Chapter 183

The sun hung high in the sky. Qi Bai sat under a large tree, polishing a beast horn while listening to Tu Ya’s voice lecturing from the schoolhouse.

The tribe’s 400 mu of farmland had all been sown. After just over ten days, the first plot already had seedlings more than ten centimeters tall.

It might’ve seemed like the busiest part of spring planting was over, but that didn’t mean there was nothing to do. Watering, weeding, and pest control still needed constant attention. Basically, from the moment planting began until harvest, there wasn’t a single moment to truly rest.

Because the weather had been getting hotter, the tribe now did all their farming and gathering at dawn. Working under the blazing midday sun wasn’t something most people could handle—and even if the beastfolk could, the fragile seedlings likely couldn’t.

Qi Bai worried that if they watered the fields during peak heat, the water would be too hot from the sun and might scald the young seedlings. But precisely because of the heat, the soil dried out quickly and needed to be watered often—sometimes every other day, sometimes daily—but never allowed to dry out completely.

That meant the tribe members caring for the fields were working almost every morning and evening, leaving midday free.

With that break, Heishan Tribe resumed its literacy campaign, and classes started up again.

But since attendance was voluntary, it was obvious that the number of students had dropped.

Not because people didn’t value learning, but because it wasn’t winter anymore—there were now many things to keep busy with.

Sure, the weather was hot, but the forest offered shade and coolness. Whether hunting or gathering, people didn’t feel satisfied unless they returned from the mountains with something in hand.

If you asked them, “Aren’t you going to study anymore? Weren’t you really into it before?”

They’d respond, “What’s the point? Can studying fill your stomach?”

And honestly, Qi Bai couldn’t disagree.

For adult beastfolk, Qi Bai had no expectations. He never assumed everyone would become literate—just being able to recognize their names, understand numbers, and do some basic arithmetic was enough for daily life.

But for kids under ten in the tribe, they were still blank slates. Qi Bai believed that if taught with care, they could at least write and communicate properly.

Want to run off after school and play? Fine. Do what you want. But during class time, no one was allowed to skip.

So those children had assigned seats, and unless they had a valid reason, they couldn’t miss class. Qi Bai even considered creating a special class just for them, since many of the kids were progressing faster than the adults who were working every day.

In addition to restarting school, the tribe resumed another daily ritual: evening training for the beastfolk.

But many of the exercises Wolze’s group practiced were designed specifically for the horned beastfolk’s forms. The sub-beastfolk’s animal forms were too small for these workouts to be effective.

That meant the young sub-beastfolk could only watch pitifully from the sidelines.

Qi Bai thought this was a problem. Even if they were sub-beastfolk, they still needed the ability to protect themselves.

The last time they encountered the Jufeng Tribe, everyone had to flee. If there hadn’t been horned beastfolk around, sub-beastfolk gathering on their own would have had no means of defense.

So whenever he wasn’t teaching, Qi Bai focused on working with bamboo.

His idea was simple: like in ancient armies, different types of soldiers existed. If sub-beastfolk couldn’t be frontline infantry, they could be trained into technical units. Given their moderate strength, the most suitable role was that of archers—ranged fighters.

He considered teaching them to use crossbows since they’re easier to learn.

But crossbows were expensive and time-consuming to make. Relying on Hou Su and Ci Yi to craft one for each tribe member would take forever.

So Qi Bai decided on longbows instead—they were simpler to make and easier to standardize among the sub-beastfolk.

With proper training, they’d have bone knives for close range and bows for distance—maybe sub-beastfolk could even become more dangerous than horned beastfolk.

Making bamboo bows was simple: polish the bamboo, shape it with heat, carve notches at the ends, then tie on strong grass rope or beast sinew for the string.

The resulting bow used the bamboo’s flexibility to shoot arrows.

But these bamboo bows had obvious downsides.

Their draw strength was weak, and sub-beastfolk could fully pull the string with little effort—meaning the bows’ power was limited.

So now Qi Bai was trying to make composite bows that would be more durable and powerful.

His material of choice: beast horns and sinew.

Sun Qing held a bone knife, mimicking Qi Bai’s method of cutting along the curve of a horn to slice off the outermost layer.

Sun Qing was one of the sub-beastfolk cubs most envious of the horned beastfolk’s training. Living with his younger brother, Sun Qing never believed others would protect them. Only power could ensure survival.

When Qi Bai created bows for sub-beastfolk, Sun Qing immediately claimed one. He broke it in just two days, which pushed Qi Bai to start developing hornbows.

This was the first time Sun Qing had treated beast horns seriously.

In a hunting-based tribe, beast horns were abundant—many animals had them—but people usually just used them as decorations. No one had found a practical use for them.

Fortunately, Yang Luo was thrifty. When prey was brought back, he saved not just the meat and hide, but also the horns, teeth, and claws. He couldn’t bear to throw them out, so they piled up in the storage house. Now, they were finally coming in handy.

Sun Qing twisted the horn in his hand and asked, “Is this really stronger than bamboo?”

