Chapter Forty-Four

As he finished speaking, the old village chief’s hand unconsciously reached toward his waist, searching for something. The elder villager, noticing this familiar gesture, instinctively crossed his hands and shielded his head as if by habit. The surrounding villagers, too, caught on to the chief’s movement and hurried to grab his arm. “Chief, don’t, please don’t. You’ve been doing this for twenty years—one more blow and you’ll turn him into a fool.”

Cheng Yuan cleared his throat, interrupting the village chief’s actions. “What did he do?”

The village chief glared at the old villager with hatred and said, “He turned a guardian deity into an evil god—a murderous evil god.” He shot the old villager a venomous look, then, almost grinding his teeth, continued, “For hundreds of years, our ancestors offered sacrifices, maintaining a good relationship with the Mountain Lord. The Mountain Lord intimidated the wild beasts, so we were safe from animal attacks and gained an affinity with the creatures of the mountains. Once, we even had a village chief who could communicate with the mountain beasts.

“Our village used to have thousands of people. It was the largest in Xianyu County—even the county magistrate considered building a private academy here. But because this man got drunk and rambled nonsense in the Mountain Lord’s temple, everything changed overnight. The roar of a tiger echoed through the village; the Mountain Lord, wielding a great blade, rampaged through the streets, killing people. An entire family—from children to elders, nine people in all—were decapitated.”

“Nine severed heads in a single room, the front door wide open, blood everywhere. With the Mountain Lord turned killer, the county magistrate accused our village of worshipping an evil god and ordered the forests cut down and the temple destroyed, enraging the Mountain Lord. The Mountain Lord fought the army; with centuries of accumulated power, he slaughtered the soldiers—even the county magistrate fell to him.”

At this point, terror crept across the chief’s face. “Then more troops came—an endless army. The battle with the Mountain Lord raged on, leaving the land strewn with corpses. In the end, the Mountain Lord was severely wounded and fell into a deep slumber.”

Hearing this, Cheng Yuan stroked his chin. An endless army? Certainly not a hundred thousand—that would be a national war, and no imperial dynasty would commit so many for a single county. Above the county is the prefecture; and given the village’s isolation, this could not have been at the border.

It was likely tens of thousands—tens of thousands of regular troops. Even in ancient dynasties, for a monster to annihilate so many soldiers, the Mountain Lord’s strength would be at least at the rank of King. For a natural disaster-class monster, perhaps still a bit lacking, so the power could be estimated at level 40 to 50. Considering the Mountain Lord’s grievous wounds and subsequent slumber—a massive debuff—even if he awakened now, his strength would likely only be around level 30.

In essence, the Mountain Lord more closely resembled the concept of a “divine species.” If he remained in his original form, Cheng Yuan surmised, he was likely some adult tiger-type monster. But by accepting worship and transforming into the Mountain Lord, he shifted from a flesh-and-blood species to a divine one—a transition not uncommon. Some undead, revered for their deeds in life, become divine; and in magical worlds, mages ascend the divine path in myriad ways.

Divine species are unique—their strength depends on authority. If he was a mere local Earth God, he would most likely be at the adult tier, rarely reaching the King rank unless extraordinarily fortunate—a chance as rare as winning the lottery’s grand prize untaxed.

A minor Earth God’s authority consists of two aspects: earth and guardianship. Though such domains sound powerful, why do they seldom rise above the adult stage? First, their authority is incomplete; “earth” doesn’t mean all earth, but just a portion—perhaps only the land of Qinghe Village, and possibly even less if diminished. Second, there exist higher deities—such as the City God—whose authority is broader and who suppress the lesser gods, keeping them docile.

Authority is the right to exercise rules. Scholars have long studied how the abilities of disaster-class monsters relate to authority. The path of the divine species is a ladder to the summit—each can become a true god. In other words, a minor local deity, assuming no superior, could theoretically apply for “promotion.” If there’s no one above, the request is escalated until it reaches the ultimate authority, known in cultivation worlds as the Heavenly Dao—or, more generally, the world’s consciousness. Once approved, the Earth God becomes a City God, his domains further refined and possibly expanded to include the underworld, and with time, he can apply again, ultimately reaching the status of the Jade Emperor.

Of course, all this presumes the existence of a divine system in that world. If not, things become much more complicated. Should an Earth God transmigrate to another world, he must redefine his domain, secure a place in the new world’s system, and as a nascent deity, reconstruct his path to godhood, eventually building up to communicate with the Heavenly Dao.

The first path is difficult to ascend but stable—after all, one can always call on one’s superior if trouble arises. The latter path is the more common route for individuals seeking divinity: it requires ages of cultivation and perseverance. The drawback is that, before communicating with the Heavenly Dao, one isn’t truly a god—practitioners may not even recognize them as such. The advantage is that, once divinity is achieved, the authority is complete—invincible, undying, and eternal. In terms of the monster system, this would be level 95 to 100.

This process can even be understood through the actions of disaster-class monsters. Being able to communicate with the Heavenly Dao is akin to beginning assimilation; to rule over it is to reshape the ecosystem. When one ultimately becomes the Jade Emperor—like the Ghost Emperor of Fengdu—one stands at the pinnacle, and the world belongs to them. In that sense, “True God” may simply be another name for the ultimate monster.

Cheng Yuan counted on his fingers. The Mountain Lord’s behavior seemed off—not merely the authority of a mountain god. Protection of the mountains is a guardian’s right, and the intimidation of beasts could be an innate aspect of divine might. Centuries without incident suggest that the Mountain Lord wielded his authority properly—a reassuring fact.

But the killings were not normal; that is not the role of a mountain god. A divine being’s authority dictates their jurisdiction—if it isn’t within your domain, you cannot interfere. It’s like the relationship between the Old Man Under the Moon and the King of Hell: the former governs love, the latter death. If the King of Hell decrees your death at midnight, the Old Man cannot object, even if you’re on your honeymoon—should a heart attack strike, you die regardless.

But the Mountain Lord acted, and apparently without interference. That suggests he possessed the authority—whose domain is it to kill? Is it death, slaughter, divine punishment, destruction, or something else?

Cheng Yuan then asked, “Is there any particular legend about this mountain?” Some natural features—mountains, rivers, lakes—bear their own legends and unique authorities. For example, Mount Tai: the souls return to Mount Tai, emperors perform sacrifices atop it, and it is associated with the underworld. Its mountain god, the Lord of Mount Tai, is also the ruler of the underworld. If this mountain had a similarly unique legend, then perhaps the Mountain Lord’s authority could be deduced.