A caravan of just over thirty people advanced across the boundless grasslands in lonely solitude.
The vehicles numbered only seven or eight, but the riders clad in leather who surrounded them were all young and spirited, with a few among them mere children of eleven or twelve years old.
At the very front of the caravan rode an elderly man on a yellow steed, his attire resplendent and ornate. He wore a hat of fiery red fox fur, his forehead carved with deep wrinkles like knife strokes, his complexion faintly purplish. Around his waist was tied a three-colored brocade sash that signified his rank — the mark of a tribal chief.
This region was already the southern reaches of the Tianlan Grasslands. The group before them was a Turu tribe's tribute caravan bound for the Holy Temple.
"Tianlan Grasslands" was what the Turu people called the Mulan Grasslands. The Turu had long worshipped the legendary "Tianlan Beast," regarding it as their tribe's guardian deity and offering it generational veneration — hence the name.
Originally, the Turu had only occupied the southern half of the Tianlan Grasslands, but after defeating their age-old enemies, the Mulan, in a great battle in the central grasslands thirty years prior, they had seized dominion over the entire expanse. Their power had naturally surged, and across the whole grassland, none could match them.
Of course, the Turu nation was vast, and its internal tribes were countless. From small tribes numbering a few hundred thousand to colossal ones boasting populations in the hundreds of millions, they were spread across every corner of the grasslands. And because so many had performed meritorious service in the last Holy War, a number of newly independent tribes had also come into being.
Some of these tribes were sizable; others were even more insignificant, with populations of merely tens of thousands.
The "Heron Tribe," to which the old man belonged, was one such minuscule tribe that had splintered from a larger one. Though it could technically be called a tribe, in reality its entire population numbered only seventy or eighty thousand.
The old man's name was Yinglu. In his youth, he had fought with extraordinary valor, crushing several small Mulan tribes in succession during the Holy War and capturing many nobles alive — that was how he had earned his present standing. But the ravages of time had caught up with him, and combined with years of toil and worry, though he appeared to be only in his fifties, his body had already taken on the look of old age.
It was midday. The old man gazed up at the blazing sun overhead, then turned to look back at the children among the caravan behind him, and let out a long sigh.
By all rights, no matter how small a tribe was, it had to maintain at least a few Immortal Masters in its midst. Otherwise, should natural disasters, human misfortunes, or demonic beasts descend upon them, ordinary mortals would have absolutely no way to resist.
But a fledgling tribe like theirs could not attract a single Immortal Master — not even the lowest-ranked one would be willing to settle in such a small tribe.
After all, for an Immortal Master, the larger and wealthier the tribe, the better — only then could they be provided with ample resources for cultivation.
The few low-ranked Immortal Masters that some small tribes did possess were either natives of those tribes who had returned, or cultivators with such poor talent that even the larger tribes refused to patronize them, leaving them no choice but to remain behind.
The Heron Tribe, to which the old man belonged, had not yet had the opportunity to cultivate its own Immortal Masters. In times of need over the years, they had been forced to pay handsome sums to hire low-ranked Immortal Masters from neighboring tribes. But these masters charged exorbitant fees — a few interventions could consume nearly half a year's income of the entire tribe, compounding the hardships of the already modest Heron Tribe.
Fortunately, the Opening Spirit Day, which came once every twenty years, was finally approaching.
Yinglu, who had long been keenly attentive to this matter, naturally had no intention of letting it pass. He immediately set out with several tribal youths who had been found to possess Spirit Roots, heading toward the nearest Tianlan Holy Temple from their tribe.
The Tianlan Holy Temples had originally been constructed to enshrine the Tianlan Sacred Beast, but after so many years of evolution, they had become sacred grounds in the hearts of the Turu people — places dedicated to nurturing the tribe's low-ranked Immortal Masters.
Each Holy Temple housed several high-ranked Immortal Masters who were responsible for teaching the fundamentals of cultivation. Once a disciple achieved some proficiency, those with lesser talent were sent directly back to their respective tribes to receive patronage, while those with real potential were taken as personal disciples by the high-ranked cultivators for specialized training.
Mortals who had not undergone the Opening Spirit Ceremony were strictly forbidden from receiving secret instruction in immortal arts from high-ranked Immortal Masters.
These Holy Temples numbered only sixty or seventy, but they were distributed evenly across the entire grassland. Each one served as the center of a vast region, surrounded by thousands of tribes both large and small.
As the sole Holy Temple in a given region, the larger tribes naturally resided closer to it, while the Heron Tribe, being far too small, had been assigned to an extremely remote location. The journey from their tribe to the Holy Temple would take a full three months on foot.
With no other choice, Yinglu had set out from the tribe four months ago.
Truth be told, during the last Opening Spirit Day, although he had already established the tribe's independence, he had been unable to gather sufficient tribute and could do nothing but watch the opportunity slip away.
This time, Yinglu was determined not to miss it again.
Even if the entire tribe would have to tighten their belts for years to come, he would see to it that his tribe had its own Immortal Master.
However, transporting tribute across such a vast grassland was an extremely dangerous undertaking for people like them.
The tribute consisted of items of great use to Immortal Masters — almost all of them rare and precious beyond measure to mortals. Many who harbored ill intentions used such occasions to rob weaker caravans, and even some Immortal Masters of dubious character might strike. This was a common occurrence during the Opening Spirit Day every single year.
Tribes situated closer to the Holy Temple were somewhat better off, as they at least feared the Temple's authority and dared not act too brazenly.
But for distant tribes like theirs, the danger was extreme.
It was said that the last time, a mid-sized tribe in this very region had possessed a spirit herb nearing a thousand years of age among their tribute. When word leaked out, the entire caravan had vanished mysteriously en route to the Holy Temple — not a single soul could be found.
Many had whispered that a high-ranked Immortal Master from some great tribe, coveting the treasure, had struck to kill and seize it. The Holy Temple had been furious and reportedly sent masters to investigate, but for reasons unknown, the matter had quietly fizzled out.