Chapter Eighteen: Merit

A golden light descended from the heavens, bypassing Chen Ming’s spiritual form entirely and, to his astonishment, fell straight into his divine core.

"What is this?" He gazed at the golden glow, bewildered and lost.

As if sensing some presence, the divine core quivered lightly and drew the golden light within itself. At the same time, Chen Ming felt a refreshing current sweep through him, loosening the second seal inside his divine core just a little. Deep within, a message emerged.

"This is the power of merit?" Chen Ming realized.

He looked over the region shrouded by the domain of faith, and with a strange emotion remarked, "Is it because I expelled the evil spirits and calamity from this land, purifying and protecting it?"

He looked up. The black calamity that had once spread ceaselessly across the land was now completely dispelled, driven away by a force that was pure and warm. Instantly, the world became clear and fresh, as if reborn after disaster, erasing the thick miasma of decay and death that had suffused it before.

A sudden understanding dawned on him.

This world was on the brink of ruin. Had nothing intervened, the calamity that continuously permeated the earth would have grown heavier, disasters would have descended one after another, and the world would have become a wasteland. As everything withered, even the consciousness of the world would eventually fall. The process might take time, but as the world crumbled, it was inevitable.

Yet now, he had come to this world, spread the path of faith, gathered a divine domain, and driven out the calamity. He was, in effect, helping this dying world recover, granting it a sliver of hope before its downfall. Such salvation naturally brought merit.

"Then why was there no reaction the previous two times?" With this thought, a new question arose in his mind.

He had previously created divine domains and expelled calamity twice. Though not as pronounced as this time, according to the world’s response, merit should have descended then as well.

"Could it be?" He abruptly looked up.

He saw a radiant light enveloping him, pale threads of luck drifting in the air, while a deep crimson strand, his own, stood tall and colored the surrounding luck red.

Chen Ming examined it closely and saw a speck of golden merit shining atop the red strand.

Suddenly, everything became clear.

"It wasn’t that there was no merit, but merely that the merit was too scarce to draw the divine core’s attention?" Quietly, he mused, a faint excitement rising within him.

He thought of this world on the verge of ruin, and how purifying just a few regions could yield such reward. If he could cleanse the entire world, bring it back from the brink of destruction, the merit he would gain would be tremendous—perhaps enough to ignite his divine fire.

With this in mind, his gaze shifted outward. There, many grotesque spirits and ghosts wandered, their terrifying visages drifting through the realm.

He watched them coldly.

These spirits were formed from the souls of countless creatures that had died, their spirits not yet dispersed but corrupted by calamity. They were as harmful to the world as the calamity itself. Clearing them out would surely bring considerable merit.

But he was not in a hurry; this was just a projection, and he could not afford to waste divine power.

He surveyed the scene, allowing his spirit projection to gradually dissipate, transforming into pure divine force that surged into the altar. There, it manifested as a divine domain, ready to receive the souls of nearby deceased believers.

Meanwhile, far away, Chen Ming’s true form slowly opened his eyes, sensing the sparse strands of faith around him and smiling quietly.

After those injured and ill had been healed and called to faith, they returned to the tribe, resuming their daily lives—hunting and other activities. Through daily contact, these new believers spread Chen Ming’s faith to their companions and fellow tribesmen.

Because Chen Ming’s responses were swift and miraculous, his faith spread quickly among the tribe’s lower ranks, showing signs of growing stronger.

While faith propagated rapidly among the lower ranks, the upper decision-makers had no intention of curbing it. The time was too short, and the local mindset had not made the connection to religious conflict; they merely felt uneasy about forsaking ancestral worship, but did not try to stop it. Some leaders, like Krim, even began to worship Chen Ming.

This was due to the nature of the world. There were no true gods here, so faith was not valued; blood sacrifice, however, was held in high regard. Even the high priest, though named for totemic worship, was not truly devout. The ancestral totem spirits, lofty as they were, only cared about their rituals and offerings.

Such differences in the world shaped how faith spread: its speed and resistance were entirely distinct. Had this been a world ruled by gods, Chen Ming would have been branded a heretic, hunted like a rat—never enjoying the ease he did now.

He looked up at the sky. The thick resentment still hung heavy, but amid it, pale lights of faith began to flicker, melting against the darkness and opening a breach at its core.

Seizing this opening, Chen Ming gazed towards the tribe’s totem.

Beneath the heavy veil of resentment and karmic force, a black-red strand of luck stood tall, radiating intense malice.

Chen Ming frowned; the totem’s power was formidable, having accumulated strength from countless years of blood sacrifice. It rivaled his own divine abilities.

Yet he paid it little heed, simply closing his eyes and letting his occupied body rest, while his spirit, through the divine core, quietly sensed the world’s laws.

On the second day, Chen Ming joined the warriors for a hunt.

Because the tribe had failed to conquer Bamu, they lacked enough offerings for this year’s ritual. With only days left until the ceremony, there was no time to attack another tribe. The only option was to send out more hunters, hoping to catch enough wild beasts to compensate.

The tribesmen hunted diligently, knowing that if they could not provide enough offerings, the high priest would—as was custom—randomly select people from the tribe as substitutes, under the noble pretense of joining the ancestors.

Whether anyone believed this was uncertain, but no one wanted to see their parents or loved ones sacrificed for such a cruel purpose.

Roaming the hills, their luck was good this time; before long, they found several goats by a small river.

The goats bleated softly as they grazed. The leader gave a signal; several hunters moved forward, circling to one side, while others took ropes and lay in ambush on the opposite bank. The leader remained in place, keeping a close eye on the goats.

Those tasked with driving the herd prepared to rush forward.

Standing nearby, Chen Ming suddenly felt something amiss—a sense of déjà vu struck him. He quickly glanced at a patch of shadow.