Chapter 11: Peach Blossom Rain—A Discourse on Past Causes

The phantom of the spirit bamboo struggled, fear rising within it. The power emanating from Ning Peach Blossom left the spirit bamboo with almost no chance of victory. Its form shrank visibly, the flames that enveloped it burning ever brighter, scorching the very void until it cracked and shattered. Clearly, it was exhausting every last ounce of strength; if escape proved impossible, the spirit bamboo’s shadow would find its grave within this illusory realm.

It fled, pouring all its energy into escape, abandoning any thought of resistance or dominion over the realm. Previously, the spirit bamboo had been unwilling to accept such a fate—what good was merely running away? That would be nothing but a beaten dog. But now, it dared not entertain further ambitions; survival alone was a hard-won hope.

The void split open, a path breaking through from the illusory world, and the spirit bamboo was on the verge of escaping—one could already glimpse the scenery without, breathe the crisp air, savor the taste of freedom. Yet an invisible force held it fast, as if a hand had reached from behind to seize it; it strained to run, but could not break free.

Petals of peach blossom drifted down like rain, and then the spirit bamboo’s shadow dissolved into mist, fading rapidly beneath the blazing sun, leaving not a trace behind.

“What has happened to the totem?”

A sudden dread arose in the shaman’s heart, a wave of sorrow so intense it bordered on despair. The shaman could not see the battle raging atop the altar, but the carefully hidden bamboo seed suddenly radiated searing heat—heat that flared, then turned ice-cold, as if some fleeting connection had been made, only to fall silent again.

Trembling, face ashen, the shaman could endure no longer and glanced toward the chieftain.

The chieftain’s expression was resolute, still barring the shaman’s path.

“I must see for myself what has happened,” the shaman said heavily, provoking the chieftain’s ire.

“Don’t be reckless! Do you truly wish to doom the tribe?” The chieftain left some words unspoken, but their meaning was all too clear. If the spirit bamboo was truly dead, what good would the shaman’s persistence do?

“I am not as pragmatic as you,” the shaman replied.

The shaman regarded the chieftain coldly, letting out a derisive laugh. “It seems you have forgotten how many perils the tribe has survived—without the totem’s protection, our bones would have cooled long ago.”

“I have not forgotten.” The chieftain’s voice was tinged with loneliness, the pain of not being understood. At this point, all hope seemed lost, and yet the shaman remained obstinate. The bamboo tribe had suffered grievously—must they wait until the tribe was reduced to ashes before awakening?

Each person’s grief is their own. The shaman too was burning with anger, but in the end, he could only sigh in defeat. The totem had lost; it was dead. That cold reality could not be denied.

Though he had not witnessed it with his own eyes, the shaman’s frequent communion with the totem gave him a sense of what had happened. However unwilling he was to believe it, he could not escape the truth: the foreign spirit butterfly had prevailed.

How could this be? It was inconceivable—a grand ceremony ought to have greatly benefited the totem. The result was unfathomable, absurd even. The balance of power had been shattered; it should have been the spirit bamboo gathering strength for a counterattack, the spirit butterfly suffering utter defeat.

But when power was so unequally matched, Ye Chen had simply brought in outside force, overturning the board entirely.

“I will not take rash action. But let me at least see the altar for myself.” The shaman’s voice was weak, a stark contrast to his usual dominance. The chieftain was taken aback, about to reply when a tribesman approached.

Glancing over, the chieftain saw a nervous tribesman say, “I think I felt the totem’s power diminish greatly.”

It was not only the shaman who sensed it. That was unsurprising—the spirit bamboo was the tribe’s faith, akin to the sun in the sky. When the great sun falls, those with keen perception can sense the coming darkness.

“That’s just your imagination,” the chieftain barked. The tribesman, trembling, hastily explained, “I’m not imagining it—I truly felt it.”

“You’re mistaken. Empty your mind and feel with your heart. You will sense the totem. If you can’t, you’re not trying hard enough.”

The tribesman flushed with embarrassment, realizing his anxiety had gotten the better of him. Fearing for the totem, he had rushed over, but voicing such concerns at the ceremony was grave disrespect. Moreover, he had only a vague suspicion, no real proof, making his words hesitant.

He dared not argue further. If he continued, the chieftain’s spittle would be enough to wash his face, and should he further provoke him, only a fool would persist. The tribesman wisely withdrew, and the others were cowed as well.

But while the chieftain could frighten the tribe into silence, this would not work on the shaman.

Face cold, the shaman brushed past the chieftain, striding toward the altar.

The chieftain instinctively moved to block him, but hesitated and refrained. The shaman’s apparent calm was a thin veneer over seething rage—should that thread snap, things would turn ugly.

It would not do to truly break with the shaman. Without the totem’s power, the shaman’s own strength was little threat, but if the chieftain forced the issue, the tribe would fracture in an instant.

The tribe had already suffered grievous losses; only a hundred remained. For a tribe, that was pitiful—any further strife would be fatal.

Ye Chen’s gaze fell upon the shaman, a thought stirring within him. Having just eliminated the threat of the spirit bamboo, he would not hesitate to act again, should the shaman become troublesome.

“It’s a pity, though, that Ning Peach Blossom left her mark in my illusory realm,” he mused.

Ideally, after the spirit bamboo’s demise, he and Ning Peach Blossom would have parted ways cleanly, never to be entangled again. But to consume everything and give nothing in return was an odious act; Ning Peach Blossom would never allow Ye Chen to reap all the benefits without paying a price.

Some things must be claimed proactively. To sit idly in the peach grove, awaiting Ye Chen’s tribute as per their bargain—such passivity would not do.

This young man was hardly docile. Ning Peach Blossom could sense Ye Chen’s reluctance; thus, she had delivered herself to his door, certain he would be moved by her gesture.

No, no—he dared not be moved at all. Ye Chen eyed a peach tree in the illusory world with intense wariness.

The peach tree’s branches unfurled, blossoms blooming in swift succession like a swath of dawn clouds spilling across the sky.

Each peach blossom exuded a delicate fragrance, fluttering like butterflies in a graceful dance. The entire realm seemed awash in a sea of flowers.

Yet this peach tree was unlike the others—it was beyond Ye Chen’s control. In theory, he should command the entire illusory realm, but the peach tree, shedding its myriad blooms, emanated a force that sealed it from within and without.

All around, rare flowers and exotic grasses vied in splendor. The once-ordinary spirit grass now shimmered with verdant light, its essence almost visible as if about to yield fresh sap.

The air was thick with the scent of greenery, the flowers blazing with color.

“Ning Peach Blossom, you wound me with your mistrust. Was it really necessary to come here in person?”