Fang Mo carried the Barbarian powerhouse as he flew a hundred miles to a Barbarian tribe.
The tribe was not very large. A few dozen stone houses stood clustered beneath a cliff.
The Barbarians liked building houses out of stone, but they were clearly no masters of construction. Their stone houses were crooked and lopsided. Still, the stones were large and heavy, and stacked together, they made the buildings quite sturdy.
The tribe was full of women and children. A dozen or so adolescent boys were practicing martial arts: some were throwing punches, while others carried stones to train their strength. Several burly men stood nearby, instructing them.
The women worked on the side, occasionally glancing over at the children with satisfied smiles.
Fang Mo stood in the sky, watching it all with a slight furrow in his brow. The Barbarians were indeed strong. The adolescent boys looked to be around ten years old, yet most had already reached Dark Strength, and more than half were at Hua Jin. Their blood and energy were robust; carrying thousand-pound boulders was no effort for them.
Moreover, the children had clearly seen blood before. The Baleful Intent clinging to them was thick.
Suddenly, his eyes sharpened, and his gaze fell on a vine-woven cage in the center of the tribe's plaza.
Three martial artists were locked inside. All of them were gaunt and sallow, and one was little more than skin and bones, as if drained dry, barely clinging to life.
Fang Mo spotted Zhan Tiancheng at once. He lay inside the cage, utterly weak.
Just then, an elderly Barbarian approached with a stone bowl in his hands. He pressed one of the martial artists against the cage, cut his neck with a knife, and let the blood drain into the bowl.
Fang