Qi Bai paused his polishing and stretched. “We’re not using it because it’s harder, but because it’s more flexible. That way, the bow won’t break as easily.”

His answer was vague—because he wasn’t sure this would work and didn’t want to brag only to be embarrassed later if the bow warped on the first pull.

Just then, Xi Zhou ran in through the side gate. “Bao Bai! Wolze wants you.”

Qi Bai stood up. “What for?”

Most people had returned to the tribe for the midday rest, but Wolze’s group was still out, building a wooden shelter.

They’d chopped trees in the forest to build melon frames. After finishing the trellises for a few mu of fields yesterday, they had leftover logs.

Seeing the flat land nearby and recalling Qi Bai’s words—that work continued even in summer—Wolze decided to use the excess wood to build shade shelters.

That way, workers would have a place to rest and cool off.

You could tell just by looking at Qi Bai and Wolze—when you had eyes for work, there was always more to do.

From halfway up the mountain, Qi Bai could already see what Wolze’s team had accomplished all morning.

Near a large tree, 50–60 meters tall and not far from the canal, they had erected a shade structure about 30 meters long. Hu Qiao and the others were splitting bamboo, apparently intending to use it for the roof—just like Qi Bai’s small bamboo pavilion.

Wolze was pacing along the canal, investigating something.

When he saw Qi Bai arrive, Wolze drew his bone knife and suddenly stabbed it into the water. When he pulled it out, a half-arm-length fish dangled from the tip.

Qi Bai’s eyes widened. “Piranha!”

The piranhas had vanished from the river at the end of last winter—it had been over a year. If they hadn’t named the river after them, Qi Bai might’ve forgotten about those old “friends.”

Seeing the piranha flailing its thick tail, Qi Bai swallowed. Its flesh was rich and fatty, like salmon—far better than the average river or sea fish. He genuinely liked eating them.

But that wasn’t the point.

“If the piranhas are back,” he said, “does that mean the red birds’ mating season on Red Bird Island is over?”

Wolze grabbed a stalk of grass and threaded it through the fish’s gills. “Could be. I’ve sent Ma Ling to check.”

After all, when the piranhas left, they’d first discovered signs of many red birds.

If the birds were really leaving, the tribe needed to stockpile more bird bones—who knew when they’d return again?

Qi Bai was thinking about something else entirely.

If the red birds had left, they could finally let the four-eared sheep out to graze without worrying about them being snatched away.

The two of them followed the canal to the intake. Looking at the once-yellowish water of the piranha river, now cloudy again, they were convinced the piranhas were returning—during their absence, the river had been much clearer.

Qi Bai nudged two large rocks with his foot. “We should ask the blacksmith to make some wire nets and block off this inlet.”

The rocks weren’t too far apart, which probably explained why the piranhas entering the canal were smaller.

Still, piranhas were dangerous. The tribe used buckets to fetch water from the canal, and the children played near the fields—it was better to block off the entrance and stop the fish from swimming in.

But piranhas had sharp teeth, and regular grass nets wouldn’t last. They’d need iron wire to hold firm.

As the two finished inspecting the river and turned to head back to the shade structure, Qi Bai suddenly froze and stared at a patch of bare ground.

Wolze stopped. “What’s wrong?”

Qi Bai squatted and looked closer.

The irrigation canals dug around the Heishan farmland formed a sealed square. The layout saved time and effort—it was easier to dig a trench across the surface than carve a ditch underground—and it kept wild animals out of the fields.

At more than a meter wide, the canals were ready-made traps that stopped most beasts from entering.

But they also restricted the tribe’s movement. To allow carts and beastfolk through, they’d laid large stone slabs across the ends of the fields—creating a crossing point.

That crossing became a weak spot.

To stop small animals from entering and destroying their hard-grown seedlings, Qi Bai had crushed some pungent herbs into powder and used it as a makeshift repellent.

In addition, he’d gotten something else from Yang Luo—what he was staring at now.

“This is the priest’s powder.”

Wolze squatted next to him. “What powder? What does it do?”

Qi Bai didn’t know the ingredients, but the effect… well, before today, it was mostly for putting on a show. Yang Luo called it “divine sign powder.”

Here’s how it worked: before a ritual, the user would rub it on their feet. During the ceremony, they’d secretly scatter a different yellow powder. Wherever they walked, white footprints would appear.

These prints were declared to be the beast god’s footprints, proof of their descent.

When Qi Bai first learned about it, he realized he didn’t know beastfolk nearly as well as he thought—they had a remarkable talent for theatrics.

Still, the powder worked. To him, it was the perfect tracking tool.

He’d sprinkled it here thinking that if some animal ignored the wild grass and entered their farmland, he’d follow its trail and turn it into stir-fry.

He didn’t expect an animal. But what he found was more surprising.

He scattered the yellow powder. Immediately, four large footprints appeared before them.

Qi Bai compared his own foot to the massive print—almost twice as large—and turned to Wolze.

“Tell me… do you think these are from a Jufeng tribesman before they transform?”