Chapter 14: Totem Shattered, Heart Turned to Ash

Threads of incense and wishful power from the world gathered, converging upon Ye Chen. He was bathed in radiant golden light, as if undergoing a rebirth in fire.

This was the process of completing the broken talisman, and at the same time, Ye Chen also reaped its benefits.

He eagerly anticipated the moment of the talisman's perfection. As the incense power was steadily consumed, the pitch-black crack on the thumb-sized talisman gradually shrank.

“Still not enough.”

Ye Chen was somewhat disappointed. “This step is crucial—otherwise, I remain an outsider, and that simply won’t do.”

“Although I could wait a while longer and naturally accumulate enough, the sooner the better.”

He lowered his eyes and glanced about, fully aware of everything happening within the tribe.

“If the grand ritual continues, I should be able to break through.”

Just then, a streak of golden light shot across the sky like a meteor, plummeting down.

Within the tribe, a wild boar darted left and right, agile and nimble. Its snout was split in a mocking grin, as if taunting its pursuers.

Several tribesmen chased after it, but none could catch up. Their hands and feet grew cold with frustration. It was, after all, late at night—visibility was poor, and hunting the boar was no easy task.

At that moment, the golden streak struck toward the boar. Its bristles stood on end, a deadly chill seizing it. It tried to flee, but as if facing a natural predator, its legs gave out and it collapsed, fainting on the spot.

“The totem has manifested!” a tribesman exclaimed with fervor. “It seems the totem is eager for a taste of wild boar.”

“It’s our own incompetence—otherwise, how could we be unable to catch it?”

Embarrassed by their failure, they nonetheless acted quickly, binding the boar with ropes.

Such a nimble creature, surely its meat would taste delicious. No wonder even the totem could not resist.

Some tribesmen licked their lips, clearly hungry for meat themselves.

“Hurry back—we need to continue the grand ritual. Last time, we gained nothing, probably because the totem had not recovered. But now, if the totem can spare the strength to catch the boar for us, perhaps we’ll receive a share of its power.”

At the mention of the totem’s power, excitement rippled among the people. They carried the boar to the altar, where it awoke, squealing anxiously. But it was useless—meat so close to their mouths wouldn’t escape. With its feet bound and belly up, the boar couldn’t even manage to roll over.

The chieftain gazed intently at the boar, his feelings mixed.

“What took you so long?”

His words carried a hint of reproach, though more in form than intent. If they had failed to catch the boar, it would have been a convenient excuse to end the ritual.

It wasn’t that the chieftain had other motives—Spirit Bamboo was finished, perhaps already cold in the grave. The chieftain was shrewd, but he worried that the shaman harbored a grudge.

He hadn’t forgotten—the Spirit Butterfly might not tolerate the shaman much longer. If the shaman provoked it further, it would be courting death.

“It’s truly difficult at night, and this boar was a handful,” a tribesman said with a wry smile. “If not for the totem’s help, we might never have managed.”

“The totem intervened?” The chieftain drew a deep breath, a flicker of panic in his heart, though he wore a smile to hide it. No one could discern the anxiety beneath. He turned to the shaman, speaking in a low voice, “Please, continue the ritual.”

The shaman’s face darkened, his temper barely restrained. He sneered, “So eager to grovel before your new master, are you?”

But then he caught the pleading look on the chieftain’s face and faltered, his heart trembling. He refrained from harsher words, turning away in silent refusal.

The chieftain fell silent, gazing at the altar, lost in thought.

The scene was strange; the tribespeople exchanged glances, unable to fathom what was happening.

“Shaman, will the ritual continue?” someone finally asked. None dared speak, but there was always a simpleton—this one, called Fang—who failed to sense the tension.

“If you think you can do it better, would you like my seat?” the shaman retorted, irritation lacing his words.

Fang, oblivious, grinned. “I could never fill your shoes.”

The shaman did not wish to argue, but he knew Fang spoke for the tribe. All hoped the ritual would restore the totem’s strength. Without a suitable excuse, the shaman could not abandon his duty.

Yet none knew that the totem, which once protected them all, was gone.

He dared not reveal this. Though resentment burned within, he would not drag the tribe into ruin. But to help the Spirit Butterfly further—that was a fool’s errand.

He noticed then that the chieftain’s face bore faint tear tracks—was the chieftain crying? That made no sense.

The shaman froze. The chieftain had always been the backbone of the tribe—how could he show weakness? Looking again, he saw the tears were gone. Perhaps it was only an illusion.

He drew a deep breath and reflected, slowly understanding the chieftain’s position.

The tribe was devastated and at its weakest. A single mishap could spell their end. The chieftain’s nerves were taut, perhaps near the breaking point.

The shaman examined his heart, suppressing his anger and trying to view the tribe’s plight with reason.

“The war with the Dove Tribe brought us no gain; soon, they may attack. Though they too are wounded, the fight won’t end until one side falls.”

“In other words, only by recovering our strength can we hope to survive.”

“Has the tribe truly reached the brink? Are we in such peril?” he wondered. “But with the totem dead, who will avenge this hatred?”

To the shaman, the totem was not merely faith. Spirit Bamboo was not born sacred—it had been cultivated through painstaking effort until it finally transformed. The shaman had invested much of his heart and soul, a devotion no outsider could comprehend.

Thus, the chieftain could compromise, but the shaman could not accept this outcome emotionally.

“The Spirit Butterfly has a use for the tribe. As long as I’m gone, everyone else will be its livestock, and it won’t discard them lightly.”

“I don’t believe the Spirit Butterfly will destroy the tribe. The totem is dead; without me, won’t it be lonely?”

He laughed bitterly. He did not fear death—in truth, he welcomed it.

He was old; even alive, he could do little for the tribe. Without the totem’s strength, he was just a frail elder, his power long since faded.

“But if I die, will the chieftain collapse as well?”

He hadn’t thought so before, but now, seeing the chieftain’s aged visage, he realized the man was not young either. Perhaps his strength was only a facade, and the burden too heavy for his aging shoulders.

Within the tribe, the shaman and chieftain were its soul. Without the shaman, the chieftain might not endure. If so, all hope would truly be lost.

“Fine, the ritual will continue.”

Forcing down his resentment, the shaman swallowed his displeasure.

The chieftain looked at him in delight, but the shaman turned away, showing only his back. The chieftain didn’t mind; his spirits had lifted.