The Western Frontier was a savage, desolate land.
Perilous mountains and treacherous waters abounded, with sheer cliffs and precipices at every turn. Poisonous miasmas hung heavy in the air, and ferocious beasts dwelt alongside venomous insects.
Even when a winding, rugged mountain path appeared, traversing it was fraught with hardship.
Yet despite its perils, the scenery of the Western Frontier held a secluded, uncanny wonder: bizarre peaks and grotesque crags, plunging waterfalls and cascading springs, myriad ridges rising one above the other in endless splendor.
Nor was the region devoid of human presence.
On the contrary, quite a few mortals dwelt here—indigenous folk whose ancestors had lived in the land for generations. Mostly gathering in fortified stockades, they were skilled in martial arts and insect taming, carving out an existence in the cracks of this harsh wilderness.
*Splash, splash...*
A small river rushed through the towering cliffs. Though narrow, the water surged swiftly, throwing up flurries of white spray whenever it struck the boulders along the banks.
Like most rivers in the Western Frontier, its course was exceedingly tortuous.
Obstructed by rocks and crags, small whirlpools formed wherever the current was checked. Dead branches, tangled weeds, and fallen leaves were trapped there, gathering into thicker and thicker clumps.
In some spots, massive logs lay fallen across the shallows, battered and scarred, clearly trees that had toppled on the slopes and tumbled into the water.
Yet there was no need to worry about them rotting in the river.
Rain was frequent in the Western Frontier. Every few days, a downpour would sweep through, washing the mountains clean. The river would swell violently in the aftermath, scouring away all accumulated debris.
As the saying went, the cicadas' drone made the woods seem all the more tranquil, and the birds' calls lent the mountain an even deeper stillness.
The rushing water and the clamor of birds and beasts on either bank only deepened the solitude.
It was early morning, just after a light drizzle. Tiny threads of rain still drifted down, their moisture gathering into a thin mist that veiled the mountain peaks like a fairyland.
*Whoosh, whoosh...*
Suddenly, a shrill whistling tore through the air from downriver.
The mist stirred. From afar, a glint of golden light pierced the vapor, speeding up the river channel at tremendous speed.
All at once, the golden light halted in midair, revealing a middle-aged man in strange robes.
He was tall and burly, hovering in place. A streak of golden light circled him, faintly revealing the shape of a flying sword.
His features were rugged. Apart from intricate painted patterns across his face, three claw marks left by some unknown creature ran from the corner of one eye down to the opposite corner of his mouth.
The claw marks bore a dull, deathly gray hue, as if residual poison lingered in them, making him look even more ferocious.
His robes were oddly fashioned, stitched together from irregular pieces of animal hide to form a bizarre, vividly colored pattern.
His neck, wrists, and even his face were covered in strange tattoos made with unknown pigments, and he wore numerous ornaments crafted from bleached bones, beast fangs, and exotic bugs.
Had any mortal from a nearby stockade passed by and seen the things on his person, they would have instantly dropped to their knees in reverence, loudly hailing him as a bimo, Lord Priest, or Shamanic God envoy, or something of the sort.
The pelts, teeth, and bones on his person had all been taken from the fiercest of venomous vermin and predatory beasts—the things mortals feared most in the Western Frontier.
Only the legendary Shamanic God envoys, or the bimos and priests of the grand stockades, possessed the strength to hunt them.
Yet to the eyes of a cultivator from the Lesser Cold Domain, this man was merely a fellow Daoist, albeit dressed in an eccentric style seldom seen there, and his cultivation was nothing remarkable—merely the tenth layer of the Qi Refinement stage.
Hovering aloft, the hide-clad man swept his hawklike gaze below. Directly beneath him, the river bent sharply, where a thick mat of broken branches and leaves had accumulated on the surface.
Amid the tangle of debris, a pale arm stuck out.
The mortals of the Western Frontier revered martial prowess, and feuds over resources frequently erupted between stockades. A corpse drifting down the river was hardly unusual, and at first, the hide-clad man paid it little mind.
Yet a fleeting glance revealed several peculiar details that prompted him to stop.
With a flicker of movement, he landed on the bank. He reached out toward the middle of the river, extending a stream of spiritual power that easily hauled the corpse ashore.
*Splash!*
As the body was yanked out, the whirlpool was disrupted. The gathered branches immediately broke apart, some swept away by the current, while fresh debris—including several logs as thick as a man's thigh—drifted steadily down from upstream.
*Thud!*
The corpse landed faceup on the riverbank, revealing quite a handsome face belonging to a young man who looked to be in his early twenties.
His skin was completely bloodless, clearly having soaked in the water for a long time.
His eyes were shut tight, his breath gone, thoroughly dead. His left arm had been severed cleanly at the shoulder, the blood either drained dry or stanched by some method.
It was a severed-arm corpse.
"It really is a Shamanic God envoy!"
The hide-clad man beamed with delight, greed gleaming in his eyes. He had never expected to stumble upon an unexpected windfall along the way.
"This spirit robe must have been quite something! What a waste!"
He inspected the tattered spirit robe on the corpse, discerning its fine quality. Unfortunately, it was riddled with holes and tears, ruined beyond use.
Even in such a state, it had still provided a measure of protection against the violent river.
"Drifting down from upstream... Could he be from Tianyue Stockade? Did internal strife break out again?"
The hide-clad man glanced upriver, frowning slightly. He swept his spiritual sense across the corpse, but found nothing unusual, even on the rust-colored thumb ring worn on one finger.
Finally, his gaze locked onto two pouches hanging at the corpse's waist.
"What kind of pouches are these? Why do they look so strange? Which one is the mustard seed bag?"
The hide-clad man muttered to himself. Having dealt with priests from large stockades and visiting Shamanic God envoys from abroad, he knew human cultivators commonly used storage magic tools called mustard seed bags, which were far more convenient than his own people's tools.
Later on, influenced by the human race, many local Shamanic God envoys followed suit. For instance, people outside no longer used the term 'Shamanic God envoy,' calling them cultivators instead.
Only in remote corners like the Western Frontier were such traditions still preserved.
Neither pouch on the corpse resembled a mustard seed bag.
"Could they be meant for gu bugs? Or... has he already been looted?"
The hide-clad man's face darkened, the smile fading from his lips. He reached out, grabbed one of the pouches, and probed inward with his spiritual sense. Touching a soul imprint, he opened the pouch with ease.
*Buzz...*
The next instant, a piercing drone erupted within the river valley.
A massive cloud of blood surged out of the pouch. When the hide-clad man got a clear look at the eerie, blood-winged monstrous bees swarming inside, he froze in terror, his face draining of color until it was paler than the corpse on the ground.
Letting out a cry of panic, he spurred a streak of green light from his dantian.
It was a jade-green mantis the size of a finger, brandishing its dual scythes.
Yet before the vicious blood cloud, the jade mantis appeared frail and insignificant. In an instant, it was engulfed, devoured until not even scraps of bone remained.
The hide-clad man had barely summoned his golden sword when the cloud of blood swallowed him whole.
"Aaargh!"
A shrill, agonized scream echoed through the valley, startling the birds and beasts of the mountain.
Chapter 612