Chapter 1: Reborn as a Spirit Butterfly

As evening descended, the mountain breeze swept through, bringing a chill that lingered and teased the leaves into playful dances. Branches whispered softly, while peach blossoms bloomed in abundance, their fragrance drifting gently, mischievously leaping from the branches and tumbling into the earth.

The peach blossoms came in shades of pink, deep crimson, and pale violet. As they fell, they decayed swiftly, transforming into a rising mist. This mist billowed and rolled, merging into a vast sea of fog.

“When peach blossoms rot, they turn into miasma—that is my moment.”

Within the sea of mist, spirit butterflies fluttered. Each was the size of a palm, shimmering faintly with white light, now blending seamlessly with the fog. Their frail bodies clad in the mist like armor, they soared between the mountains and heavens.

“I never imagined that, after crossing worlds, I would become a spirit butterfly. It’s a pity, though—spirit butterflies live only seven days, spending seven years in the earth to accumulate the strength needed to break free from the cocoon. Once transformed, their life is fleeting.”

“Fortunately, fate leaves a sliver of hope. Borrowing the miasma of the peach forest, I can use my supernatural talent to seize a thousand threads of incense, shed my mortal shell, and ascend to godhood. Afterward, I can break free from the bounds of lifespan—so long as the incense persists, I need not fear the approach of death.”

Now, the peach forest was in full bloom, a rare sight. Ye Chen, in his spirit butterfly form, stirred the tides of mist, causing them to swell and surge endlessly.

The limitless sea of fog whirled, sparkling like a whirlwind. Countless peach blossoms scattered, then were crushed into spring mud. With each blossom’s fall, a thread of mist peeled away.

Each peach blossom was vibrant, like clouds falling from the heavens.

Ye Chen, wrapped in mist, carved a path through the mountain woods, crossing the peach forest and flying toward the foot of the mountain.

Below, smoke from cooking fires drifted, bamboo houses sat by the river, water rippling by. Colorful pebbles dappled the river, catching the setting sun’s rays and scattering them into sparkling waves, like fragments of gold, glass, and agate brushed with golden dust.

Gentle streams tinkled with melodious notes, weaving an unusual harmony. The place was tranquil and peaceful.

Suddenly, the mist surged, transforming into rolling white waves, like a jade dragon singing to the sky, hiding the verdant mountains in endless blank spaces.

“It’s bad—the Mirage Dragon King is coming.”

The sudden cries shattered the peace of the land. Despairing sobs brought a heavy atmosphere. With two sharp slaps, an elder struck the panicked youth, making him spin like a top, nearly losing his footing.

“Enough mourning! Stop your crying and come here. Even if the Mirage Dragon King truly comes, are we to sit and wait for death? If we must die, we bite back!”

The elder’s resolve steadied many hearts.

“But our totem is badly injured and hasn’t recovered. How can we stand against the Mirage Dragon King? Chief, we should flee!”

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The chief was furious, grabbing a bone knife carved from wild beast bones and slashing at the terrified youth. Though he avoided vital spots, blood splattered, leaving the youth stunned, his face covered in blood, one arm hanging and bleeding until someone pulled him back and staunched the flow.

No one dared speak further, nor dampen spirits.

Behind the chief, many men gathered quickly, their vitality surging skyward, nearly tangible, forming a smoky aura that clashed with the white mist, stirring vast waves.

“That’s not the Mirage Dragon King.”

As the fog drew near, they caught sight of a spirit butterfly dancing within, bathed in radiant white light, as if stepping out from a painting.

“The spirit butterfly is the source of the disaster!”

The chief roared, wielding the bone knife and striking at the butterfly. The spirit butterfly beat its wings, the entire mist sea lending strength. The chief felt the bone knife sink as if into a swamp, unable to advance or retreat.

His expression changed. Though the spirit butterfly was weak, it had summoned such catastrophe—wondrous indeed.

Spirit butterflies were common; the chief had seen them many times, never paying attention, thinking them as ephemeral as ants, born and dead in a day.

Just then, an elderly woman approached, holding a bamboo flute. Wisps of black flame crept from the flute, and as the flames surged, a bright light rolled through the tribe, forming an illusory long bamboo, its leaves waving like a barrier.

The mist was stopped, and Ye Chen felt a tremendous obstruction.

“The totem of this Bamboo Tribe should have died. Yet there’s a lingering ember, a final spark flaring.”

With the totem gone, Ye Chen had planned to target the Bamboo Tribe; had he known of such trouble, he might have chosen a softer target.

The Bamboo Tribe worshipped bamboo, their totem a spirit bamboo. In the tribe, bamboo houses stood side by side, beside the bamboo grove, through which a stream flowed.

In the void, the illusory bamboo shadow swayed, resonating with the grove. The cold wind lifted a trail of bamboo leaves, plucking out discordant sounds like cotton being flicked. Each bamboo stalk stood like a long sword, piercing the sky.

“Shaman! Shaman! Shaman!”

Fervent cries rang out from the tribe. The bamboo grove rolled forth waves of green, merging into the phantom bamboo shadow, making it more solid and powerful. Not only did it block the mist, but it swung bamboo poles like whips, shattering the sea of fog.

“Not a soft target, but I have to seize this chance—there’s no time for other choices.”

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Ye Chen was calm. To break the fate of seven days was never meant to be easy. He had anticipated surprises; the Bamboo Tribe’s totem had fallen, but the shaman still remained, able to borrow warmth from the dying embers of the totem, posing a great threat. Most importantly, this power resonated with the bamboo grove.

It was unsettling, not unlike Ye Chen’s own reliance on the miasma of peach blossoms. Individual strength was insufficient; external power had to be borrowed. But Ye Chen had other uses for the peach blossom miasma and could not afford to squander it in a bloody struggle. Even if he broke the totem’s power, he would be left exhausted—a salted fish, incapable of stirring up trouble.

“Ning Taohua, it’s your turn.”

The spirit butterfly dodged the shaman’s blow, avoiding the green wave of bamboo shadows. Suddenly, a rain of blossoms fell, thousands of peach flowers swirling in a dance, rising from the forest to form a surging sea of petals. Countless peach blossoms poured forth, the shattered mist sea gathered anew, as if revived from ashes.

The mist surged violently, breaking through and shattering the bamboo shadow with a crack. The shaman spat blood, her face turning ashen.

“Shaman, are you all right?”

The chief was shocked, not expecting such a swift reversal—even the shaman had fallen.

“Have the tribe scatter and flee—whoever can escape, must go.”

The shaman’s eyes brimmed with terror. The chief’s heart sank, hesitated, then resolved to speak—but thick white fog descended, swallowing the entire Bamboo Tribe.

“Run, scatter, escape quickly!”

The chief shouted himself hoarse, but no sound came. Looking around, he saw only himself—he was bewildered, hopping in panic, choosing a direction and running desperately. By all rights, the tribe was small; it should have been easy to reach the edge. Yet in this flight, he gained nothing, as if trapped in a maze.

“You owe me a favor.”

Deep in the peach forest, upon a massive peach tree with a charred trunk, as though struck by lightning, not a single green leaf remained. On its barren branches, only one peach blossom endured. As the wind stirred its petals, a faint voice whispered.

The spirit butterfly looked back for the final time, gazing at the great peach tree hidden in the forest’s heart. He smiled bitterly, recalling his bargain with Ning Taohua, feeling a headache at the thought—but all was worth it.

Ye Chen had prepared well; though he hadn’t anticipated the Bamboo Tribe’s secret weapon, he had not been careless. Whatever trouble might arise in the future, for now, victory belonged to him.