they not do something?
For instance, keep walking.
Tribes like this, in the Land of Fate, numbered in the tens of thousands.
Their ultimate fate was the same as other tribes, swallowed by the tide of annihilation.
No one remembered them.
Perhaps some hoped that a great tribe would appear and slaughter them all.
To die a swift death was better than starving, falling ill, or dying from exhaustion, better than collapsing onto the ground, never to get up again.
On the hillside, that solitary figure in the straw cloak, like the embodiment of death itself,
moved.
A bolt of lightning erupted within the ranks of the small tribe, causing countless casualties.
The saber rose.
Wails echoed everywhere as the small tribe was utterly defenseless.
The sacred beasts bared their teeth and lunged fiercely at the man, only to meet their doom.
The saber fell.
The world returned to silence, save for the sound of the rain.
On the faces of the dead, their eyes wide with unfinished business, was a mix of hatred and release.
On the other side of the hill, a group of phantom-like figures, also clad in straw cloaks and conical hats, appeared on the slope and rushed towards the man holding the saber.
The man with the saber seemed not to hear the dense footsteps. He remained leaning on his saber, gazing blankly into the distance.
As the group reached the man, they did not wield their weapons. Instead, they silently dispersed, scavenging the fallen for food and supplies.
A pack of sacred beasts ran over, gnawing on the bloodied flesh of their deceased kin.
For them, this was a rare, much-needed feast.
The man with the saber removed his conical hat, revealing a handsome face. His dark pupils gazed towards the sky, allowing the purple rain to fall upon his face.
A moment later, he lowered his head and shouted to the people beside him,
"Hurry up, let's go. I'll take you to Wanlei."
A month ago, Wan Liuchuan learned that Wanlei had killed the fourth expert of the Mahayana stage, that Wanlei possessed a fourth head, and that Liu Yuxin was with Wanlei.
That's good. That's very good.
Then I can rest assured.
He had to find Wanlei. In the entire Land of Fate, only Wanlei possessed the head of a Mahayana stage expert, and only he was qualified to lead the tribe into the Great Wall.
Moreover, she was there too.
He had to find Wanlei.
He asked Wanlei where he was, and Wanlei's answer was,
"I don't know."
The Land of Fate was vast, and Wanlei guessed it might be as large as the northern region of the Thunder Wind Continent.
There were few trees here, but many rivers. The purple rain intensified, and the ground was covered with winding waterways.
This had once been an endless grassland, but now it was a silent expanse littered with corpses.
There were no landmarks to tell people where they were.
The sky was perpetually overcast. Even flying ten thousand feet up, one could not see the sun. The sense of direction was poor, requiring specialized instruments to determine north.
Many tribes lacked such tools, yet they could still navigate.
It was simple: walk against the flow of the water. Where the land rose, they should go.
Water flowed downhill, and for people to survive, they had to go uphill.
Wan Liuchuan led this small tribe, enduring hardship and perils, taking one step at a time southward.
He had destroyed several small tribes, plundering supplies and sacred beasts for this small tribe, allowing them to survive to this day.
The tribe was left with just over a hundred people, all young and strong, all capable of fighting.
It wasn't that they lacked the old, the weak, women, and children. It was that under the continuous downpour of destructive purple rain for over a month, the frail could not withstand the corrosive effect. The meager vitality within the elderly was completely destroyed by the annihilating aura of the purple rain, and the weak bodies of children could not endure such torment.
Some, knowing they wouldn't live long and not wanting to burden the tribe, chose suicide, leaving the hope of survival to others.
Silence was the sound of death, the cry of life.
This dwindling tribe walked this path of death.
Ten miles ahead, there was a small tribe of two hundred people, with their strongest fighter at the third tier, who were setting up camp and resting with tents and other supplies.
Wan Liuchuan extended his divine sense. He stood on the ground, as if merged with the purple rain, carefully observing every move of the small tribe.
Within the small tribe, a woman in black, dressed noticeably different from the others, was also working diligently, helping people set up camp.
"Hey, do you still have any pills or spirit stones?"
A person from the native tribe shouted to the woman.
"I... I don't have much left either. I gave you most of it these past few days."
Qi Manyao lowered her head, opening her already meager storage bag. She looked at her meager savings accumulated over the years, which had become even more pitifully scarce.
"What do you mean most of it? Did we ask you for it? You gave it willingly, we didn't force you.
Besides, look, the old grandmother is about to die from illness, and you're still not giving her pills. If she dies, it will all be your fault.
Now that the spiritual energy of heaven and earth has vanished, if you don't give us spirit stones, how can we survive? When we fight others, won't we be killed because we lack spiritual energy?
Our deaths will all be your fault.
We are so weak, so poor. If you don't give us things, how can we live? How can you be so heartless? Have you let dogs eat your conscience?"
"Stop, stop talking, I'll give them to you, alright?"
Qi Manyao looked at the people around her, glaring at her, and silently opened her storage bag. She took out the remaining spirit stones and handed them to the man shouting in front of her.
She couldn't understand why she kept helping these people, yet they showed no gratitude, only continued to demand more. If she didn't give, they treated her like an enemy.